The Modest House in Fairfield
On a pleasant autumn day in 1988, four years before the publication of The Song of Henry, Roger McAllister had been called to an unassuming address in the Fairfield neighborhood of Victoria, the charming capital of British Columbia, where he had built his reputation for probity and “creative discretion.” McAllister had been told that there was a large collection of 19th-century European books in an ordinary house with a modest address. On the weathered front porch, which was every bit as unassuming as he had expected, Roger McAllister was met by three middle-aged sisters. The sisters explained that this was their father’s house, now vacant. The father had died a month before, after many years as a widower. His name was Jacob Josephson.
Roger McAllister nodded politely at these details, the minutiae of family history which always seemed so important to the relatives, but which to him, at that moment, seemed utterly pedestrian.
One of the sisters produced a formidable set of keys, and opened the front door. McAllister followed the first sister into the living room, and the other two followed him. The room was lined with bookshelves, now empty, and recently cleaned. From the quantity of linear feet devoted to book storage, McAllister surmised that the old man had been a professor, or maybe a well-read lawyer, the noble type, with a small private practice. The room still contained armchairs and sofas, well-made and equally well-worn, but no one sat down.
“There are some books in the attic we want you to appraise,” said the first sister. “Books and papers.”
“Well, not all of it,” said the second sister. “Not for appraisal. Not the personal papers.”
“Those you might review… inventory… categorize… ” said the third sister, “And then… ” She paused, and looked suspiciously at McAllister. “You do read German, don’t you?”
“In der Tat sehr gut,” said McAllister, with a broad, confident smile. “Very well indeed.”
The sisters looked at each other. McAllister surveyed the empty shelves. He found the absence of books somewhat disconcerting.
“So these books and papers… ” said McAllister. “They’re up in the attic? They belonged to your father? The owner of this house?”
“Oh no,” said the first sister, the oldest. “We’ve divided up Father’s books already.”
“The books we’re talking about,” said the second sister, “were never on these shelves.”
“They belonged to our grandfather,” said the third sister.
“His name was Joseph Konrad Josephson,” said the first sister.
“He was a socialist,” said the third sister.
McAllister blinked and smiled, trying to hide his dismay.
“He owned a bookstore in Munich,” said the second sister. “The Konrad Joseph Bookstore. You see he called himself Konrad Joseph.”
“He thought that sounded less Jewish,” said the third sister, looking directly at McAllister.
She was clearly the youngest, and rather pretty, in a way. McAllister returned her gaze thoughtfully, as if he understood, all too well, the ways of grandfathers, and had known, all along, that the family was Jewish.
“So. We need someone who reads German,” said the first sister, “to appraise the books, and sell them off quietly.”
“Whatever price they get. No big auction. No publicity,” said the second sister. “Then… we need you to read the private papers, pull out and preserve anything that has genealogical interest for our family, anything that might tell us about… our relatives… the ones who remained in… Europe.”
McAllister did his best to look thoughtful and sympathetic.
“And as for the socialist correspondence and political papers of our grandfather… ” said the oldest sister.
“You will destroy them,” said the youngest sister, with a flash of challenge in her eyes.
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