Words that Burn

Lizzy Goldberg only just stifled a groan as she opened her birthday present from Grandma Miriam. The festivities had already been something of a wash-out. Early May rain had scuppered the planned barbecue, forcing the three Goldberg females and a brace of Lizzy’s sixth-form friends to celebrate within the confines of the family’s elegant town-house. Nevertheless, the despondency had been offset by the joy of her mother, Esther’s, gift: a long-coveted iPhone. It even brought forth an uncharacteristic hug.

But then this. What on earth was Grandma Miriam thinking? That Lizzy, a girl who devoted her intelligence to practical pursuits, who eschewed reading, would appreciate such a thing … a book? She’d guessed as much, from the weight and shape of the carefully wrapped gift, but crossed her fingers. A crimson title leapt out from the torn tissue paper, offering further disappointment: Die Rebellion. It was in German. German: a language only remotely acquainted with her tongue, despite the exhortations of the two older Goldberg women to keep the family’s heritage alive. The words topped a single image of what seemed to be a soldier brandishing a rifle above his head. He cast a long shadow.

Of course, Lizzy feigned delight and planted a kiss on Grandma Miriam’s powdery, aromatic cheek. “Thank you, Grandma!” she postured, taking care not to meet those steely, intelligent eyes. She passed the book over from one hand to the other, pointedly flicking through and making a show of examining the blurb.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, Mother,” said Esther, whose expression told another story. “I’m afraid, though, that Lizzy is rather more interested in Instagram stories than the brilliant narratives in classic literature!”

“Well, she may yet change her mind,” said the old lady.

“We can always hope!” laughed Esther.

Lizzy took care to maintain focus on her mother and grandmother. But the iPhone, on the side table next to the book the young girl had just placed there, fought for jurisdiction over her attention.

“Oh, Mother,” Esther pivoted, “did you know that Lizzy has finally decided on a future career? She’s got her heart set on entering the fire service!”

“A fine vocation,” agreed Grandma Miriam. “Fighting fires is important. And so is reading…”

The old lady failed to suppress a smile that was forming at the corners of her mouth. Lizzy’s eyes drifted to the shiny electronic device at her side.

“It’s of its time, so look after it,” advised Grandma Miriam. “And it belonged to a very special person…”

Lizzy exchanged glances with her mother, who in turn nodded towards her own mother. Grandma Miriam went on: “You never knew Great-Grandma Judith, of course. But this book  - a book she clearly treasured - tells a story. Oh, not the words – I don’t even know if she ever read it, bookworm though she was. She did, however …” Here the aged woman paused, catching her breath, before continuing: “ She did manage to save it from extinction, at great cost to her own life. But enough of that for now. We’ve a feast to prepare!” The two older Goldberg’s would have sworn they detected an almost imperceptible pique of interest in Lizzy’s body language.

Esther rose to her feet and ushered her mother through to the kitchen to finish preparations for the birthday lunch before Lizzy’s friends arrived. Left alone, Lizzy picked up her new phone and scrolled through some of her favourite sites. Instagram, of course – one of her most-visited, where the visual story of her curated life was there for all to see. The glorious birthday cake would make its appearance on there later. Should she photograph the book? It was a vintage edition, after all. Something unique, if not exactly something she coveted. And it had been the possession of an ancestor she’d never met, with the added novelty of sharing her birthday – today, the tenth of May.

For the second time that day, she picked up the book. This time, she opened it. Inside the jacket she made out the faint pencil marks identifying its owner: Judith Klein. Lizzy had once been shown a photograph of this great-grandmother. Sepia and friable, the image of a spirited, bright-eyed young woman had seemed to belong to another world. Like this book, thought Lizzy. Another world. Another time. The pages were yellowed with age, and looked as if they would crumble at the slightest touch. Lizzy knew enough German to make out a smattering of words and phrases as she flicked through the book’s pages.

Readying to put the book down, Lizzy’s fingers discerned something that felt a little strange, a little lumpy. She slid her fingers under the jacket at the back of the book, where it felt slightly uneven. Something sharp caused her to pull her hand back, upon which the tip of her right thumb immediately spouted blood. A paper cut? Sucking her thumb, Lizzy used her other hand to investigate further. There was definitely paper under the jacket, and it had wended its way round the book beneath its covering, hidden from sight. Like underwear, thought Lizzy. The jacket was tight, and removing it would risk damage. Detaching the paper from its lair would entail a laborious manoeuvre, edging it out in increments. With manufactured patience, Lizzy spent the next five minutes doing just that: rescuing the mouldering  piece of history.

Hands trembling - ever so slightly - she unfolded the delicate material. The page was filled with sloping, elegant handwriting, matching that of the nameplate. At the top were two distinct lines:

10^th May, 1933

Berlin

That date meant something to Lizzy, she was sure. Besides it being her birthday. Did Grandma Miriam know about this ‘letter’? There was no salutation. No valediction. But a letter this surely was. Someone who had something to say to someone else. Someone.

Lizzy read on.

Tonight has decided something for me. We must go. I hear them out there now, in the darkness. Cheering. Fires crackling. This fervour and hatred have been brewing for weeks now, in towns around Germany. And now it is here, in Berlin! Operplatz! Outside my very window!

Goebbels is out there right now, his features contorted with wrath and righteousness, his fiery address holding the city’s students in his thrall! They are like sheep, swallowing his spewed rhetoric. I hear him through my open window: “I consign to flames the writings of Henrich Mann, Ernst Glöser, Erich Kästner … No to decadence and corruption!” Students, no less, waving their placards, brandishing their torches, throwing books on bonfires. How can they bear to do it? Condemning Brecht, Freud, Goethe, Schiller, into the flames of oblivion.

Danger is close. This is not an ideal seventeenth birthday for me. If we make it through the night, we leave for England early tomorrow, to take refuge with a friend of my father’s. It will be a treacherous journey. Yet I can do one small thing. I can rescue this book, my father’s favourite, in the lining of my case. If every other book burns, this one may yet survive. May it tell our story.  

I wish it luck.

That was all. Lizzy picked up her new iPhone. Ignoring her Instagram notifications, she searched for a German-to-English translation app. She then stood and made her way to the kitchen, book in hand, questions rapidly forming in her mind. And knowing that she was destined to fight fires.