'52

A thief does not read, a reader does not thief

Berlin. September 1952. Nazi occupation of europe.
The accounts and life of Mr. George Monty

a cold Berlin morning, by the river, you could hear the sounds of business going on in the street. Apples and antiques being sold, fish and fold up chairs being bought. Maybe the whole busy market feel of the city centre is what drove me to live and work in the banking district of Berlin, or maybe it was the starvation and sickness of the lands around that drove me out.

On my weekday mornings, i would put my shoes on, grab my coat and ride my bicycle down the waterside to the library to do my shift, so that day felt normal to me, until about 11 O'clock that day when the sketchy looking Italian stole a book and made a dash.

Now i was a particularly scrawny lad at the time, had 'arms like twigs' as my grandad would say, i was the runt of the litter really, was picked on throughout school because i was English unlike the Austrian and German boys at the school. So natrually i left after being beated with a metal pole by one of the older boys. This is probably why i became a hermit and had no close friends by the time i was 18, but in terms of money i had a flat and a bicycle so i was doing alright.

Despite my clear lack of muscle, they put me on door duty that wednesday where you would have to stand by the rotating door for hours on end making sure people felt safe. Security really, but for the librarians- who arent the most 'ripped' in the business.

Anyway, the first i knew about the thief was when i spotted him running through the tragedies section knocking over stands. He was followed by adam, another English worker who i had known throughout my time in the capital. "George!!!!" He called breathlessly trying to get my attention. "Thief!" He added, speaking the Queen's English. I knew he was serious when he spoke like that, because it was directed at me.

I swung round and grabbed the thief, and stared at him for a moment in sympathy. He had dark glinting eyes and a scarred face that ran like a mountain range across his cheek. He was still clutching the book when i recognised him. It was just a moment that we stared at eachother realising who we were. My old friend, stealing a book... a crime that could get you sent away. A crime that i couldn't live with if i let happen.

In panic i let him go and he left the book in my arms. I lost my job that day too for not working well enough and for letting a thief run. But this book interested me, it was a small book with a red cover and tears on the leather spine. It read:
'World War Two. The truth.
-Mario Arditi'

Mario was the one who stole the book. Why would you steal our own book? I asked myself over and over that morning. But what i was really wondering was why would he write about this? Times were hard but all the crap about lies and panic that was designed to cause mass dissaproval was only ever going to make things worse. I had to ask him. And the way i was to do that would be following the map, which was hand drawn in the book.

That cold misty night i left for the warehouses of east Berlin, walking through the dangerous streets on my own with an illegal book and a few reich marks in the pocket of my trench coat.