The Book Spy

by Alan Hlad

Genres: World War II; Historical Fiction; Thrillers

Synopsis

In this engaging, dramatic historical novel that illuminates a little-known facet of World War II, USA Today bestselling author Alan Hlad explores the real-life librarian spies who hunted down crucial intelligence throughout Europe.

1942: With the war's outcome hanging in the balance, every sliver of intelligence can be critical. Though far from the battlefields, cities like Lisbon, Portugal's neutral capital, become lynchpins in a different kind of warfare, as President Roosevelt sends an unlikely new taskforce on a unique mission. They are librarians and microfilm specialists trained in espionage, working with a special branch of the Office of Strategic Services. By acquiring and scouring Axis newspapers, books, technical manuals, and periodicals, the librarians can gather information about troop location, weaponry, and military plans.

Maria Alves, a microfilm expert working at the New York Public Library, is dispatched to Lisbon, where she meticulously photographs publications and sends the film to London to be analyzed. Working in tandem with Tiago Soares, a brave and honorable bookstore owner on a precarious mission of his own—providing Jewish refugees with forged passports and visas—Maria acquires vital information, including a directory of arms factories in Germany.

But as she and Tiago grow closer, any future together is jeopardized when Maria's superiors ask her to pose as a double agent, feeding misinformation to Lars Steiger, a wealthy Swiss banker and Nazi sympathizer who launders Hitler's gold. Gaining Lars' trust will bring Maria into the very heart of the Fuhrer's inner circle. And it will provide her with a chance to help steer the course of war, if she is willing to take risks as great as the possible rewards . . .

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

On the day librarians were recruited for the war, Maria Alves was microfilming historical newspapers in the Department of Microphotography of the New York Public Library. She peered through the viewer of a Leica 35mm camera, purchased by the library through a research grant, and adjusted the lens. A May 1933 article with an image of a Nazi book burning in Berlin’s Opera Square came into focus. Gathered around a huge bonfire, fueled by over twenty thousand books, were scores of university students with their arms raised in a Sieg Heil salute. A wave of disgust rolled over her. She steadied her hands and pressed the shutter release, producing a soft metallic click.

“Our preservation of records will ensure that people never forget the wicked things that Nazism has done to the world,” Maria said to Roy, a bespectacled thirty-year-old microfilm specialist working at an adjacent desk.

“I hope so,” Roy said with an unlit pipe clenched in his mouth. He glanced at Maria’s newspaper article and frowned. “I wish we could’ve saved all those books. It sickens me how much liberal and pacifist philosophy was lost in that fire.”

“Me too,” Maria said. “But I’m far more concerned about what might be happening to Jews in Europe.”

Sadness filled his eyes. He nodded, then loaded a fresh roll of microfilm into his camera.

The Department of Microphotography—a small windowless room on the basement level of the library in Midtown Manhattan—contained two wooden desks, rows of film cabinets, a Valoy enlarger for printmaking, and a Recordak Library Film Reader that resembled a doctor’s light box for viewing X-rays. The air was stagnant, due to inadequate ventilation, and it contained a faint, nutty scent of Roy’s pipe tobacco, despite that he never smoked while inside the library. Although the room lacked airflow, the climate was cool and dry for storing film. And the isolated space permitted the team of two microfilm specialists, Maria and Roy, to work with little, if any, supervision—precisely the way they liked it.

Maria—a twenty-seven-year-old woman with wavy, golden-brown hair and hazel eyes—began working at the library as an archivist three years earlier. She’d obtained a bachelor’s and master’s degree in medieval studies from the University of California, Berkeley. With her experience of having attended a summer course at the University of Chicago, one of the country’s first courses of instruction on microphotography, she was charged with cultivating the library’s microfilm capabilities. And she was assigned to mentor Roy, a librarian and amateur photographer, to help create the unit.

The early days of working in the Department of Microphotography were frustrating for Maria. The library’s budget for microfilming was miniscule, and much of her time was dedicated to lobbying Mr. Hopper—the library’s director, who was reluctant to abandon traditional archival methods—to acquire expensive equipment.

“By converting printed material to microfilm, we’ll save money on storage space,” she’d told Mr. Hopper. “We could fit an entire wing of library documents in the space of a janitorial closet.” But Hopper held firm, claiming that microphotography was in its early stage of development. Therefore, Maria’s department was provided cheap, obsolete cameras and barely enough microfilm to archive a few local newspapers.

Undeterred, Maria stopped by Hopper’s office each week to express her concerns about the library’s lack of technology as compared to other leading institutions, like the Harvard University Library, which developed a program for microfilming foreign newspapers. Also, she informed him about a new company in Michigan that was specializing in microphotography to preserve library collections. Eventually, Hopper relented and shipments of equipment began to arrive. She’d wondered if it was her persistence, or if the director decided to invest in technology out of fear of being viewed as antiquated by the board of trustees. But to Maria, it didn’t matter; the library had everything it needed to build a state-of-the-art microfilm department.

As days passed, Maria tutored Roy on the art of microfilm. He was a whip-smart yet humble graduate from Princeton, and he went out of his way to express his gratitude for Maria’s mentorship, which she deeply appreciated. Within months, they were microfilming major American, Canadian, and British newspapers. They formed a close friendship despite having quite different interests and upbringings. Roy was a devoted family man with a lovely wife named Judith and a six-year-old daughter, Carol, whose drawings of pink cats filled the top drawer of her father’s desk. He came from a large family and had six siblings. Also, he was born and raised in New York City, and he’d never been more than sixty miles from Manhattan, with the exception of a honeymoon in Niagara Falls.

Unlike Roy, Maria was happily single and quite comfortable with her independent life. Her immigrant photojournalist parents—Elise from Munich, Germany, and Gaspar from Coimbra, Portugal—had given her a life filled with travel and adventure. Maria was an only child and, until the age of six, she traveled almost continuously with her parents while they were on assignment in European cities. London. Lisbon. Berlin. Madrid. Barcelona. Paris. Rome. During her school-age years, she lived with a family friend in New Jersey and joined her parents in Europe for summer holidays. By the time she was a teenager, she’d become fluent in six languages. Her parents, who had limited financial means, had scraped to save money to send her away for college, and they’d spawned her desire for wanderlust. But her fight against fascism, even if limited to microfilming Nazi propaganda, was fueled by the death of her mother.

Elise was killed in 1937 while covering news of the Spanish Civil War. She and Gaspar were caught in cross fire between Republican and Nationalist troops while capturing photographs of the Battle of Brunete, fifteen miles west of Madrid. Elise was struck in the back by gunfire and died in her husband’s arms. Maria, who was studying in Berkeley, received the news by telegram. She was devastated. After the funeral, her father gifted Elise’s Art Deco sapphire engagement ring to Maria, which she placed on her right-hand ring finger. When Maria was feeling sorrowful, which happened more frequently than she liked to confess, she touched her mother’s blue gemstone. God, I miss you, she would often say to herself. After fiddling with her ring, she would gather her composure, more determined than ever to find a way to honor her mother’s sacrifice.

As Maria was inserting a new roll of film in her camera, a knock came from the door. A receptionist, wearing a wool skirt and white blouse, entered the room and approached Roy.

“A Western Union messenger left this for you at the front desk,” the receptionist said, giving Roy an envelope. She turned and left.

Roy, his pipe stem clamped between his molars, stared at the envelope.

“Everything okay?” Maria asked, closing the back of her camera.

“Yeah.” Roy opened the envelope and, as he read the message, a smile spread across his face. He set down his pipe and ran a hand through his receding brown hair. “I can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?” she asked.

“I suppose it’s okay,” he said, glancing at his telegram. “They said nothing about keeping it a secret.”

She tilted her head.

“I’ve been accepted for a position to work overseas.”

“Oh, my goodness!” She set aside her camera and approached him. “That’s wonderful.”

He nodded.

“How did this come about?”

“Frederick Kilgour recruited me,” Roy said. “He’s from Harvard, but he’s recently taken on the role as head of the IDC—it’s an acronym for Interdepartmental Committee for the Acquisition of Foreign Publications.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” Maria said.

“It’s a fledgling department that reports to the Office of the Coordinator of Information, the US government’s new intelligence agency.”

“Oh, my,” she said, her eyes widening.

“Kilgour interviewed me last week.” He lowered his head. “I’m sorry I lied about taking vacation days to spend with Judith and Carol. I didn’t want to get my hopes up; I was worried that the IDC would declare me ineligible for service, like the army.”

“It’s all right,” she said.

Roy had volunteered to join the army when the US entered the war, but he failed his physical examination. He was classified 4-F due to a high school knee injury that limited his range of motion and ability to run. Although he never complained about being branded a 4-F, Maria believed that Roy, a patriotic man, was deeply hurt by not being permitted to serve his country.

“Tell me more about where you’re going and what you’ll be doing,” Maria said.

“I haven’t been informed where I’ll be stationed,” he said. “I only know that I’ll be serving as a microfilm specialist in a neutral European country to acquire foreign publications.”

Maria clasped her arms. “Is everyone in the IDC a microfilm specialist?”

“Most are,” he said, sounding apologetic. “But I think they’re also considering librarians and scholars.”

“I wish I could go with you,” she said.

“Me too.” He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “During my interview, I told Kilgour that you taught me everything I know about microphotography, and I suggested that he speak with you.”

“That was kind of you to say,” Maria said. “I assume he told you that the IDC is not recruiting women.”

“No. He said that he’s seeking candidates with an Ivy League degree.”

She furrowed her brow. “That’s nearly the same thing.”

His shoulders slumped. “Are you upset with me?”

“Of course not,” she said, giving him a hug. “I’m happy for you. I truly am.”

He released her. “This wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you.”

She shook her head. “The IDC wanted you because you’re a damn good librarian.”

He grinned.

“I suppose you need to tell Hopper.”

“Yeah.”

“After you see him,” Maria said, “go home and tell Judith and Carol the news. I’ll cover for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.” Roy placed his pipe in his mouth, swiftly cleared his desk, and left.

Maria, unable to concentrate, put away her camera and spent the afternoon organizing supplies. At 5:00 p.m., she left the library and walked eight blocks to Penn Station, where she boarded a train to Newark. Usually, she read a book during her commute to and from work. Instead, she leaned back in her seat and stared out the passenger car window. Although she was excited for Roy, a feeling of disappointment swelled within her. I wish I could join the IDC. There’s no good reason for them to require an Ivy League pedigree. She buried her thoughts and closed her eyes.

She disembarked at Newark Penn Station and walked a mile along Ferry Street to her three-story brick apartment building in the Ironbound, a working-class Portuguese neighborhood. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered her apartment, which she shared with her father.

“Hello,” she called, placing her purse on the kitchen counter.

“I’m in the darkroom,” a muffled voice said. “It’s safe to come in. I’m finished.”

She entered the darkroom, which had once been a miniscule spare bedroom, to a pungent metallic-like odor that Maria had grown fond of. The dim overhead light was on and Gaspar—a lean man with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a gray, stubble beard—was removing black-and-white photographs from clothespins on a draped cord.

“Hi, Dad,” she said.

He turned and hugged her. “How was work?”

“Okay,” Maria lied. “How about some fresh air?” She released him and opened a small window, its panes covered with black paint. A warm breeze and sunlight filled the room.

He looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

You can always tell when something is bothering me. “It’s nothing.”

Gaspar rubbed his chin. “I’ll make us a snack, and you tell me all about what’s not troubling you.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly.

Minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of seasoned black olives. Gaspar poured two small glasses of port wine.

“Saúde,” he said, clinking her glass.

She sipped her port, sweet with notes of blackberry and chocolate.

Gaspar patiently chewed an olive, then disposed of the pit on a plate.

Tension grew in her chest. “Roy was recruited to be an overseas microfilm specialist.”

“Oh.” He clasped the stem of his glass but made no effort to drink.

Maria drew a deep breath, and then told him everything, including that the IDC was seeking solely Ivy League candidates.

He took a drink and asked, “Are you envious of Roy?”

She shifted in her seat. “Maybe a little. He’s my friend and I’m happy for him—he’s become an expert with microfilm and he deserves to serve the IDC. But it’s unfair that they’re not considering people who didn’t attend an elite school.”

“I agree,” he said. “You’re as good as any Ivy Leaguer.”

She smiled.

“Your mother suffered similar adversities in her career as a photojournalist,” he said. “In fact, when newspapers refused to hire her because she was a woman, we created a plan where I claimed to be an agent of photographer William Sullivan, a fictitious person. Elise sold a lot of photographs under that name.”

Maria had heard the story many times, but she made no effort to inform him. Instead, she glanced to one of several framed photographs on the wall—a black-and-white image of a military-uniformed woman with short hair and a rifle slung over her shoulder. Dark, defiant eyes peered toward the camera. “This is one of my favorites.”

“Me too,” he said. “That woman is a miliciana, a Spanish militia woman. There were hundreds of them fighting alongside the men. A week before Elise was killed, she captured that photograph in Madrid.” He rubbed his eyes, then sipped wine.

“You miss her,” she said.

“Every day.”

Maria’s heart ached. “Do you ever think you’ll go back to working overseas?”

“Someday,” he said. “For now, I plan to continue working for domestic newspapers. It’s been nice being home after so many years away from you. I like to think that I’m making up for lost time.”

Maria nodded, then nibbled an olive.

Gaspar finished his wine. “Selfishly, I would worry about you if you traveled abroad during a war. However, if you feel you must serve our country, I would never get in your way.”

She straightened her spine. “How did you and Mom decide to cover news of the Spanish Civil War?”

“We both fled our homeland due to the rise of fascism,” he said. “We thought it was important that Americans, as well as the rest of world, know about what was taking place in Europe.”

Maria swirled her wine.

Gaspar slumped in his chair. “I regret that I’m a fatalist at heart. It’s common in Portuguese culture to believe that people cannot change how events will unfold. Even so, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder if there was something I could have done to have saved Elise.”

“Oh, Dad,” Maria said. She squeezed his hand.

“Your mother held quite different views. She was confident and optimistic, and she believed that she could shape her own future despite insurmountable odds.” He looked into her eyes. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

Maria breathed deeply, fighting back tears.

He slipped his fingers away and stood. “I’ve got a bit of work to do. Would it be okay if we have a late dinner?”

She nodded.

He kissed the top of her head, made his way to the darkroom, and closed the door.

Maria, her heart aching, slumped in her chair. A memory of her mother packing a camera into a suitcase flashed in her head. She twisted the sapphire ring on her finger and gazed at the photograph of the miliciana, and she decided what she needed to do.

Tiago Soares—twenty-eight with nut-brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and a book tucked under his arm—walked along Rua do Crucifixo, a narrow cobblestone street in the historic center of Lisbon. As he approached his bookstore, Livraria Soares, he found Rosa, his store clerk, standing by the door with Artur, a gauche thirteen-year-old newspaper boy with weathered shoes.

“Bom dia,” Tiago said.

“Olá, Senhor Soares.” Artur removed a stuffed burlap sack from his shoulder and rubbed his arm.

Rosa—a sixty-seven-year-old woman with plump cheeks and gray, curly hair—tapped her wristwatch. “You’re late.”

“And you forgot your key,” Tiago said.

She raised her chin. “I left it at home because I thought you’d arrive at work on time.”

Tiago smiled. He placed his book inside Artur’s sack and hoisted it over his shoulder. “How about I carry this inside for you?”

“Obrigado.” Artur removed his cap, exposing unkempt hair and protruding ears.

Tiago unlocked the door and they entered the shop.

Livraria Soares in Baixa, the neighborhood that contained the Santa Justa Lift—a towering neo-Gothic iron elevator that connected the lower streets of downtown to the higher Rua do Carmo—was a ground-floor storefront of an eighteenth-century building. Worn blue and white tiles covered the floor. Although the shop had a high ornate plaster ceiling, it was a compact, three-meter-by-twenty-meter space. Holm oak bookshelves covered the walls, and two long tables, one of which had a thin piece of wood tucked under a leg to keep it from wobbling, were covered with stacks of books. A faint vanilla-like scent of aged paper and leather filled the air. And at the front of the shop was a checkout counter with a small radio and a crank-operated cash register.

Tiago removed a dozen newspapers from the sack, placed them on the counter, and then paid Artur with money from the cash register. “No skipping school today.”

“I won’t,” Artur said, slipping the money into his pocket. He put on his cap and removed Tiago’s book from the sack. “You forgot this.”

“You can borrow it,” Tiago said.

Rosa raised her brows. She placed her purse on the floor behind the counter and sat on a stool.

“What’s it about?” Artur asked, examining the cover.

“It’s a collection of poems by Luís de Camões,” Tiago said. “After you read it, let me know which one is your favorite.”

“All right,” Artur said. He slipped the book in his sack and left.

Rosa swiveled on her stool and looked at Tiago. “He’s going to skip school, and he won’t read that book.”

“Perhaps,” Tiago said.

“His family needs money,” she said. “He has no choice but to work.”

“True,” Tiago said. “But he’s losing his childhood.”

She ran her hands over her charcoal-colored dress and said, as if quoting scripture, “You shouldn’t leave your flock of sheep in order to find the one that is lost.”

Tiago shrugged. “I like to believe that they’re all worth saving.”

The lines in Rosa’s face softened. “I suppose you’re right.”

Artur lived in Alfama, a poor neighborhood in Lisbon, with his mother and three siblings. His father was dead and Artur, the oldest child, worked before and after school as a newspaper boy to help support his family. Recently, Tiago discovered Artur shining shoes during school hours at the Rossio Railway Station. After lecturing Artur on the importance of education, he’d given him a bit of money and began buying more newspapers than his bookshop could sell. Artur had promised Tiago that his shoe shining was temporary, but given that the black stains on the boy’s hands never faded, Tiago worried that the boy’s truancy might be permanent.

“Would you like to tell me why you were late this morning?” Rosa asked.

“I was meeting with a French Jewish family in a café,” Tiago said. “They arrived in Lisbon last night.”

“Did your father courier them in from Porto?”

“Yes,” he said. “They were stowed away on a wine delivery truck.”

Tiago, who had a Portuguese Catholic father and a French Jewish mother, ran the final leg of his family’s escape line for Jews fleeing German-occupied France. The route began at his grandparents’ vineyard in Bordeaux, traveled through his parents’ vineyard in Porto, and ended at his bookstore in Lisbon. Soon after the war began, Tiago’s family—as well as Rosa—had begun aiding scores of Jewish refugees on their road to freedom.

“Where are they?” Rosa asked.

“They’re in a boardinghouse. I was going to bring them here, but we nearly encountered a PVDE agent who was stopping refugees to check their papers, so we took a detour and walked in a park.”

“Damn secret police,” Rosa said, furrowing her brow. “There is no reason for refugees to be under surveillance. They’re fleeing persecution and not hurting anyone.”

An image of a throng of refugees, desperate to board the Serpa Pinto for a voyage to the United States, flashed in Tiago’s head.

When the war erupted, Jews began fleeing Nazi-occupied countries for neutral Portugal. Thousands of refugees were flooding Lisbon, the last gate out of Europe. Under direct orders of António de Oliveira Salazar, Portugal’s prime minister and dictator, the Polícia de Vigilância e de Defesa do Estado (PVDE) controlled the entrance of refugees and the expulsion of undesirable immigrants. Wealthy Jewish refugees, often from Paris and the surrounding areas, had the money to obtain proper paperwork and passage to America. But most of the refugees had exhausted their life savings to reach Lisbon, and they had to rely on charity or support from Portuguese authorities. The American consulate and the British embassy were overwhelmed, and it often took many months for impoverished refugees to gather the correct stamps in passports and find a way to pay for ship passage.

“Tell me about them,” Rosa said.

“It’s a family of three from Bordeaux—Hubert, Irma, and their three-year-old-daughter, Violette.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Irma’s sister from Poitiers was supposed to join them but she was arrested by the Germans.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosa said. “Maybe she’ll be let go and will make it to your grandparents’ vineyard.”

He nodded, despite knowing that those who were arrested rarely, if ever, were released.

“How’s their paperwork?” she asked.

“Not good,” he said, removing passports from his pocket. “Their transit visas are expired.”

“How’d they make it through the border crossings?”

“They didn’t,” Tiago said. “They traveled through the mountains and backroads.”

“They’re fortunate not to have been spotted by the PVDE. Otherwise, they would have been arrested or sent back to Spain.”

“You’re right,” he said. “The border patrols are stretched beyond capacity and more refugees are getting through. Also, Spain and Portugal are permitting the flow of some refugees, as long as they do not attempt to stay.”

“If Salazar and Franco are allowing it to happen,” Rosa said, “it’s because they think it will help keep the Iberian Peninsula out of the war.”

“You’re quite astute.”

Rosa tapped a finger to her temple. “Let me see their papers.”

Tiago gave her the passports.

She retrieved a pair of reading glasses and placed them on the tip of her nose. “They’re bad,” she said, examining the documents, “but nothing I can’t fix.”

“If you don’t have time, I’ll work on them,” he said. “It’ll give me a chance to practice what you taught me.”

“I’ll handle it.” Rosa opened her purse, removed a false bottom, and handed Tiago two passports. “My husband went to bed early last night, so I got caught up on my work.”

Tiago glanced inside the passports of an elderly Jewish couple from Limoges, France, who were now hunkered in a Lisbon boardinghouse. All the dates and stamps were in order, giving the appearance that the couple had acquired passports and visas in France and successfully passed through Spanish and Portuguese border patrols. “They’re perfect. Your acuity for detail is remarkable.”

“It’s the skills one acquires from working for the most scrupulous lawyer in Lisbon.”

“It’s a gift,” Tiago said. “And now you’re using your artistry to create hope for those who’ve lost everything.”

Rosa nodded. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

Tiago had met Rosa, a retired secretary, shortly after the Fall of France. She’d entered the bookshop and overheard him, despite his whispers in French, consoling a distraught Jewish woman with an expired visa. As he was about to ask the woman to come back after business hours, Rosa approached them and said she could fix travel papers.

With the help of Tiago translating French to Portuguese, she’d convinced the woman to allow her to borrow the passport. The following day, Rosa returned it with a falsified expiration date that appeared to be authentic, even when held under a magnifying glass. Rosa wanted no money in exchange for her services. Tiago was impressed and, more importantly, believed that he could trust Rosa given that she’d committed a crime. He soon divulged details of his family’s escape line for Jewish refugees, and that he was bribing stewards to smuggle refugees onto ships bound for the United States and Britain. In return, she’d told him about her twenty-five-year secretarial career for a prominent yet corrupt attorney, who required her to alter legal documents.

“We were desperate for money,” Rosa had said. “With two young daughters and my husband, Jorge, struggling to hold a job with his rheumatoid arthritis, I did everything I could to support my family.”

Tiago invited Rosa to join him at the bookshop. Despite the miniscule pay, because he was using most of his money to aid refugees, she accepted. Soon she was helping him with scores of escapees with invalid travel papers, and he learned that Rosa was far more than a clerk who’d learned a few forgery tricks. She was a fabrication maestro with the ability to erase and match ink, alter paper, and use dentistry tools to sculpt melted wax to mimic seals. And she worked day and night, as if she were seeking atonement for her decades of misdeeds.

Tiago slipped the forged documents into his pocket. “I have a bit of work to do in my office before I deliver the passports. Could you handle things for a while?”

“Sure.” Rosa stashed the documents to be forged in the hidden compartment of her purse, and then turned a hanging sign in the window to signify the shop was open.

Tiago went to the back of the shop and entered a windowless office, which was little more than a broom closet. He pulled a long string, illuminating a bulb in the ceiling, and closed the door behind him. He removed a folded sheet of paper—given to him by his father the night before—from inside his wallet and sat at a small desk. Although letters could be sent between neutral Portugal and German-occupied territories, written communication was subject to censorship. Therefore, most of the messages between Tiago and his family were hand delivered.

He unfolded the paper, revealing a charcoal drawing of a windmill, and then lit a candle. He turned the picture over, exposing a blank side. As he carefully held the paper over the flame, he imagined the message’s journey. It had been written in German-occupied Bordeaux by his grandfather, Laurent, using a fountain pen filled with onion juice. The message was carried by a fleeing French Jew on an arduous journey through the Pyrenees mountains, across the Spanish and Portuguese borders, to the sanctuary of his parents’ vineyard in Porto, and eventually to Lisbon.

Tiago held the paper closer to the flame. His anticipation grew. And the words, the color of caramel from the dry juice oxidizing in the heat, gradually appeared.

Tiago squeezed the paper between his fingers. An image of his grandparents flashed in his head. Although he hadn’t seen them since the Germans invaded France, he could recall every detail about them. The angelic timbre of his grandmother Odette’s voice, reminiscent of an old violin, and the rich, nutty taste of her homemade hazelnut dacquoise. The sound of his grandfather’s belly laughs, his gray felt beret, and the eucalyptus scent of his hair tonic that made him smell as if he’d come from a barbershop. God, I miss them.

A childhood memory of playing in his grandparents’ wine caves surged through his brain. Deep below the vineyard was a labyrinth of tunne. . .