Levende Bibliotek

Levende Bibliotek

The dark green  cover of the book feels scaly like an alligator’s skin. My fingers slowly trace the rumpled texture as I incredulously breathe, “Where did this come from?” I look up to see other books, stacks of books, laying on their side, standing upright and others stacked precariously with wide swaths of gossamer clinging to their edges. Each book has gold lettering on the spine that shines, despite the layers of dust and years of neglect. The floor too is littered with small and large stacks of books, each with gold lettering shimmering in the dim light. “Where!” I breathe again, “Did these books come from?”

My bedstemor or Grandmother Zelnora Hayden lay dying on a simple wooden bedframe with a striped cotton mattress here in the kitchen where I work. A thin white sheet and brightly flowered quilt cover her thin body. She is withered and old, her thin white hair pulled up in a small bun on the top of her head. But her attentive crystal blue eyes follow me across the room as I wash the dishes, sweep the floor and prepare the supper meal of lentils and dumplings. 

Zelnora sailed from Denmark when she was 17 years old on a steamship named the Blue Britain. Its large smoke stacks belched white steam as she walked the decks of the ship day after day observing the white billowy clouds and blue ocean with its flying fish and cawing gulls breathing in the fresh sea air as the ship made its way across the Atlantic.  Except for several large wooden trunks filled with books, she had come alone. A single monkey shaped bronze key hung from her neck by a thin intricately braided leather band, the key to open all the trunks. The same key that hangs around her neck now as she lay observing my every move. 

Each time Zelnora went back to visit family in Denmark she sailed back with more trunks of books, books that we have never seen or held. Taken upstairs and into the library we were forbidden to enter, they disappeared behind its doors.  The key to this room also hangs from her neck by the same leather band. They are an indelible part of who she is. Sometimes she would disappear for hours into this room lost in her books. But never have any of us been invited to enter. This is the mystery I long to understand. Now with Bedstamor Hayden aging, she climbs the stairs less frequently and soon months go by that the door stays closed. Until tonight. 

“Hilda, my dear” she now says, weakly. “Come here and sit down.” I set the broom against the wall and turn in her direction, my eyes meeting hers as I slide the chair from under the table over close to her bed. I live with her now and am used to her beckoning. I love my bedstemor, she is all I have. When my parents are suddenly killed when I am 16, she takes me in and raises me. My bedstemor and I live through the grief and share the small fortune my bestefar or grandfather leaves when he passes. 

I sit by her side and gently take her warm fragile hand in mine feeling the faint pulse of her beating heart. “Bedstemor,” I say quietly, “What is it?” Her blue eyes pierce mine as she struggles to speak. “Levende bibliotek!” She whispers in Danish, “Du skal vide om mit levende bibliotek.”  I lean close to her, her voice coming in rasps.  “Tag noglen fra min hals.” She fingers the keys attached to the leather band and nods her head towards me with a slow smile. My body tingles and I catch my breath realizing what this means. Hesitantly I reach over and gently lift her enough to slide the key and band over her head. She lays back down, closing her eyes to rest. I stare at the keys, the intricate woven strap I have seen on my bedstemor’s neck all my life. Slowly I raise it over my head and place it around my neck and keys drop to my chest. I reach up and finger them carefully, my heart racing.  

In the far corner of the room is an old leather chair. I make my way around the columns of books on the floor and sit down in the well-worn deep cushioned seat my bedstemor used for years. I carefully lay open the  book on the delicately carved mahogany table and pull down on the rusty chain beneath the bell-shaped shade of the lamp. Suddenly the dungeon-like room is illuminated with warmth revealing even more books on shelves towering high above my head into the vaulted ceiling with their gold lettering glimmering in the light.

I feel an energy in the room, a vibrancy teeming with life. The hair raises on my skin as my fingers slowly grasp the edge of the book and pull the cover open to the title page. Sorcery, it reads, And All It’s Magic. There, in the center of the page is a wizard stirring a green bubbling potion with a large wooden paddle in a large black cauldron over a brilliantly lit fire. His face is wizened and he seems to be looking at me intently as he stirs. Suddenly I realize he is looking at me and saying something. He holds his paddle up and out of the book for me to taste and within seconds he is standing next to me, waiting for my approval. Startled, I quickly shut the book. The wizard, his paddle, potion, cauldron and fire disappear. 

I sat for a moment stunned. I grab another book and open its cover frantically pulling at the pages. Prehistoric Animals it reads as I turn to the first page. Immediately the room is full of two Dromaeosaurs fighting back and forth, books tossed against the wall. I quickly shut the cover and they, too, disappear back into the book.  I grab a third book from the shelf and a fourth, open the covers and find myself in the middle of the ocean, then on the sands of the Sahara with camels and sheiks talking Arabic. Closing them, I sit motionless, eyes wide, my mouth open contemplating what each of these books contain. Life, real life at the turn of a page! This, I think to myself, is why my Danish Grandmother Hayden kept this room a secret for so long. “Levende bibliotek”, she often repeated in her distinct Danish tongue, fingering the well-worn keys around her neck. “The Living Library!”