I love books. As a child I dreamed of having a library of my own. A few years ago we hired a contractor to add a room to our house. It is a small office with floor to ceiling bookcases along two walls. It's my favorite room in the house. The shelves are filled with books and books are beginning to spill over into stacks on the floor. I have piles of books in my bedroom and next to my favorite chair in the family room. There are books everywhere. Each book is a memory, a reminder of a class or a particular time in my life.
There are two books that I've never really considered mine. I've never put them on a shelf. I've never reread them. I feel guilty even looking at them.
My friend, Alka, and I stuff my huge backpack into her tiny car and drive from Hanover to Hamlin. Hamlin is the setting of the Pied Piper. It is a picturesque German village and Alka's parents' house is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's old. White stucco walls support a wooden shake roof. It's a large L shape with one wing for her parents and one wing for her grandparents. Her family has lived here for generations. The longer side of the L also includes a barn. There are smaller outbuildings too. The rooms are small with low ceilings. The woodwork is beautiful and the furnishings are warm if a bit outdated. The kitchen is cozy with a well worn family table in the corner. In the small adjacent room they use as a pantry her mother has a machine for slicing meat for sandwiches. It looks like something you'd only see in a butcher shop. Alka's mother makes pizza in honor of having an American guest. The crust is thick, there's no sauce, and one of the toppings is potatoes. I can't stop smiling. I appreciate her effort more than I can express.
Alka and I stay for a few days. Her mother takes us shopping in the village and her father takes us to visit their weekend house. It's only 20 minutes away. Her older brother ignores us. Her grandparents speak no English, but smile and hug me frequently.
After Hamlin, I was heading to visit another friend. I'd packed as lightly as possible for the almost two months I'd spend in Europe since much of my trip would be spent backpacking and camping. I didn't bring any books.
Alka shares my love of books. She offers to loan me something to read while I travel, but of course most of her books are in German. There is a sagging bookshelf in an upstairs hallway. She pulls out two books from an English class she'd taken in high school, "The Lord of the Flies" and "The Wave." Not my usual fare, but English at least. "The Wave" is a small red text with a study guide. It includes tips for reading in English without using a dictionary. According to the prologue, it is used to teach students about fascism. Her copy of "The Lord of the Flies" has a white background with a black and white pig bleeding red from one eye and out both sides of its mouth. It looks like the head is on a stake. These don't look like anything I read in high school. She hugs them to her chest and tells me how much she'd loved the class and how much these books mean to her. I take them and promise to mail them back to her before I leave Europe.
I didn't keep that promise. When I arrived back in the States and unpacked the books, I set them aside with every intention of mailing them to her. I sent her a thank you note. I sent her pictures. I kept the books. For sixteen years I've told myself I would send them to her, tell her how they filled the hours I spent alone in another friend's apartment in former East Germany, apologize, lie and tell her I'd misplaced them, use it as an opportunity to reconnect, catch up. I recently added the books to a stack on the floor in the office. They will eventually make it onto a shelf. Maybe I'll even reread them.
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