Burning Books

My mom moved here before my time had come, meaning I was still in the making. She said my dad was a Greek God, but as it is with Gods on Earth, they are not prone to stay when it comes to paying child support. So I grew up between these funny people who built their own little country inside Germany. They adapted a lot of things from their surrounding neighbors, like expensive cars, Bratwurst and Football. Their cultural heritage, however, is unmistakable on every corner:

In summer, the people here wear tunics and sandals (without the German addition of socks); they prefer wine over beer, and even philosophers roam the streets harassing people.

I enjoy the spectacle of someone’s misfortune, attracting them by eye contact, I do my best to avoid the hard-line sages. Growing up, I developed some neat skills for blending into the crowd and making myself invisible between objects. Like a magician, I would dissolve in front of their eyes and vanish from their minds. This is necessary, because if one of these Malakas got attracted to you, they would throw you into an existential crisis just by asking their meticulously studied, repetitive line of questions. Rumor is, they even keep a scorecard.

”Are you happy?” They might ask. If the poor victim answered, “Yes, I am,” the philosopher would rub his hands and start grinning, ready to destroy their perception of life. It was their turf, after all. And these pigs like to roll in it.

“But why are you happy?”

”Because life is good to me.”

”But why is life good to you?”

”Because I live an honest life.”

”But why do you live an honest life?”

”Because I want to be proud of myself.”

”But why do you want to be proud of yourself?”

”Because I want to be happy.”

”But isn’t that so very egoistic of you?” The philosopher would ask with squinted eyes and you could see the poor fellow’s face fall, drifting down the river, drowning in misery and dread. After all, Ego is the enemy.

Knowing that, some would try to avert their fate by answering “no” to being happy, yet the outcome stays the same: They end in the tavern drinking wine. Which makes something very obvious: these Malakas are all Greek.

But I think the greatest discrepancy you will find in our village compared to the typical German is: Whereas in Germany remnants of the Roman Empire would be found: the humongous architectural masterpieces of slavery to serve the purpose of collecting taxes and oppress the people.

Our village, however, does not have a church.

Instead, the center provides a refuge of a different, more divine worship: Information.

Building this monster of temple took almost a decade, but for only taking a glance at it from the outside was worth every day of labour.

Limestone pillars, carved as enormous arms of Titans reaching out towards the heavens, holding massive books in their hands to form the roof. The facade reads mathematical equations and wisdom of the great philosophers, from Socrates to Buddha, over Jesus to Bruce Lee.

Sometimes, when the stoics got drunk during their discussions, they would start talking about their greatest achievement of saving the library and bringing it here.

They refer to it as Alexandria, like the ancient library that was lost to fire thousands of years ago. To avoid another tragedy like this, they took use of modern wisdom and technology provided by their friendly neighbors from Germany.

Which doesn’t imply they are welcomed inside. On the contrary: You’re only allowed to enter the library as a citizen of the village. No outsider was ever, nor will ever be given permission otherwise.

I never understood the secrecy, I mean, it’s only books, so why bother?

But if I ever tried bringing one of my German friends from school in there, a legion of Spartans would spear us to death or kick us into a bottomless hole. Maybe even both. The security guards’ lacking sense of humor directly results from being trained in Germany.

I prefer to go in there alone, anyway. Every day, except on Sundays, where I sit with Bartholomew the stoic and try to talk with dogs and trees to redeem my Ego, I wander along the endless rows of shelves. Bart says I should always live in the present (where else should I live, duh?), so I stroll without aim or destination and let fate guide me through the stacks. This way I have found nooks to read, places to nap and even the section of Tantra, you can’t find in the mainstream area.

An infinite amount of books have found their place in here and the number is growing. From time to time, I see men and women loafing in far-off corners. They would carry bundles of books, gingerly covered in linen cloth to protect them from whatever might harm them in the outside world, only to be unveiled here, knowing nothing could harm them anymore.

It became an obsession to hunt these books down, for they turn out to be the most interesting reads. I would follow the librarians, and while avoiding the philosophers on the streets I learned the basics, by sneaking up on the archivists I mastered the skill of stealth.

Like a ninja, moving swiftly and without a sound. I become one with the shadows and see with my ears. This is undeniably a superpower, and I imagine being granted the rank of an Avenger rather sooner than later.

This scroll is not for the open.” A subdued voice said, several rows to my right. In any situation it would have been sufficiently quiet, but not here. Inside Alexandria, every whisper becomes a shout. Every word an echo. Choosing the amount you say here is wise, choosing the words a virtue. And these words sparked my interest.

I stopped in my tracks and slowed my heartbeat. A meditation technique I learned several months ago from one of the hidden book gems, which had the side-effect of lowering the breath frequency. Less noise and sharper focus were the results. I could picture the layout of surroundings like a three-dimensional map in my head. Seven shelves dividing them from me. Three rows of winding intersections, two shortcuts that would lead there, and my favorite: one niche to hide.

”It is not our place to decide this.” Another voice whispered.

”Maybe not. But maybe it should.”

I took the shortcuts and snuck into the hideout. I could see them standing there in long and dark robes with backs bend.

“Like old men who spent too much time over books than women.” Bart would say with a snicker.

”Our purpose is to keep the books safe from the outside world. Inside Alexandria, wisdom has to float freely.”

He took the scroll from the other dude and patted his shoulder.

“Although your intensions are noble and concern wise, Ego clouds your judgement.”

He placed the scroll into an empty box, and turned without ceremony to walk away.

Very efficient. Probably German. The first dude followed, then hesitated. He stopped and looked back. Fearing to be caught, I flinched and lost my concentration. My heart started beating faster, and I had to take an involuntary breath to avoid asphyxiation. I could hear the drum-beats of my pulse reverberating in the shelf I leaned against. It sent tremors through the walls, across the rooms and beyond the cold stones of the building. They must have heard it as well. Why else would he turn around and stare back? He looked right at where I stood. I could see the red-sprinkled blood-vessels through his spectacles, the age spots on his cheek and uneven stubble of white beard. Then he turned again, following his companion towards the exit, doubtless for an Ouzo before lunch break.

He did not see me. Why did he not see me? I know I’m good at hiding, but even shadows can only do so much in an artificial daylight environment of a library.

Had he seen me and chosen not to say anything? No, it can’t be. There would have been some kind, any kind of recognition in his eyes. But they were blank. Because they stared at a spot, empty of anything except books.

I shook my feeling of unease away and moved out of my hiding spot, walking over the four steps to where the archivists stood just a minute ago. Tentatively, I turned to see my hiding place from their point of view. Nothing. Nothing but books. How could he have not seen me?

I strained my ears one last time, listening if anyone might be around who could catch me snooping around - I was alone.

There it was: a parchment, rolled together and held tight with a red leather ribbon. I took it out of the shelf and opened the band as gently as possible to not damage it. The rules of sneaking around are fairly simple: Don’t get caught and never leave traces.

I unrolled the paper and started reading:

Dear Son,

My heart is full of sorrow, for I cannot deliver this message to you in person. Fate came upon me before your time here on Earth even began. To keep you safe, I had to leave. Not for my sake, but that of yours and your mother. I hope one day, when time is aligned again, you will understand and forgive me. For this to happen, there is only one thing left.

History needs to repeat itself. Burn down the Library of Alexandria, again, to restore the original timeline and save humanity from self-destruction.

When this letter reaches you, the events will begin. It is your destiny to become the hero.

Your father.

I tried to re-read the message, but as I did it faded away, washed away like writings in sand. Only empty paper remained. Someone shall burn the library of Alexandria. Again?

”Closing in 10 minutes!” a voice from the front desk sang.

Shit! I rolled the scroll back together and put the ribbon back on. It looked like before. Except the parchment was blank now. I laid it back in its place and hoped no one would bother with it for a long time. No one gave me a second glance when I left the library.

Next morning I woke to sirens outside and wondered what was happening. Still half asleep, I looked out the window and saw heavy machinery driving along the main street of our tiny village. Camouflaged trucks and tanks were rolling towards the center, covered on either side by heavily armed infantry.

What are these Malakas up to?

I jumped into my clothes, skipped breakfast and brushing my teeth to run outside. I needed to know what is happening. Mom was still asleep, and I knew it would need an airstrike on our house to wake her up before 9 am. I tried to find Bartholomew; he was my major source of information and maybe already knew more about the events than me.

I found him sitting in a tree shouting profanities at one of the German soldiers.

”You need to get rid of your Ego!” Bart said.

”I will get rid of you, if you don’t shut up.” the soldier replied, calmer than expected.

”Hah!” Bart exclaimed with a finger upheld, “but I have the high-ground.”

The soldier turned to his companion: “Would it be selfless if I just shoot him?”

”Bart!” I yelled and motioned him to come down from the tree. Seeing me, he started smiling and climbed down.

”Young padawan. It is nice to see you. You are coming to meet your destiny?”

”No, Bart. I came to see what’s going on. Why is the military here?”

Bart tousled his wild hair and pointed to the Library. “Someone will come and burn it down.” he winked at me. “They don’t enjoy having their precious things burned down.”

”But...but,” I stammered. It couldn’t be true. “Why would someone burn our library down?”

Bart scowled, as he otherwise only did to particular stupid people, “I don’t know. I haven’t read the news.” With that, he turned and walked away, eager to search for another soldier’s Ego to dissolve.

What did he mean, he didn’t read the news?

I ran to Aunt Tessa’s. It’s the Mini-Market in our village and only place to buy groceries if you didn’t want to go to a big supermarket chain. I headed straight for the newspaper rack and searched the headlines. War in Middle-East, Famine in Africa, Genocide in Asia, Collective density in America. Nothing interesting to find.

“Good morning, boy. What are you looking for?” Aunt Tessa asked. Of course she wasn’t my real aunt, but we all called her so, anyway.

“Do you know what’s happening outside?”

“Oh, dear. They must have wakened you up, didn’t they?!” Her hard and wrinkled face softened. “Don’t be afraid of the men. They are not here to harm us.”

“Why are they here?” I asked.

“They are protecting our library. Someone will try to burn it down.”

“What? But why?”

“Because it’s predestination, boy. Maybe it’s a curse or destiny, if you will. But someone is carrying that burden and these brave men and women are trying to prevent it.”

“Will they succeed?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.

Aunt Tessa rearranged the contents on her counter. They ended up in the same place as before. “I hope they do, boy, I hope they do. Who knows what will happen this time, if we fail to protect Alexandria again?”

Holy shit. Do they know I read the letter? Do they think I would try to burn it down?

I looked around if anyone gave me suspicious looks. Nobody did. I wandered off back into the streets. My pocket vibrated, and I jumped like a startled cat. Dammit.

It was my phone with a message from mom:

“Where are you? Come home, immediately. We need to talk.”

The day is getting worse by the minute.

I walked back to our house, head down, but still couldn’t miss the commotion Bart created. Dancing like a madman between the soldiers while picking his nose.

Maybe he’s the madman who will try to burn the library?

Mom was pacing the living room when I arrived. An unlit cigarette stuck out her lips. She was still in her nightgown and looked not too pleased to be awake. But her face lit up when she saw me.

“Come here,” she said.

I walked over and she took me in her arms. She still carried the warmth from bed with her. As she kissed my forehead, I tried to free myself from the embrace but couldn’t. She was still stronger than me.

“Mom, what is going on?”

She led me to the couch and motioned to sit down next to her. When I did, she said:

“Son, it is time to speak of your dad.”