Page 68 of The Last Library of Paris

I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Danke.’

‘I thought if I made it sound boring, no one would look at it twice.’

‘Smart.’ I opened the front cover, admiring the pencil sketch of a tree on the page. ‘Did you draw that?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘It’s pretty.’

‘I like it. Do you still draw?’

‘There isn’t much to inspire me here in Paris.’

I flicked through the pages. They were neatly typed and there were occasional line drawings of a person. Nothing detailed, more an impression of a figure.

‘I wanted to capture something about some of the people I spoke to,’ Marcus said. He took a large swig of his brandy. ‘I didn’t want them to be forgotten.’

Turning back to the first page, I read aloud: ‘1933. Is it like a diary? From way back then? That was when you first went to Germany? But you weren’t involved with the Nazis at that time?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I was working for the SOE but I wasn’t a sleeper agent then. It was mostly observation, intelligence gathering, that kind of thing. War still felt avoidable back then.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘I just felt it was important to write it down,’ he said. ‘The early entries are just my own thoughts. They burned the books, you know?’

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Awful.’

‘I stood outside the opera house in Berlin, and I watched the fires. I felt sick thinking about how my mother would feel. She loves books. She loves culture. She thinks education and learning is the most important thing in the world. My father too. Books are his business.’

‘Your mother is right,’ I said, smiling. ‘Your parents sound wonderful.’

He nodded. ‘They are.’

‘So you started speaking to people?’ I prompted. ‘Jews in Berlin?’

‘Yes. Everyone was scared. Many people were fleeing if they could. It was a strange time.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said, thinking of the German tanks rumbling down the Champs-Élysées. I flicked through the pages again, pausing as I went to read a story or two. Soon I was engrossed. Marcus was a good, clear writer. He didn’t use flowery or dramatic language. Rather he let the stories speak for themselves. And they were shocking. The early tales spoke of businesses being boycotted, closed shops, workshops with no work. There were stories of civil servants being locked out of offices.

‘This is terrible,’ I said, eventually.

‘That was only the beginning,’ Marcus said. ‘This volume goes up to the start of 1938.’

‘So the next book is Kristallnacht?’

‘The Night of Broken Glass,’ said Marcus, nodding. ‘I raced around the city in the days that followed, trying to speak to anyone I could before they were arrested.’

‘You are a brave man,’ I said. ‘That was dangerous.’

‘Words are important.’

‘They are.’

Marcus looked down at his hands. ‘I know I’m a little bit odd,’ he said. ‘I am not good with people – I’m better in the company of books. I was a strange child, and as an adult I muddle along, mostly by watching others.’

‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ I said.

‘Words make the world make sense.’

‘Especially in a time when very little is making sense.’