Chapter 14 Sanity
Sanity
Salzburg
Derek and Helene had agreed on a short honeymoon. She needed to be back to organize the transfer of the books to their new
location, since Klaus had managed to rent the building in front of Gestapo headquarters. And Derek had to get back into the
service as soon as possible. General von Blomberg had taken it upon himself to Nazify the army. Derek desperately wanted to
leave his post, but it would be too dangerous for a change right then.
Their train was approaching the border with Austria, and within an hour they would be in Salzburg. Their final destination
was Vienna, but Helene had requested one night in the charming gateway to Austria.
The newlyweds shared a compartment with a mother and her two daughters, a priest, and a man reading a newspaper. The headlines announced the dissolution of the Social Democratic Party, along with negotiations among the rest of the country’s political groups to form one party for all of Germany.
In contrast with the bleak news, the countryside could not have been more beautiful. Neither Derek nor Helene had ever been
through Bavaria. Despite the warm weather, each town and village they came to seemed lovelier than the one before.
“How can this be the cradle of Nazism?” Helene whispered into Derek’s ear. It was best to avoid speaking of politics in public,
as one never knew who was listening.
“Well, the region’s also known for their fine swine,” he said, and they both chortled. The man with the newspaper lowered
it enough to glare at the couple.
“So what made you want to stop in Salzburg?” Derek asked. He was nervous that Helene’s answer would be more than simply enjoying
a new place before getting back to their regular lives.
“Oh, it’s where the Austrian author Stefan Zweig lives. He’s one of my favorites. Anton Kippenberg asked me to take him some
important letters.”
Derek cocked his head in surprise. That sounded like it could be dangerous. “Why did you say yes?”
“His publishing house, Insel Verlag, has published all of Zweig’s works, but now of course they’re banned in Germany, so Anton
wants to know what he should do with the stock of Zweig’s books. He was able to keep a lot of them safe during the burning.
We’re hoping to store them in our library, along with some of Zweig’s valuable manuscripts,” she explained quietly.
Her answer did not seem to satisfy Derek.
“You haven’t talked about the library in a few days. I know what you’re up to, but when so many lives are at stake . . . maybe
the books aren’t the most important thing.”
It was Helene’s turn to be miffed. Derek kept his jazz records hidden, even though the Nazis had forbidden all foreign music, especially from the United States. Yet he seemed incapable of recognizing the travesty that the disappearance of books represented.
“The Nazis recognize that books are dangerous because they can change people’s lives and, therefore, the world. Why do you
think literature is one of the first things they’ve gone after? The radio entertains the masses and tells them what to think,
whereas books must be savored, digested, and interpreted.” Helene’s voice had gone from whisper to regular volume as she talked,
and Derek gestured for her to be quieter.
“I understand that, I really do. But this isn’t the time to . . .” he began in as conciliatory a tone as his whisper would
allow.
“We’ve got to save as many works of as many authors as possible, and Zweig is one of the most important. He’s written fabulous
biographies, essays, and novels. His only crime is being Jewish.”
The priest, seated right in front of them, caught their eyes and motioned for them to be quiet, then pointed to the man with
the newspaper.
The couple stayed quiet the rest of the trip. As they gathered their luggage, the priest came up to them and said, “Please,
be careful. Our new rulers have eyes and ears everywhere. A friend of mine in government told me that Hitler aspires to unite
all Germans in his beloved Third Reich, and he has a lot of followers here in Austria.”
They thanked him, and Derek carried their suitcases to the door.
Outside the train, a bellhop took their luggage and guided them through the clouds of coal-smelling smoke and the hubbub of
the station to a taxi. The platforms teemed with arriving travelers escaping Germany.
The taxi drove through the beautiful medieval city toward Salzburg’s oldest hotel, the Goldener Hirsch.
As the Mercedes made its way down the narrow cobblestone streets, Derek and Helene held hands in rapt, silent enjoyment of the views.
It was warm at the moment, but the taxi driver had said it would be cooler in the evening.
A bellhop in a spotless red uniform adorned with gold buttons took their luggage when they arrived, and he waited with a bored
expression as they checked in. Ten minutes later, the couple was looking out the window of their room onto one of the loveliest
streets in the city. Helene opened the window to let in the last rays of the afternoon sun. A few deep, cleansing breaths
of the Salzburg air showed her how contaminated the air in Berlin was, both figuratively and literally.
“It’s a city out of a fairy tale!” she exclaimed, nuzzling into Derek and finally feeling like they really were on their honeymoon.
They promptly put the bed to its intended use, rested awhile, then showered and dressed for dinner.
“I hadn’t told you, but we get to eat with Stefan Zweig tonight. Tomorrow he leaves for France to go on tour, but he was able
to schedule us for tonight.”
Derek’s face fell. He had been envisioning a romantic dinner, but he didn’t say anything.
Helene checked herself one more time in the mirror, then they went down the elevator. When they reached the entrance hall,
they found a mustached man with an elegant air about him, holding his hat.
“Herr Zweig, we are the von Sholtzes,” Helene said. She had taken Derek’s name to avoid more problems with her own.
The author approached and—with debonair, eighteenth-century ease—kissed Helene’s hand.
He then shook Derek’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. von Sholtz.
My friend Anton has spoken very highly of you.
How is the old editor?” His tone was animated and friendly behind a smile that seemed somewhat cold, as if the warm German air had not yet made it to Austria.
Helene lowered her voice. “He’s no longer allowed to publish most of his best authors. He’s stuck printing books by Nazi writers
and books about health. It’s rather hard on him, but we hope it won’t last long.”
Zweig shook his head as if to chase away what Helene had described. “I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant nearby. Friderike
is unwell and can’t join us tonight. She also publishes with Anton.”
“I’m familiar with her work, and I love her essays on pedagogy,” Helene said as they left the hotel.
Derek thought he was in for a long night, but at least he hoped to learn something interesting about the man.
The evening air was chilly like the taxi driver had said it would be as they walked under the recently lit streetlights. There
were few tourists out and about for that time of year. Most of the passersby were refugees seeking cheap lodging in hopes
of waiting things out across the border.
A few minutes’ walk took them through the austere, monastic ambience of Kapitelplatz, Salzburg’s Chapter Square, to the restaurant
St. Peter Stiftskulinarium. The ma?tre d’ welcomed Zweig warmly and led them to the best table in the house.
“The food is traditional but exquisite. I hope you’ve brought your appetites,” the author said, spreading a spotless napkin
across his lap.
“Indeed! We’ve hardly eaten all day,” Derek said, looking over the menu.
“Do you drink wine? I know that most Germans prefer beer, but they always have a good French wine here.”
“Wine sounds great,” Derek responded, and Helene nodded eagerly.
As they waited for the appetizers, Helene dove straight into the reason they had stopped in Salzburg. “I must tell you how
much I admire your writing, Herr Zweig. And Anton wants your work to be spared . . .”
“Oh, writing is an act of vanity. No one will remember us within a century. My dear, I write biographies of historical characters
and authors, as well as a few piddly novels, but I’m no great intellectual,” Zweig said, shaking his head.
Helene felt the need to defend the Austrian writer to himself. “Well, your work is impressive. Your books are a delight to
read, and the pacifist message they spread is inspirational, which is why they’re banned in Germany.”
“To be honest, I would’ve been a little offended if they hadn’t been banned, though I suppose it’s because I’m Jewish more
than anything else.”
“I’m half-Jew myself,” Helene said to shorten the distance between them.
“My father was a successful businessman,” Zweig replied, “and my mother came from a family of bankers, one side of whom were Italian. They were none too pleased at my decision to become a writer. I’ve never been a practicing Jew but instead consider myself a cosmopolitan man.
I believe people need to be citizens of the world.
At the core, every writer carries his own fatherland inside him, constructed of words.
I’m nowhere close to being a genius. I just try to transmit ideas and feelings that can survive the passing of time.
Like I said, it’s truly an act of egocentrism. ” With that, the author took a bite.
“Eventually, we’ll all just be a memory,” Helene added. She was enjoying the conversation immensely.
Derek devoured his appetizer and savored the exquisite Bordeaux. He followed the writer and his wife with his eyes but noted
that they seemed to enjoy the conversation more than the food.
“My dear Helene, nothing is more powerful than a memory turned into words.”
“Yes, and we want those words to be remembered. That’s why we’re creating the Secret Library of Berlin. We want to move your
works there to hopefully keep them safe. Anton has agreed with this plan for all of your books that he has, including the
unpublished manuscripts.” Helene held her breath waiting for his reaction.
“Isn’t such an endeavor quite dangerous? I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”
Helene gave a wry smile. “Life is dangerous.”
Zweig nodded gravely. “In these times existing is, in and of itself, an act of rebellion. Well, then, go ahead! Be the guardian
of it all! We can only hope that within a few years there’s still a Europe left that might read those books and benefit in
some way.”
Zweig’s words lodged into Helene’s heart. She knew that truly there was no freedom beyond choosing between good and evil.
And she had thrown her lot in with the good.