Chapter 10 The Burning
The Burning
Berlin
Helene had not found the right time to talk with Derek yet about what she had stolen. At first she had not known where to
get the film developed without raising suspicion, but a photographer friend of Lena’s had helped them out. Then Helene wasn’t
sure what to do with the images. With his mental and physical condition, Lena didn’t know what President von Hindenburg would
be able to do with the list anyhow. She thought it best to give it to Herman Apecy and Alfred Kerr. Maybe they could get a
copy to someone in the army and then warn everyone who was on it.
She had been surprised to find that her name wasn’t among those who would be removed from public administration.
Perhaps the list was just an initial purge and more thorough hunts would follow.
It was by no means the first time in Germany—or the world—that a certain population was being removed from their positions.
Yet this was certainly the most far-reaching in Germany’s history, as it included all fields and branches of public services.
Furthermore, the move was in direct contrast to the number of anti-Semitic laws that had been rolled back throughout the nineteenth century.
That morning in May, Helene had woken up earlier than usual. Krüss had been true to his word and had gotten funding reinstated
for the Neukolln branch’s community programs. Helene was scheduled to meet with her team early to coordinate the work.
Kaiser was not himself that morning, showing none of his playful energy.
“Oh, little kitty, what’s bothering you?” Helene asked. She wrapped up Kaiser in a blanket and nestled him into a basket.
Then she went to her neighbor’s door. A widow for over twenty years, Mrs. Smith loved animals. Her husband had been a well-known
intellectual, highly regarded by everyone for his commitment to democracy, but pneumonia had taken him during middle age.
Helene pressed the bell twice in quick succession, and the kindly old woman answered without delay.
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith. I have a meeting I can’t miss at work this morning. Would you be kind enough to keep an eye on
Kaiser for me? He’s not himself today.”
The woman reached out and pulled back a corner of the blanket. The cat kept his eyes closed as she stroked his soft head.
“At the beginning of spring, animals often get to feeling bad, just like people. I’ve got terrible allergies, which is why
I don’t go out much. The park is so lovely this time of year, but what my eyes love plays havoc with my nose,” she explained.
“Oh, that’s a pity,” Helen said, shifting the basket with Kaiser into her other hand.
“Come in, dear.” Mrs. Smith stood aside.
Mrs. Smith’s apartment always had that peculiar smell that Helene had noticed with other elderly people, like an aroma indicating that the end was near.
But it was clean and tidy. A young Polish woman came by every day to clean and cook.
Mrs. Smith’s two cats meowed when they saw Kaiser.
Though cats were typically solitary creatures, these three got along well.
“Leave the basket here,” Mrs. Smith instructed. “Kaiser tends to be rather frisky, but I don’t think we’ll see much of his
spark today.”
“Thank you so much. I promise I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“Oh no, take your time. You young women today are busy changing the world, and we’re all grateful to you. In my time, we could
only stay in our husband’s shadow. You know I adored Friedrich—he was a fine man, but definitely old-fashioned. He always
said that a true intellectual was a man who could take a good look inside and change himself before trying to change the world.
But in some things he was thick-skulled, and that look inside wasn’t quite so keen. Anyhow, don’t let me keep you. Old women
jabber on and on to hold the loneliness at bay.”
Helene smiled gratefully and left with a final stroke across Kaiser’s back, blissfully unaware that the history of Germany
was about to change forever.
Toward the end of April, Rudolf Kummer had met with representatives from Deutsche Studentenschaft, the German Student Union, and with the Reichminister for Propaganda and Public Enlightenment, Joseph Goebbels, to plan a
unique event. Kummer had put together the list of banned books and authors whose publications would be burned symbolically.
The group elected the Opernplatz—the Opera Square, near some of Humboldt University’s buildings—as the site for the pyre that
would send flames throughout Germany.
Unaware of those plans, Helene was surprised to see the streets full of members of the Hitler Youth and young men wearing SA uniforms. They thronged in large groups at a time when they should have been in school.
The streets of Neukolln were not so crowded with young Nazi supporters as the downtown area, but she did sidestep one group
near the front doors of the library. Klaus was stationed at the door with his eye on them.
“What in the world is going on?” Helene asked.
Klaus, his face tensed in a grimace and his hands clenching and unclenching, had lost his typical composure. “Haven’t you
heard?”
“Heard what?”
Helene put her purse on her desk and hung up her light jacket. The chill of winter had passed and spring was turning the gray
city air into something fresh and pure.
“They’ve made pyres in squares all over the country. The rumor is that the Nazis are going to search the public libraries
for books by Jews, communists, and political dissidents. There’s a list, and the books that are on it will be purged tonight.”
Klaus’s customary jovial tone was now choppy and strained with the effort of voicing such a terrible reality.
Helene’s eyes grew wide and her chest hurt like someone had just punched her in the ribs. “Where’s Lena?”
“She went to get the books that are out in the neighborhood. She wants to bring them here and see what we can save. I stayed
back to keep watch. So far none of the groups have come close, but they’ve been out there watching for a while.”
Helene had no idea what to do. Her mind felt sluggish. She sat down, took a deep breath to calm herself, and tried to devise
a plan.
“Okay, it’s a good thing we’ve got the secret room, but we can’t put everything back there.
They’ll be suspicious if they don’t find anything.
We’ve got to sacrifice the extra copies, the newer editions, and the titles there may be be more of in other locations.
Make a list. We’ll go search for them and organize them. ”
Klaus and Helene started scouring the shelves, wondering all the while how far the prohibitions would extend. Would the list
include Mann, Remarque, Brecht, Feuchtwanger . . . ?
“Make sure to grab all Jewish authors,” Helene called to Klaus. Their eyes met briefly between the shelves, and each saw their
own horror reflected on the other’s face.
Klaus was balancing a dozen books between his arms and roly-poly chin. “What about Tucholsky and Walter Benjamin?” he wondered.
“Yes, they’re highly critical of Prussian militarism,” Helene responded from behind a load of about twenty books that blocked
her view of the floor below.
They gathered their plunder onto the main table into an enormous, wobbly pile.
Helene tried to catch her breath. “Did we get everything?” she asked Klaus, whose white cotton T-shirt was drenched with sweat.
“I think so. No, wait—Stefan Zweig, he’s a Jew. And Franz Kafka. Oh, and there’s Helene Stocker. There’s no way the Nazis
approve of her feminist understanding of womanhood.”
“Run for them, quick!”
While Klaus dashed off, Helene commenced the painful sifting process.
On the left, first editions, costly bindings, and all that must be saved; on the right, the volumes to be sacrificed for the good of their brethren.
It was gut-wrenching. At first she thought that the dust wafting up from the old pages was stirring up allergies like Mrs. Smith had talked about, but then she realized she was crying.
Helene felt like she was bleeding internally.
She recalled a phrase from one of her favorite English authors, Charles Dickens, in his book Our Mutual Friend: “I have not the influence I want to have, I cannot stop some dreadful things I try to stop, but I go on in the hope and
trust that the time will come.”
Helene was still sorting when Lena rapped on the door. She bore two enormous cloth bags full of books, which she dumped onto
the table before collapsing into an embrace with Helene.
“They’ve started looting the libraries. I just heard that a few days ago, a few students broke into the Institute of Sexual
Science and took everything.” Lena’s voice trembled with emotion.
The three librarians worked as hard and fast as they could, selecting the most valuable books and storing them in the secret
room. They had put away at least five hundred by the time they finished. Books were stacked on every square inch of floor,
as the secret room’s shelves were crammed full. Then they locked the room and tried to hide it as best they could. They returned
the rest of the precious volumes to their original spots on the shelves so the Nazis would not grow suspicious.
It was a tense morning, but nothing happened. Klaus decided to go buy some food, as his anxiety had made him ravenous. Finally,
just after noon, the librarians heard a growing swell of approaching voices. The doors were locked, but when Helene saw the
mob, she opened them to keep the windows from getting broken.
A hyped-up young man exclaimed, “On orders from Minister Goebbels, we’re here to take all the books with Jewish, Marxist,
and anti-German ideas and any position opposed to National Socialism!”
Helene recognized the speaker as Peter, a sweet boy who had faithfully come to the library to study a few years ago.
“Peter, you know very well that this is not a political library.”
Peter’s head drooped when he saw Helene’s pained expression and realized he had been recognized.