‘Is that Dr Zennor?’
An accent. What was it? Dutch? German? He couldn’t even see where the voice was coming from. What exactly had he walked into here? ‘Where has the librarian gone?’
‘I am the librarian.’
As that moment, James was dazzled by a bright-yellow beam aimed directly in his face. He turned away, lifting his hand to his eyes.
‘My apologies, sir. For the light, also I am sorry.’
The torch was now angled away from his face, but still James remained blinded. He blinked and blinked again to regain his vision. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Please.’ Pliz. ‘Do not swear at me.’
James could feel his rage building again. In a low voice, the calmness of a man repressing fury, he repeated, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Epstein. I am now the night librarian here.’
So that would explain the accent: an emigre German. ‘And what happened to the woman?’
‘I saw her down here after six of clock and told her to go home already. Such long days they work, these girls. Working for seven days she has been, without a break. On a trot.’
‘On the trot.’
‘Yes. On the trot. That is what I mean.’
‘But she was helping me. I had a request.’
‘Yes, yes. I know this. I am helping you myself. I was trying to find the books.’
‘The books Mrs Zennor was borrowing?’
‘That’s right. But why you come down in the tunnel? This is prohibited, yes?’
James exhaled. His heart was pounding, at a pace that refused to slow. The light shining in his face had rattled him. He was still dazed, but it was not just the light. Something else.
The man spoke again. ‘Please. I have them now. You are to follow me.’
They walked in silence, James embarrassed by his pursuit of this man underground. And also fearful — that he would, by saying the wrong thing, induce a change of heart in the emigre librarian, that he would come across as too sweatily anxious. So he curbed his impatience to see the books in the man’s hands and waited till they emerged into the relative light of the stairwell, moving from there back inside the reading room.
‘We have to save the power, you see. At night. That is why there is no lights down there. Only this.’ Epstein waved his torch. ‘And no conveyor of course. So this I do by hand. It takes a long time, for which I apologies.’
‘No need to apologize,’ James replied.
‘Apolog ize, yes, of course. Sorry for my English. I can read it perfectly, but I never had to speak it before so much.’
‘No. It’s excellent.’ James momentarily considered speaking to him in German, then imagined the delay that would entail — explaining how he knew the language, his reading of the great Viennese analysts and all the rest of it.
‘In Heidelberg, I did not need so much English. But now I am here.’
‘I see.’ James was trying to identify the three books the German had placed on the desk, their spines facing — maddeningly — away from him.
‘I did not choose to leave, Dr Zennor. You see, I am of a type considered, how to say, undesirable by the new governors of my country. I came here two years ago.’
‘You are a Jew?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, welcome to England. And thanks for finding these books so quickly.’ James nodded towards them, hoping he would get the hint. ‘You’re obviously a good librarian.’
‘Thank you. I am learning. In Heidelberg, I was not librarian.’
‘No?’ James glanced again at the books, but the man was still laboriously engaged in signing them out, taking what seemed an age over each word.
‘No.’ Epstein smiled a wistful smile. ‘My last job at the university was as a cleaner. I had to mop the floors.’
‘Oh.’
‘Before that, I was Professor of Greek and Chairman of the Department of Classical Studies.’
‘I see.’ James looked into the old eyes, seeing a terrible sadness and longing. He had read about the ghastly things the Nazis were doing to the Jews; he knew of the laws banning them from the professions, burning down their synagogues and God knows what else. But it was different to meet one in person, to see the human consequences of such barbarism standing in front of you.
The librarian must have grown used to this reaction. ‘Oh, do not feel sorry for me, Dr Zennor. I am very grateful. For my job and for this country. The only country in the world fighting this evil.’
James glanced once more at the pile on the desk between them.
The professor pulled himself upright. ‘I am forgetting myself. Please.’
James picked up the books and shifted over to one of the desks. He turned the first one over. To his surprise, it was a bound volume of journals: The Proceedings of the British Psychological Society for 1920-1. He flicked through it, trying to work out what might possibly have drawn the interest of his wife. This was not her subject after all.
As he turned the pages, he caught a slip of white paper, the tiniest bookmark that had been left inside. Instinctively, he held it close to his face, hoping that he might catch a scent of her. But it carried no trace. Instead it marked an article entitled: ‘A survey of British veterans of the Great War’.
Odd. Florence had no particular interest in the last war. If she was not a psychologist, she was certainly not a historian.
He turned to the next book, written by an American scholar affiliated with Harvard Medical School: Studies in Pediatric Trauma. He flicked through the pages again, looking for one of those tiny white slips. He found it and began reading:
‘… sustained exposure of a non-traumatized child to a traumatized adult can result in secondary or passive trauma. Symptoms range from selective dumbness, melancholia, extreme shyness, impaired development, bedwetting…’
Instantly, he thought of Harry: how he had been slower than the other children to control himself at night, how he had still not mastered it. Florence had been anxious, refusing to be placated by James’s insistence that their son would ‘soon get the hang of it’. Until now James had thought nothing more of it.
He picked up the third book. A Compendium of Advice for Mothers. So very unlike Florence, who usually cursed such things. He didn’t need to thumb through the pages. The book opened automatically, the spine already cracked. The chapter heading: Preparing a child for a long journey or separation.
He read the title again and then once more, the dread rising in him. Any hope he had harboured that this might be a stunt, an attempt by Florence to make a point, was fading fast. There it was in black and white. What his wife had planned for was a long journey. Or, worse, a separation.
He went back to the first volume, to the article on former combatants in the last war, reading a paragraph at random:
‘… subjects in the trial revealed a set of behaviors which recurred. Among them were acute insomnia, including difficulty both falling and staying asleep; excess anger and temper; poor concentration. Others reported a heightened state of awareness, as if in constant expectation of danger.’
He skimmed a few paragraphs ahead:
‘… several of those interviewed displayed an extreme reluctance to speak of their wartime experiences, flinching from even indirect reminders. Perhaps paradoxically, many of these same people complained of unwanted memories of the event, “flashbacks”, as it were. The most common complaint, experienced by some sixty-eight per cent of those surveyed, was of distressing dreams, often violent…’
James slammed the book shut, his heart hammering. He was beginning to feel light-headed. He was hungry. He had barely eaten since last night and he had exerted himself strenuously on the river early this morning. The alcohol would not have helped either. The room was beginning to spin.
He stood up and saw Epstein at the desk, the old man’s bespectacled face appearing to shrink and swell,
