The shop is not so very far from where Pim used to lease an office on the Singel. Anne now bikes there twice a week for a few hours before supper. She likes the place. She likes the smells of old paper and aging binder’s glue and even the leathery stench of Mr. Nussbaum’s cigar smoke. And of course she likes the shelves bursting with tatty old books of every size, shape, and color. Even when it’s empty of customers, as it often is, there is still a comforting benefit from all those books, floor to ceiling, wall after wall. It’s really quite gezellig, Anne writes in her notebook—a favorite word of the Dutch. A cozy den of books, she calls it. Her job is to categorize new arrivals, compiling them into stacks according to their type and then stocking the shelves. She loves handling the books and often forgets herself, opening the covers for a peek, only to lose herself in the pages instead of finishing her work. But Mr. Nussbaum doesn’t seem to mind. He lends her this book and that and says, “Give this one a try,” or “I think this is a story you might find either scintillating or preposterous. Or maybe both.” And, of course, in addition to the books, books, and books, there is the cat. He’s a hulking tortoiseshell lapjeskat with a lazy gaze, and Anne has named him Lapjes for his calico patches. He tolerates Anne’s affection when he’s in the mood, but he’s a street cat by nature and only looks out for himself, lounging about in a spot of sun. Anne admires this ability of his but cannot seem to successfully imitate it.
“So tell me,” Mr. Nussbaum begins. He wears a double set of sweaters, because, he says, he can never get warm, not with a hundred sweaters. Still, two are better than none. “Tell me, is it true?” he inquires. “Your papa says you have a talent with words.”
Anne looks up from a heavy tome. Blinks. “Did he?”
“Oh, yes. He was adamant about it, actually. He said you were quite gifted.”
Anne swallows. Turns back to the box of mismatched books she is unpacking. “Once I thought so,” she answers.
“And what changed your mind?”
She looks up at Mr. Nussbaum’s face. Is he making a joke? The man has a sly affection for irony, no doubt about that. But there’s nothing ironic in his expression, only a humble curiosity.
“I was keeping a diary. When we were in hiding. I was going to write a book after the war. Maybe a novel or something. About our life. What it was like for us. For Jews,” she says. “But it was all lost when we were arrested.”
“And after that?” he asks.
“After?”
“After that you just quit writing altogether?”
Anne hesitates. “No,” she admits.
“No.”
“No, I still write. But it’s not the same.”
“Not the same, I see.” He nods. He draws a thoughtful puff from his cigar and balances it, ember outward, on the edge of the sales desk, where there is a spot scarred black by many small burns on the varnish. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” Anne says. “Because it doesn’t mean anything.”
“No? Well, it must mean
“I don’t know,” Anne confesses, turning away. “I suppose,” she begins, but then shakes her head as she is displeased with her thoughts. “I suppose I’m simply compelled,” she confesses, and picks up another book from the box.
“Hmm. That sounds like a writer talking to me.”
“Do we really have to discuss this, Mr. Nussbaum?”
“Oh, no. No, not if you’d rather not,” he says, opening up the thick sales ledger on the desk. “I only wonder . . .”
A beat. Anne looks back up. “Wonder what?”
“I only wonder,” he says, perusing the ledger’s contents, issuing her a brief but solid glance, “why you think your writing is worth less now than it was before? It’s still your story. Isn’t it?”
Anne stares.
“But you don’t have to answer that question. Just something to think about,” he says as he retrieves his smoldering cigar from the edge of the desk.
“Pim said that you owned a publishing house in Germany.” Maybe she brings this up merely to block further interrogation on the subject of her writing, but a cloud scuds across Mr. Nussbaum’s face.
“Yes, that’s right,” he answers. “My father’s firm. It had been a small, scholarly, rather esoteric affair under him, but after he passed, I took it over with the idea of building up the list of authors,” he says. “Hermann Kesten, Joseph Roth, André Breton. Really it was quite a remarkable time.”
“Until the Nazis,” says Anne.
He agrees, his voice dropping into a quiet hole. “Until then.” He shrugs almost imperceptibly. “I tried to start again elsewhere. I followed what had become the well-worn trail of literary exiles. First to Paris and then to Amsterdam. Amsterdam in particular hosted a constellation of German publishers at the time, so I dearly hoped I could make a go of it. But the money ran out, and, uh . . . life was not so easy. The magic in my world drained away.”
Anne understands this. Even though Mr. Nussbaum is so much older, she feels a touch of pure kinship. A literary heart brought so low.
• • •