Soldiers hurl armfuls of books into the fire as I stare in horror. All those words highlighting the human condition diminished to ash. Heartbreaking.
A soldier pauses mid-haul, eyeing me. I adjust my glasses, then scramble to my borrowed postal truck: the undercover bookshop.
Just my luck. After distributing banned books all over the country, I’ve practically driven into a Nazi pyre.
In my rearview, three soldiers stare down my fleeing truck. Shrinking in my seat, I veer right.
Budapest’s city center fills with feverish screams and shrouds of smoke.
“It’s okay, friends,” I whisper to the stories hidden behind a sheet-wall. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Words are like fire: powerful. They can create treaties or sentence someone to death. Woo a mate or break a heart. Words are both tools of peace and weapons of destruction.
Words can topple regimes, too.
I drive around the east side of Pest, passing soldiers with guns slung across their chests, and let out a breath of relief upon finding a modest bookstore.
Jingling bells indicate my arrival. An old woman gets up from behind the desk.
Bibliophiles are often the most trustworthy breed, and I’m hoping she doesn’t disappoint.
I tip my hat, closing the door behind me. “Good day. Might you carry The Invisible
Man?”
She hobbles over and whispers, “You do know Wells is banned by the regime, yes?”
“Have you read it?”
Her eyes narrow, crinkling at the corners. “If there’s a problem, please just tell me. I don’t want to dance.”
For the umpteenth time, I hope against hope that the person in front of me is on the right side of history.
“My name is Tamas Nagy. I’m a professor from Debrecen, visiting Budapest for the day.
I have something you should see.”
I lead her out back. The old woman observes the postal truck in the alley. “Professor, what do you mean you’re here just for the day? The city is under siege. No one is allowed out.”
“Since when?”
“This morning. I’m surprised you got in.” Her rigid shoulders droop, her whole demeanor softening. “Soldiers have cleared Buda of all verboten books, but citizens residing on this side of the bridge, in Pest, have inflamed their anger by proving uncooperative.”
For once words escape me, so I open the truck’s tailgate and let the books speak for themselves.
The shop owner pulls one of the boxes forward and rifles through it. “Oh, my.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Could you help?”
Turning, she props open the back door. “Bring them in.”
Carrying two loads, I follow her to a back room where she lifts a rug, revealing a hidden door. She pulls up on a lever that exposes another door, sealed with a padlock. Her fingers swivel each column until it reads 2450.
“Brave New World?” I guess. The woman smiles in return, then lifts the handle revealing a bomb shelter housing stacks upon stacks of books.
We continue our work, not a word or look between us.
Until a siren screeches and the front door dings.
We share a nod of silent understanding. I heave the sixth box into the hideaway while she walks toward the front. Quieting my labored breath, I listen closely.
“I’m here on official orders,” the voice says in German. “Is there anyone else present?”
“No,” the shop owner says. “Just me, an old lady trying to make a wage.”
Tiptoeing, I retrieve the last box and make my way to the vault, praying I don’t land on a weak piece of floor, willing all sound to be swallowed by the walls.
“I’ve come with a list,” the voice huffs. “If you have any of these books, hand them over.
You don’t want to know the other way this is done.”
I secure the padlock, then close the hidden door. Footsteps ripple along the floor.
Haphazardly, I toss the rug over the door.
The soldier appears, gun drawn.
I swallow my fear, then stand, hands raised.
“Wait,” the soldier says, lowering his weapon slightly. “Professor Nagy?”
After adjusting my glasses, I step into a slash of light for a better look. “Dominik Arvay, Contemporary Literature, Fall of 1938,” I say, my voice wavering. “What are the chances?”
I know it’s a ridiculous thought in a moment like this, but seeing a previous student wearing a death-star helmet hurts my pride. I’ve failed this boy. And that’s just what he is, a boy. Perhaps twenty-one? God in heaven. How many of my other students are burning books and kidnapping Jews?
Dominick lifts his weapon. Steadies it. “What are you doing in Budapest?”
His eyes shift downwards, studying the section of the hidden door revealed by a sloppily tossed rug. He lunges forward, throwing me to the side, then fits his hand in the groove and lifts.
Satisfaction dances across his features.
“Tell me the code!” he screams.
A deafening crash answers for me as the roof buckles.
***
Ash coats the inside of my nose. A metallic tang sits at the back of my throat.
Shuffling through a blanket of rocks, I stand, ears ringing. Everything is hazy. I raise a shaky hand to adjust my glasses, but of course, they’re gone. I begin rummaging, barely processing where I am. When the dust settles, the fiery sunrise filters through the cratered roof.
It takes several minutes, but I find my co-conspirator, motionless, eyes staring heavenward. I touch her lids closed, then continue my search.
Beneath a severed beam, Dominik is pinned to the ground hacking up blood. His pain highlights his innocence, his boyish face. How does one transform from boy to beast and back again?
“Let go,” I breathe, wondering where his lost soul will end up.
When he stills, I hobble forward. With or without glasses, my mission is clear. I’ll take cover, wait out the Nazis. I shift through the wreckage, then reach for the lever with only one thought: Brave New World.
In her daily life, J. Lynne Moore is a dyslexia therapist. Her short stories have been published online and in print through outlets such as Every Day Fiction, Manawaker’s podcast, and the Shades of Chicago anthology. J. Lynne enjoys researching historical events and time periods, and then drawing ties to the present. When she’s not teaching or writing, she’s moming and wifeing. Sometimes, she sleeps.
If you enjoyed this story, show your support on Patreon.
