Page 25 of Library of Forbidden Books

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 maître 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.”