How strange, I think, to be speaking French in Germany, a country that not so long ago tried to wipe my people from the map. I tell the receptionist that I'm here to see Otto Kühn, and I'm surprised to hear the tremor in my own voice.
"Certainment." She reaches for her phone and asks me if she can tell who is here to see him.
I take a deep breath. It feels suddenly as if everything has been leading to this moment.
"Je suis..." I hesitate, because it doesn't matter who I am. It matters what I am here to do.
So instead I tell her simply that I'm here for the book.
She tills her head to the side. "Le livre, madame?"
"Oui." The world seems to stop spinning. "I'm here, " I tell her in French, "for the Book of Lost Names."
"Certainment." She reaches for her phone and asks me if she can tell who is here to see him.
I take a deep breath. It feels suddenly as if everything has been leading to this moment.
"Je suis..." I hesitate, because it doesn't matter who I am. It matters what I am here to do.
So instead I tell her simply that I'm here for the book.
She tills her head to the side. "Le livre, madame?"
"Oui." The world seems to stop spinning. "I'm here, " I tell her in French, "for the Book of Lost Names."
