He didn’t come to the bookshop much now, preferring to stay at home, sitting beside Hedy while she wrote. She had completed her first book and given a copy to Elizabeth, who was working on the illustrations. She had kept another copy and passed it to Gertie to read. Gertie had been captivated by the story. It was an exquisite mixture of adventure and magic, which she knew children would love. According to Billy, it was “better even than Winnie-the-Pooh.” Without mentioning it to Hedy, Gertie had sent it on to Uncle Thomas to show to his publishing associates.
“No obligation, you understand,” she said. “It is her first book, after all.”
“Understood, dear heart,” said Thomas. “Publishers are as fickle as the wind, so don’t pin any hopes.”
He telephoned a day later. “They want to know if she can write another this year and possibly two more next. Think it would make a first-rate series for youngsters. Tell Hedy I’m happy to represent her. My rates are twenty percent.” Gertie gave a loud cough. “Oh, very well. Ten, but only as you’re my favorite niece.”
“You’ll waive all fees and be grateful to act as conduit for a talented young woman,” said Gertie.
“Saints preserve me from difficult women,” said Thomas. “So be it. I’ll be in touch.”
Gertie wiped the dirt from Harry’s headstone with her handkerchief and ran her fingers over the lettering. “So you see, there’s been much excitement in the household over the last few weeks, my love, what with Hedy’s book and Sam’s new job and their cottage by the sea . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And of course with Miss Snipp getting married and leaving us, it’s all change again.” She sighed. “Oh, Harry, I’m not sure what I’m going to do to be honest.” Gertie thumbed away a stray tear. “What a silly old fool. I just feel as if I’m getting left behind. I even had Miss Snipp telling me it’s never too late. That’s all very well, but it’s not as if these things pop up in front of you like a jack-in-the-box.”
She cast ’round, remembering the fluttering newspaper article that had brought Hedy into her life many years before. All was quiet today. There was hardly a breeze, just a peaceful azure sky with bees and butterflies flitting above her head.
“No divine intervention today then, my love,” she said, patting the headstone one last time before hauling herself to a standing position, wincing against her aching joints. “Well, I shall love you and leave you. Come on, boy,” she said to Hemingway, who staggered to his feet with similar effort. They walked companionably together in the late-summer sunshine.
As Gertie let herself in through the front door, the telephone began to ring.
“Beechwood 8153?”
“Mrs. Bingham?”
“Speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bingham. This is Alfreda Crisp. We haven’t spoken for a good while. I’m getting in touch to ask if you’re still interested in selling your bookshop.”
Gertie was momentarily caught off guard. “Oh gosh, I’m not sure . . .”
“It’s quite all right. You don’t need to decide now. It’s merely that I have a young couple who are looking for a bookshop to run, and naturally I thought of you. Would you like to meet them? No obligation of course.”
Gertie glanced toward the living room at Harry’s photograph, smiling his encouragement. “Do you know, Miss Crisp, I would very much like to meet them.”
“Splendid. Could we say tomorrow at ten?”
“Ten o’clock is perfect.”
When Gertie saw Flora and Nicholas Hope walk through the door of Bingham Books, she felt as if she were stepping back in time. Flora’s bright eyes as alert as a robin’s and Nicholas’s loping gait brought her squarely back to Arnold’s Booksellers at the turn of the century.
“Oh look, Nicky, P. G. Wodehouse,” said Flora, plucking a volume from the shelf. She grinned at Gertie. “I prefer Nancy Mitford, but Wodehouse is Nicky’s absolute favorite, isn’t he, darling?”
“No one better than Plum,” said Nicholas. “Apologies for my wife. She gets rather excited when she enters a bookshop. Good morning, Mrs. Bingham. Nicholas Hope at your service.” He offered his hand with a small bow.
“It’s quite all right,” said Gertie, moving around from the back of the counter to shake their hands. “I understand that sentiment entirely.”
Chapter 25
1946
Gertie knew she was the only one who could save Arno. She needed to be braver than she had ever been in her life. She grasped the enormous red velvet book with both hands, lifted the cover, and let the magic catapult into the air like fire from a dragon’s nose.
—Hedy Fischer, The Adventures of Gertie and Arno
Gertie gazed at the book-lined shelves and closed her eyes, breathing in that treasured aroma for what would be her last morning as proprietor of Bingham Books. She opened them and ran her fingertips over the cherished spines. There was nothing more thrilling than an empty bookshop early in the morning, with the sun streaming through the window, making the gilded type glimmer with promise.
The decision had been a straightforward one in the end. It didn’t feel like giving up, more like passing on the mantle. She had become rather fond of Flora and Nicholas over the past few weeks. They were coming along to the party tonight. Gertie could hardly wait. She plucked a copy of The Adventures of Gertie and Arno from the counter, admiring its pale green cover adorned with Elizabeth’s delightful illustration of the two characters. She opened the cover and read the dedication with a dip of sadness.
For Mama, Papa, and Arno, forever in my heart.
Where Hedy and Gertie’s inquiries had proved fruitless, Charles had been more successful. He called ’round one Sunday while Gertie was tending to her roses in the front garden. As soon as she saw his face, Gertie knew. “You have news?”
He nodded, following her inside. “Is Hedy at home?”
“No. She’s gone for a drive with Sam. It’s not good, is it?”
Charles retrieved a document from his pocket and held it out for her to read. Gertie saw the names Johann and Else Fischer. “What is it, Charles? What are all these columns?”
Charles swallowed. “It’s from a Totenbuch—a book of deceased prisoners.”
Gertie put a hand to her mouth. “But how did you get hold of this?”
“Through my Red Cross contacts.”
She stared at him for a moment, noticing that enigmatic side to Charles once more, sensing not to pry. “What else does it say?”
“Enough to know that they died in 1943 in Auschwitz. One of the prisoners kept this log and hid it on pain of death. They found it a few months ago concealed in a septic tank at the camp.”
Gertie took the papers from him and sank into a chair. “What about Arno?”
Charles slid into the seat opposite her and rubbed at his temples. “All I know is that the factory where he worked was closed by the Nazis, but I haven’t managed to find out what happened to the Jewish workforce.”
Gertie sat up straighter in her chair. “But he’s not in this book, is he? So there’s still hope?”