Scribent - Dare to know!

By Wolfgang Armin Strauch

The Gaspard family gets caught between the fronts of fanatical Catholics, Freemasons, and Nazis. The escape to Argentina seems to help. But in the end, uncovering a secret is the only chance to escape the vortex of violence.
It is a risky undertaking. Lovers die, friends turn out to be enemies, secret services have their fingers in the pie. A desecrated tomb, clues to artwork, a constellation, and a map of Jerusalem solve the mystery.
Embark on an exciting journey halfway around the world and through 2000 years of history.
After this book you will have a different view and make many a theologian, historian or astronomer despair, because most of the facts are true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tredition
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9783384004543

Wolfgang Armin Strauch

Wolfgang Armin Strauch wurde 1953 geboren. Bereits in der Schule schrieb er erste Gedichte, mit denen er sich an lokalen und überregionalen Wettbewerben beteiligte. Es folgten Liedtexte, zu denen er auch die Musik komponierte. Nach dem Abitur wollte er Musik studieren. Wegen fehlender Studienplätze entschied er sich zu einem Jurastudium. Nach seinem Abschluss 1985, begann er sich mit der Entwicklung von Software zu beschäftigen. Einige seiner Programme sind bis heute bundesweit im Einsatz. Ab 1990 schrieb er wieder Songs und trat mit ihnen als Solokünstler auf. Eine Auswahl seiner Titel nahm er 2010 im RedCube-Studio Hamburg auf und veröffentlichte sie 2011 auf dem Album „NESAYA – Wie soll ich Leben“. 2012 bekam er den VDM-Award beim internationalen Grand Prix für Musikschaffende. Im selben Jahr wurde ein Titel bester Funk- und Soul- Song beim Deutschen Rock- und Pop-Preis. 2014 nahm er das Debütalbum von Denise Blum „Denise im Radio“ auf. Der Titel „Radio“ wurde zum Durchbruch für die junge Sängerin. Eher zufällig stieß er beim Schreiben der Familiengeschichte auf interessante Schicksale. Sie veranlassten ihn, sich intensiv mit europäischer Geschichte zu beschäftigen. Im Ergebnis umfangreicher Recherchen in deutschen, polnischen, britischen und schwedischen Archiven veröffentlichte er 2018 die umfangreiche Biografie „Dr. Aegidius Strauch: Gefangener des Kurfürsten Friedrich Wilhelm von Brandenburg“. Auch der Roman „Der dicke Mann“ basiert auf Informationen aus deutschen und polnischen Archiven sowie Aussagen von Zeitzeugen. Der Roman "Scribent - Sapere aude" entstand, nachdem er Kupferstiche gefunden hatte, die nachweisen, dass das Grabmal von Hadrian VI. entstellt wurde. Das deutsch-spanische Kinderbuch "Der hölzerne Vogel" betrachtet das Thema Heimat aus ungewöhnlicher Sicht. Ein deutsches Kind findet in Nicaragua eine neue Heimat.

Book preview

The fire

1914. Leuven in Belgium.

Friedrich Stein had already exceeded the usual period of study by two years. Instead of studying, he preferred to hang out with friends from the fraternity who let him put up with them. They repaid him with flattery that catered to his ego. He attached great importance to his appearance. His suit was made of fine twine. He regularly tugged at his watch chain to make sure that everyone saw the gold timepiece.

He was certainly not stupid. He liked to talk about topics his fellow students had no idea about, but avoided technical discussions. If he noticed that someone knew more about the subject, he quickly changed the subject to ramble on about something else. Eventually, he only found receptive listeners among the freshmen. His face was rather average, except for his beard, which he twirled like Kaiser Wilhelm II. He was not a ladies' man, as his smarmy manner was off-putting. So he had no choice but to visit disreputable establishments and blow his money there.

Unfortunately, this lifestyle displeased his parents. Only when he was picked up in a raid and the local police called the principal did he become meek. His father came from Berlin by car to avert his expulsion at the last moment. He gave him an ultimatum. If he did not complete his studies this year, his parents would cut him off. By the beginning of July 1914, he was already late with his final paper. In his distress, he went to François Gaspard, who had already done several papers for him, and asked for support.

His professor had given him a three-week grace period to turn it in. The only problem was that he hadn't written a line yet. For a history topic, 21 days was more than tight. So he fell for the plan of choosing a book that was as unknown as possible as the topic. The professor would hardly be interested in reading up on him, if only it was boring enough.

François Gaspard's situation was completely different: the little money he received from his scholarship was not enough. In the time he had spent studying, he had never once visited a pub. Dating girls was out of the question, since he couldn't even buy them a beer. But that didn't mean he had no contacts. Fortunately, he had landed a job in the university archives, which helped him get over the worst of the hardship. Word of his talent for languages had spread. As a result, he was occasionally able to earn some money doing proofreading work. He loved books and used every free minute to read. However, he wanted to finish his studies as quickly as possible so as not to be on his parents' pocket.

Friedrich Stein knew of his need. He offered him money for a suitable book. François hesitated, since the lending of historical books was only allowed with special permission. Moreover, the specification any old boring book seemed too vague for him to search for it purposefully. In the end, he decided to take Stein to the archive so that he could choose a book for himself.

They went to the far end of the bookshelves. Although the new Lipman shelving system had already been set up everywhere, there was an old shelf in a niche. Obviously, it hadn't been worthwhile to commission a custom-made unit for the eighty centimeters. So it had been left in place. At random, Stein pulled a thick book from the shelf. Presumably the tome had acted like a keystone. Two boards gave way and freed themselves from their burden. Like dominoes, books smashed against each other to land crashing on the floor. Dust swirled up. Spider webs floated through the hallway. Only with difficulty did the two students manage to get one board back into its holder and fill it with the old writings. The other hung warped on the shelf and could not be moved. Full of panic, they jerked at it until they realized it was connected to the floor above. A gap revealed that there was a cavity behind it. Carefully, they removed the jammed writings and, with light force, pulled out the board. The partition could now be removed. A whole row of books became visible. François tried to push the partition to its old spot. He did not succeed. The contents had become completely wedged in.

They decided to clear out the compartments and refill them. To make room, they took out a stack of books, loose writings, and a cardboard box. They moved everything into the anteroom. Here they sorted it by size and shoved the misshapen piles of paper into the compartment. In the end, there was only one book left that could no longer be squeezed in.

I take that for my work, Stein said.

François looked at him in amazement.

Don't we want to get everything in order first?

Stein, however, already had the book under his arm and said, That's why we're here. You can do the rest on your own.

François held him and said, I still have to write it down in the proof book.

Scribent I. Volume he wrote in the line. To determine the author, he flipped through the first pages. The book was written entirely by hand. An author could not be determined. In the cover there was a letter with an illegible writing. On it was a seal imprint with a coat of arms. François added to the entry in the proof book: Contains letter with unknown seal. Then Stein signed and left François alone, who set about sorting the books.

François was now sure that he had made a serious mistake. Although at first glance the old shelf looked just as they had found it, remorse plagued him. That night he slept fitfully. Finally, he went to the archives an hour early. The chief archivist, Quentin Mertens, was already there.

I have something very bad to confess to you.

Tears came to his eyes as he told the story. He had certainly lost his job. He might even be expelled from the university.

Mertens looked at him punishingly. Then he fetched the loan book.

It was a serious mistake. You cannot imagine what you have done. But I am also to blame.

He tore out the page with the loan note.

It's imperative to keep the story between us!

François looked at his supervisor in disbelief. Mertens pulled him into the rows of shelves.

The book never existed! Promise me you won't talk about it with anyone.

Yes. But why?

Don't ask. Go get the car, please. We have to clean up.

With determination, Mertens went to the shelf with the secret compartment. He cleared the first row and pulled out the partition. They brought the hidden contents into the anteroom. On a piece of paper, Mertens documented everything and then put the piece of paper in his pocket.

Is there any chance we can get the book and the letter back from Stein?

François pondered, He still has to write his paper. Maybe he'll ask me for support.

Go to him before he puts someone else in charge. I'll help you with the work.

François didn't have to bother, because Stein was already standing outside the archive door when he wanted to go home. He held the book out to him.

A month's rent if you write the paper for me.

All right. What do you want the title to be?

I don't care about him. The main thing is that it's about history. Yes, and I need a summary of the content, of course.

Stein handed over the book and walked away whistling.

François rushed to the archivist, who looked at the book.

What about the letter?

I don't. He didn't give it to me.

Oh my god. The book was unimportant. Only the letter was of value. I can only hope Stein can't decipher the writing.

François looked at Mertens with concern.

Should I ask him about it?

No way. When you're done working, you'll have a reason. Now the demand would just draw attention.

François opened the book. What's so important about that?

You will quickly realize who the author of the book is. Then you will understand it. To Stein you claim that the author could not be determined. When you're done with the work, we'll talk everything over. I doubt that his professor is interested in it. If it does happen, there will be no trace of the book. Then Stein has a problem. I'll remove it like the other books from the old shelf.

Mertens looked him firmly in the eye. François only nodded.

* * *

It was strange. The book bore a note stating that it must not be destroyed. Underneath it stuck a paper seal authenticated with an illegible signature. The author had used blank backs of pamphlets to prepare lectures. The ink of the writing was partially faded. However, one could see that it dealt with mathematical, linguistic, and theological topics. In between there were some notes about student behavior.

François compared the data he had found with the list of lectures from the period from about 1501 to 1508. Finally, he was sure that the author was Professor Adriaen Floriszoon Boeiens, called Adrian of Utrecht, who was later elected Pope Adrian VI. In the book 'Bibliotheca alcographica' from 1660 he found an engraving by Johann Theodor de Bry.

Engraving by Johann Theodor de Bry, from 'Bibliotheca Chalco-graphica', Frankfurt, 1650 © Collection W. A. Strauch

François went to Mertens with the result. The author is obviously Adrian of Utrecht, who later became pope. As far as I can tell, there are hardly any documents about him from that time. Wouldn't it be a good idea to go to the rector with the discovery?

Absolutely not. The documents were hidden for a reason. Get to work and you'll be doing humanity a favor.

Why did someone use Scribent to describe the book?

Mertens looked at François. "It may be that it was Adrian himself. It would suit him since he was modest. After all, they are personal notes, not book drafts. The root word of scribent comes from the Latin word for 'to write' and is found modified in many languages. Since Adrian was Dutch, I assume he referred to himself pejoratively as a 'scribbler'. The word still exists in Dutch today. However, it is hardly used in colloquial speech.

Ultimately, though, I think it served the purpose of hiding the books. No one is looking for an author who calls himself a scribbler."

* * *

After two weeks, François had completed a somewhat acceptable thesis. It bore the meaningless title "Lecture Preparations at the Beginning of the 16th Century.

For practical reasons, he had given some other sources so as not to refer to the true author in any case. Mertens had given his blessing and François went on his way to Friedrich Stein.

But he was no longer there. The landlady said that he had quit the apartment a week ago.

François informed Mertens. He acknowledged the news by saying, Then he deciphered the letter.

* * *

A few days later, the First World War began. Many things became meaningless. It was a matter of bare survival. On the afternoon of August 24, 1914, a stranger showed up at the library asking for books by Scribent.

Quentin Mertens pretended to look in the card index. Then he informed the angry visitor that the author was not in the inventory. François was in the reading room and witnessed the incident. Mertens put his index finger to his mouth and pulled him behind a cabinet.

It's an Italian. His pronunciation gave him away. We can't let them get their hands on the material. Can you help me?

In the evening, they took two heavy boxes out of the basement and put them on the janitor's handcart and transported everything across town to an old warehouse.

T. Plummer was written washed out above the courtyard entrance. At the gate, a gray-haired man with a furrowed face welcomed them. In contrast, he had decidedly delicate fingers. Thomas Plummer, he introduced himself. Mertens noticed his uneasiness.

You can trust him, Mertens said.

Plummer opened one wing of the gate. They pushed the car through and hid the boxes of books in a storage room behind a mountain of old cardboard boxes.

But that can't stay here, Plummer said.

I've already called Egon. He'll get back to you.

Plummer nodded. Then he looked at François: You are now part of a secret. Don't ask what it's all about. The less you know, the better it is for you.

Mertens asked François to accompany him home.

The apartment made a tidy impression. They went into his library. The walls were paneled with reddish wood. Heavy furniture dominated the room. A shapeless shelf, which reached to the ceiling, housed tons of old books. The master of the house made himself busy at the desk and suddenly held an inconspicuous metal box in his hand.

Would you please keep them for some time?

What's this? asked François, taking a closer look at the tin can. Snuff?

No. There is a ring in it. If anything happens to me, please put an ad in the weekend edition of 'Le Soir' newspaper. Here's money. I'll write down the text for you.

Mertens wrote on a newspaper margin, The book is open. Reading Circle Leuven.

A week later, there will be an ad in the newspaper offering restoration of old books. Behind it will be a telephone number. When calling, reverse the order of the last three digits. Arrange a meeting and hand over the ring. That's all.

François went home with mixed feelings. There he opened the metal box. Inside lay a dirty ring wrapped in absorbent cotton. It looked as if someone had put it in wax, to which dust had adhered. When he rubbed it a little, he saw that the ring was made of gold and had a dark blue stone on it. Carefully, he put the piece of jewelry back in the box.

* * *

During the night, rifle fire could be heard. Although the city was surrendered without a fight, German soldiers ran through the streets shooting. At half past eleven on August 25, 1914, fire was set in the university library. The flames ate through centuries of books. The fire department had no chance. Citizens gathered at a safe distance and watched the spectacle with sadness and anger. François was informed of this by his landlady. He went on his way. The flames blazed high above the roof. The area was cordoned off by firefighters, police, and German soldiers. He asked a fireman if there were any injured. He referred him to an officer.

It's not impossible. We can hardly get to the fire nests. Also, there has been a shooting. We've given some people medical attention and sent them home.

* * *

The next morning François found the archivist Mertens lifeless in a cross street. Dirty with soot, he was lying next to the handcart. With great difficulty, he pulled him onto the loading area. In the process, he tore open his shirt. His neck had bloodshot marks and on his chest he saw circular wounds, as if cigarettes had been stubbed out on it. He noticed that he was wearing a pin with a compass and a protractor.

German soldiers guarded the smoking rubble. François considered asking for assistance, but quickly dismissed the idea.

Maybe one of them caused the injuries, he thought to himself.

Actually, he wanted to take the body to Merten's apartment. When he turned into the street, he saw that only smoking debris was left of the house. In his distress, he drove the car with the remains two kilometers to the cemetery. He gave a deacon the name and address of the deceased. Pallbearers took over the deceased and placed him in a meadow. For safety's sake, they searched the bags. They were empty.

A line had formed on the main road with people looking for relatives. François wanted answers, so he went to Plummer, who was sitting on a bench in front of his house. Slowly, the raised his head and asked without greeting, Is he dead?

François nodded. They tortured him.

The man looked sadly at his hands.

He didn't say anything. Otherwise they would have been here by now.

They went into the house. François thought that Plummer would now rant about the Germans. Instead, he fetched a bottle of wine from the cellar and put two silver cups on the table. They bore signs of the Freemasons and the inscription Les Disciples de Salomon.

Instead of making a statement about his friend's death, the man said, Barbarians. Silently they drank wine and gave themselves over to their grief.

* * *

Two days later, François went to the cemetery. He wanted to know when the burial would take place. The deacon looked on a list. Indeed, a relative had been found who had arranged a burial service. In the cemetery, one saw countless open graves. The clergy were overloaded. Surviving relatives were waiting to bury their family members. In their robes, the clergy looked like colorful dots among men and women dressed in black. They went from grave to grave to pay their last respects to the deceased.

François had found the grave site after a long search. Mertens' name had been burned on a wooden cross. Women and men stood with thin bouquets of flowers next to the coffin, which had been placed on the excavation. They were waiting for the clergyman. Those present eyed François and nodded at him. A somewhat obese, gray-haired man asked, Did you take him to the cemetery?

François nodded. The man introduced himself as the archivist's brother and thanked him. An old woman sobbed loudly. It was Mertens` mother. François felt uncomfortable because he did not know the people present. He looked for the deacon, who had just finished his prayer at a neighboring grave with a loud Amen and was waiting for the coffin to be lowered into the pit. A little further on, he saw a man who did not fit in. Without being able to pinpoint it, François sensed that he was a foreign body. He had a bowler hat on and looked too often at the mourners. Then François recognized him. It was the stranger who had asked for Scribent's books in the library. Unobtrusively, he nudged Merten's brother.

Do you know the man next to the sculpture?

No. Who is that?

François quickly put his index finger to his lips, Shh!

The deacon came and rattled off his speech, which he had given so many times before. He seemed to have lost his compassion, because he had trouble remembering the name of the deceased. So he paused briefly at the designated places to look at a piece of paper. François looked regularly at the stranger, who moved away after a while.

François was invited by Mertens` brother to the funeral feast. His name was Martin and he owned a pharmacy. The mourners were seated at a long oval table. He officially introduced François to those present. There was a toast to the archivist and episodes from his life were told.

Before dinner, Martin asked who the stranger had been. François described the incident in the library, but did not say that he had helped move the books. Martin turned pale. He wanted to ask something else, but hesitated. Then he said, The scribent writes down the sins so that the Lord will not forget them.

He obviously knew the secret. François whispered to him, But what happens when the writing burns?

Then it was all for nothing. I think I'll show you my apple tree.

Martin pulled him out of the room. In the garden he asked, What happened?

Your brother has forbidden me to talk about it.

I'll take your word for that. I just want to know if everything is burned.

No. The Lord did not want it and sent an angel.

He became impatient, Was the angel's name Thomas Plummer?

Yes.

Martin seemed to despair: Thomas is dead. He was found dead in Brussels. He's been tortured. They burned out his eyes.

François became nauseous, Thomas Plummer?

Yes. I spoke to his mother on the phone earlier. We've suffered a great loss. By that, I don't just mean Thomas.

François said, Maybe there is still hope. I know the hiding place.

Gratefully, Martin looked at him, Then we'll have to hurry.

He informed the family, got his limousine out of the garage and had them show him the way. Arriving at their destination, they parked the car on a side street and went into the warehouse. With some difficulty, they found the two boxes behind the old cardboard boxes. As they were on their way up, a loud noise startled them. Strangers were searching the house. Doors were smashed. Glass was breaking.

Martin and François fled to the basement, slipped through a basement window, and landed in the courtyard of the house. Fortunately, the large entrance gate was only secured by a bolt. On the street, they walked emphatically slowly. They had already reached the side street when a group of German soldiers approached them.

Control! shouted an officer. He had the papers shown to him. Then he pointed to the boxes. Martin opened them willingly.

Just old books, he said in German.

They were let go.

Martin started the car, I almost died of fright. But now gone.

As they drove past Thomas Plummer's house, they saw a man. It was the stranger from the cemetery. They drove to the station and gave up the two boxes as luggage.

Back in the apartment, Martin showed François a Masonic pin hidden under the lapel of his jacket. He pulled it out and gave it to François. We are in your debt.

The asked, Can you tell me what the books are about?

It's better not to know the secret.

The next day François went to the newspaper and placed an ad. As advertised, the following week he found an ad with a phone number, which he called and arranged to meet. At the appointed time, he went to the park. The bench was somewhat secluded, but had the advantage of being visible from only one side, as there were tall shrubs to its right and left. An old man was feeding some sparrows. He occasionally glanced at a gold watch he pulled out of his vest. His eyes checked the few walkers.

When he saw François from a distance, he lit a cigar, sat back contentedly, and tossed the remaining bread crumbs to the sparrows. François sat down with him. Instead of a greeting, the old man asked, Quentin is dead?

François looked at the ground: I found him and took him to the cemetery. He looked terrible. Just a day before, he asked me to contact you in case of his death and to hand over the ring. Otherwise he didn't say anything.

He took the metal box from his pocket and handed it to the man. François sensed his excitement when he took the ring out of the container and looked at it.

Thank you so much. You can't imagine how important this last service was for Quentin.

I would have liked to have done more. But now he's dead. Objects have value only for the living.

The old man nodded. But sometimes you make sure that others survive. In any case, I will not forget what you have done. Please accept this small token of appreciation. It is the least I can do for you.

There were five gold coins of 20 francs each. François was not sure whether it was right to accept the money.

The old man stood up. In times of need, it is good to have gold.

François remained seated for a moment. The coins will be enough to pay the outstanding rent. But he wanted to keep at least one as a souvenir.

* * *

The war left deep wounds in Belgium. In August 1914 alone, 5000 civilians died. Battice, Herve, Visé and Diant were reduced to rubble. In Leuven, 200 people lost their lives. Hunger and hardship reigned. Hundreds of thousands of Belgians fled to the Netherlands. Among them was François Gaspard, who had learned shortly before that his parents had died of typhus.

In Utrecht he kept his head above water with odd jobs until the end of the war. In December 1918 he returned to Leuven. From January 1919 he continued his studies in history, which he completed in 1922. In the same year he married Juliane Broustine, who worked as a secretary at the university. On January 30, 1924, Julien was born.

With the help of the U.S., the Leuven University Library was rebuilt. The shelves filled up. The Treaty of Versailles had obliged Germany to replace the library's destroyed holdings. François now took care of historical books and manuscripts. Memories of the events of 1914 faded. François felt happy. Every day with Juliane and his son Julien was a gift.

Only sometimes, when he was engrossed in an old book, did he look up and search Quentin Mertens with his gaze before remembering that he was no longer alive.

Stone's threat

Early January 1939. Leuven in Belgium.

The doorbell rang. Friedrich Stein grinned: Hello, François. Did you get through the war all right? I hear you are married and have a child.

François looked at him and said, I'm not interested in talking to you.

Well, well. The hungry man has become proud. But you might be interested to know that I am working on a scientific project in which you earn as much in one month as an archivist earns in a whole year. The Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, is interested in you. Germany has generously donated books to the university. You can expect some support there.

Indignant, François replied: You are not in Germany here. I haven't forgotten how you raged in Leuven. I lost two friends.

Stein spoke up. It was Mertens' own fault. He shouldn't have messed with the wrong people.

He let a moment pass.

If you defy him, you and your family could end up like him. It's up to you.

François' blow was precise. He heard the breaking of the nose bone and the dull thud of the body. Without bothering about Stein, he closed the door and turned the key twice.

François was shaking all over. He had never been in a fight before. His wife came out of the kitchen and hugged him. Then Julien came too. What happened?

François stood silently in the hallway. Only after a few minutes did he catch himself.

I'm sorry. But I'm very afraid. Afraid for you.

Juliane took him by the hand. In the living room, he sat down on the sofa they had just bought. She asked if she should call the police.

No. It can't help. It's complicated.

Juliane grabbed his hands. Did you do something forbidden?

No. I just ran into a murderer.

Then he told about Friedrich Stein, Quentin Mertens, Thomas Plummer and the ring he gave to a stranger. You should understand him.

He was not sure if he had done the right thing. But who could he trust, if not his loved ones? They sat down next to him. He was crying. Julien got up and went to the window because he had heard something. The man is driving away in a big Mercedes right now. He is not alone. The two others were talking loudly at him.

Did you understand something? asked François.

No. I think they were speaking German.

The drops hit the windows. A puddle formed on the windowsill. The water threatened to find its way onto the floorboards. He should have replaced the window putty long ago. Again and again he had put it off. François felt guilty. A leaden emptiness spread through him. He sat rigidly, unable to move. As if from a distance, he heard his name.

Juliane shook him. François! François!

He raised his head. I don't know what to do.

Precociously, Julien interjected, Does the Mason still exist?

François slowly raised his head. Maybe. I saw him on the street a few years ago.

Well then. They owe you something. They can't do more than refuse. I'll go with you.

François was glad that his self-confident son came along because he felt weak and threatened to fall over at any moment. The rain had let up. Their hats pushed low on their faces, with their coat collars turned up, they crept through the streets like thieves. The gas lanterns sprang on. Their light was meager and reflected on the pavement. It took them almost an hour to reach the suburbs. Although there was no name on the door, François recognized the house immediately. Sculptures guarded the entrance. Instead of a doorbell, there was a brass knocker on the door. The sound seemed so loud to François that he feared neighbors would open their windows to see who was disturbing the peace.

Martin Mertens opened the door. He had aged noticeably, but he still had alert eyes. He saw that something must have happened.

First of all, come inside. You're all wet. Glad you're here. He eyed Julien. Is this your son?

Martin shook Julien's hand. He looks like you.

Before he could respond, François said, I was afraid to go out on the street alone. Something happened.

Martin called out, Anne, we have a visitor. Make tea, please.

An unseen voice replied, Be right there.

You were lucky. We just got here from Utrecht. You almost missed us.

Embarrassed, François said, Sorry to interrupt.

Why, no. We're always happy to have visitors.

Martin opened the door to the living room. Old paintings hung on the wall. A clock stood in the corner, apparently waiting for its entrance, as a gong announced the next hour. The sideboard was full of family pictures. One showed Quentin as a graduate of the university. François took it in his hand.

When I think of him, I smell the acrid smoke of the burned books and see him lying lifeless and bruised on the wagon.

Thoughtfully, he put the picture back. And now the man who did all this shows up.

Martin looked at him, startled. Who has come?

Frederick Stein was with me earlier and implied that he was involved in Quentin's murder.

When Martin hesitated, looking at Julien, François took his son's hand. I told my family about that time. He looked at Martin.

François said, Stein asked if I would assist him in a research paper for the Nazis. When I declined, he threatened that my family and I might suffer the same fate as your brother and Thomas Plummer.

And how did you respond to that?

Proudly, Julien answered for him, He broke his nose!

A slight smile played around Martin's mouth before he became serious again. First, take a seat and calm down.

François underlined his words: It was not an empty threat. There was such a coldness in his eyes.

He looked at Martin questioningly. I can't explain why he came up with me after so many years.

Stein deliberately chose you. He assumed that you could be blackmailed because you gave him the book back then. After your reaction, he feared that you knew the secret. We have learned through an intermediary that the SS have some Belgians on a wanted list. However, it is unknown how much the Germans know. Stupidly, a letter has fallen into their hands. It is a letter, of all things, that gives clues to the explosive contents of the books. And you have read at least one book.

Astonished, François said, But the book was completely irrelevant. Quentin had confirmed that to me, and Stein didn't get my work.

But Stein doesn't know that. I'm sure he suspects you're in on the secret. I think he was looking for you, but didn't find you because you had absconded to the Netherlands.

You know I was in the Netherlands?

Yes. We wanted to talk to you again at that time because we were concerned about an item Quentin had in his possession. However, he had later recovered it.

Was it about the ring? I followed Quentin's instructions exactly.

Martin hunched his shoulders. We didn't know that at the time. We were afraid it would be lost with the apartment.

François asked, Could it be that Stein is actually about the ring?

I'm not sure what he knows or what it's about. At the moment, I assume that he wanted the papers. However, it is unclear to me who we are dealing with. The Nazis and the Vatican are looking for it. It may be that both sides are cooperating or are competitors. But it's also possible that Stein is working on his own account and wants to sell the results of his work to the highest bidder.

Julien asked angrily, What's this big secret that so much fuss is being made about?

I can't tell you because I don't know it myself. But it must be significant. The Nazis demolished a lodge house stone by stone in Hamburg because they hoped to find the solution there. Fortunately, everything was moved to safety. However, many of our German friends have since been imprisoned. All the assets of the Freemasons were confiscated. I can imagine that the Nazis are now also looking abroad. That would fit in with Stein's statements.

Julien asked, Wouldn't it be easier to give the paper to the Nazis in exchange for freeing the detainees?

No. That would be a disaster for humanity.

The boy was astonished, That bad?

Much worse than we could ever imagine. The Vatican has persecuted us for centuries because of this.

And now our family is caught up in the whole mess. Pleadingly, François looked at him. Can you help us?

Martin took a break. In the meantime, his wife had arrived and brought tea. I guess I'll leave you to bake some more cookies.

Martin pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek. Then he turned to his guests. Thank you. We'll let you know when we're hungry. His wife den left the room.

I am sorry that it has come to this. We avoid involving uninvolved people in our affairs. That's exactly why we have the initiation rituals. Everyone should only know what they are mature enough for. Even after years, people may follow baser instincts. Quentin included you in adversity because he thought you were honest and reliable. That puts us in your debt. I could make it easy for myself and refer to the rules of the Freemasons. But there is more to it than ritual. Most of the information is not secret. But the connections don't open up to everyone. It's like a huge puzzle where you can't find a beginning because the edges don't fit together. Nature is chaotic and yet it has an order, even if we don't always understand it.

François looked at his son, who acted as if he understood everything.

 Before his father could answer, Julien said, I don't know what you're trying to tell us. We don't want to become Freemasons and we don't care about your secrets. We have come so that causes that put us in danger may be eliminated. Nothing more, nothing less.

Martin leaned back and thoughtfully closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again and leaned forward. In a hushed voice he said, "I will help you, but I cannot help but tell you a few things about the Freemasons so that you will understand that we are concerned with greater things than the interests of individuals. Please give me the opportunity to take you a little into the past of the Freemasons. In reference books there is always mentioned June 24, 1717 as the founding date, because on that day the first Grand Lodge of England united. But this is total nonsense because there were similar brotherhoods much earlier. Scholars, engineers and artists met in them. They dissected corpses, conducted chemical and physical experiments, but also questioned statements of the church and crossed borders.

Only through mutual trust and the agreed secrecy could they exchange their thoughts. Rich citizens, but also noblemen, opened their doors, hoping to profit from the results of the research. In Italy, it was the Medici family. Their money gave them power. The church always had a problem when the correctness of its worldview was questioned. Be it the truth of the Bible, the planetary orbits or the ownership of lands and crowns.

People who had a different view and crossed borders always found ways to organize themselves. In 1312, the Order of the Knights Templar was crushed by the French king, Philip IV, with the help of Pope Clement V, and their assets were incorporated. Although many members were captured and killed, they went into hiding in Portugal, Spain, Switzerland and Scotland, taking their secrets with them.

In people's minds, the Freemasons are always associated with stonemasons who wanted to protect their knowledge and prevent disputes through a set of rules. Their form of organization became the pattern of the lodges, but few of us were and are stonemasons. To be in a lodge means to meet the strict requirements of knowledge, skill, and respectability. This basic approach, that it is not about power, led again and again to attempts to instrumentalize the lodges. Emperors, kings and above all the church tried to infiltrate the network in order to use it for their own purposes.

The Enlightenment and the Reformation changed the orientation of the secret societies, which were faced with the problem of whether a Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or Muslim was allowed to debate unreservedly with Masons of other denominations. However, the exchange without respect of the person was precisely their strength.

Thus, it was agreed to discard all religious coercion. Instead, freedom, equality, brotherhood, tolerance and humanity were named as the highest goals. In the Lodge, one should be able to learn from the wisdom of the experienced and to exchange views on all questions and opinions without reservations.

With this orientation, the Freemasons were at odds with the Catholic Church's claim to sole representation, since free spaces opened up in the lodges over which it had no influence. This did not mean criticizing religions or questioning faith. It was simply blanked out. A banal justification, according to which God wants something that way, was not accepted. Any proof had to be verifiable and repeatable. This was heresy and blasphemy for the church.

The Pope banned the Freemasons, which was renewed again and again for centuries until today. In 1917 it was reaffirmed. According to this, a Catholic is automatically excommunicated by joining a Masonic association.

This determination is an expression of the permanent fear of change. At the latest with the political upheavals in France, Russia, Germany and also in Italy, when Rome became the capital and the Vatican lost its territory, a screaming fear of the loss of power, influence and money developed. The claim to eternal truth and infallibility of the popes seemed to waver. In the end, they also attributed the disaster to the Freemasons, who simply could not be bullied. With this attitude, however, the Catholic Church has maneuvered itself into a situation in which it must watch helplessly as independent scientists tear apart its worldview with evidence.

Just to be clear: I have nothing against faith. In our Lodge we have Protestants, Jews, Muslims, atheists, and also Catholics who don't care about the Pope. And we all get along fine because we are people of reason. Surely you have heard horror stories about rituals of the Freemasons. Most of them were invented by the Vatican to harm us. Instead, they have helped us. People are curious and want to know if it is true. The strict admission requirements have to be because there are always attempts at infiltration. And something else has remained over the centuries. We keep secret knowledge that we pass on only to the most reliable brothers."

Julien asked impatiently, What does my father have to do with the disputes between Freemasons and the Vatican? The threat didn't come from Rome, but from a Nazi. I read that Hitler rejected the Church.

Martin scratched his head. "Well. I can't answer the question definitively, but I suspect there are dangers from both sides. There is an alliance of convenience between the Vatican and the Nazis. In 1929, Pope Pius XI concluded the so-called Lateran Treaties with Mussolini. Only through this did the Vatican become a state and at the same time receive large amounts of money and assets from Italy. Hitler concluded the Reich Concordat with the Pope in 1933, which ensured that the state collected church taxes for the church. Regardless of what representatives of either side say, the actions speak for themselves. The Pope said: 'Mussolini was sent to us by Providence.'

In Italy, the Blackshirts and in Germany the SA and SS persecuted all free-thinking forces. From day one, the victims included not only Social Democrats, trade unionists and Communists, but also Freemasons. They were excluded from all state offices and many of them were imprisoned. We do not know at present whether they are still alive.

Unfortunately, there are also collaborators. We try to prevent harm, but you can't see inside people. For us it was surprising that the existence of the Scribent books became known so quickly, since Stein did not publish the work. That's why my brother had to make sure they disappeared from the library's collection.

When the stranger asked about the books, it was clear to us that he was from Rome. We were even able to determine afterwards in which hotel he had stayed. Today we are sure that he was one of the murderers of my brother and perhaps also of Thomas Plummer. His name is Mario Vico. We were able to track him down in Rome and established links with Mussolini's Blackshirts and with an organization that has called itself Opus Dei since 1930 and was founded as early as 1928 by the Spanish priest Jose Maria Escrivá de Balaguer y Albás. What makes it special is that it has direct links to the Pope and is made up almost exclusively of lay people. Much is obscure about the organization. Significantly, however, it is an organization with very close ties to General Franco. There are indications that important decisions involve Escrivá himself or people from his closest circle of associates. Members must take a pledge of allegiance. Daily rituals include saying every morning, like a prayer, 'I will serve!'

They are fanatics who cross borders for their faith. One can wonder if Vico was acting on behalf of the Blackshirts or the Vatican. I tend to think that the Vatican expressed interest in the books and then looked for suitable henchmen. Whether Vico and Stein were working together, I cannot say. But since Stein directed his threat against you, you should take it seriously. The SS is known for its brutality. I will see what we can do for you. You must be vigilant."

Julien was not satisfied with the answers. My father is not a Mason, but got into this situation because of you. Don't you think that the advice 'to be vigilant' is not enough? My mother is afraid that something will happen, and you tell us about the history and honorable intentions of the Masons. We just want our lives back.

At the moment I don't have a solution. But I'm trying to organize something. But that won't happen so quickly, replied Mertens, whose concern was plain to see.

* * *

Unsatisfied and unsure, François and Julien set off for home. On the way, they thought about what to tell. They hoped that Martin Mertens would take care of the problem.

A few days later, he visited François in his apartment and asked him if his wife had informed about the seriousness of the situation.

François said, No. I didn't want to worry you too much.

She must know, because it's much worse than suspected. If you want, I'll talk to her.

François called his wife and Julien.

They sat down at the living room table. Martin Mertens greeted them. Then became very serious.

There will be war between Germany and Poland. We have consistent reports from reliable brothers. Provided England and France fulfill their alliance obligations to Poland, Belgium will be caught between the fronts. I am sure that Hitler will not stop at the Belgian border. Although the army is better equipped this time, it will not be able to do anything against Germany. There are Nazis in Belgium who have drawn up lists of political opponents. Frederick Stein has seen to it that you are on the list as a Freemason. The danger is there. This time it will not be enough to flee to the Netherlands, because the situation there is similar. At the moment we still have quite good connections with representations of foreign consulates. How it will look in a few months, nobody knows.

Juliane began to cry. François had trouble finding words: Do you really think it will be that bad? Do we really have to flee? I don't even have enough money to start over.

Mertens looked at her. We have decided to pay for your passage to Argentina. For the beginning you will receive an allowance until you stand on your own feet. Our contact man will arrange a job and an apartment. But the offer is only for a week, since the ship leaves for Buenos Aires next weekend and papers must be obtained before then. What do you think?

François leaned toward his wife, who was sitting on the armchair, completely distraught. He embraced her.

Julien stood up. Shall we give it all up for your secrets? Juliane pulled him close and hugged him, as if he were still a little boy, he sat down on her lap. Sobbing, he said, I don't know Spanish. Besides, all my friends are here.

Martin smiled conciliatory: I don't know Spanish either. But you will learn. Maybe the spook will be over in a year, too. Then we'll laugh about the misgivings when you're walking with a South American beauty in Leuven.

Juliane wanted to say something. François did not wait for his wife's answer. I don't see any other chance.

* * *

The train left at eight o'clock on February 11, 1939. Martin Mertens had obtained passports and a residence permit for Argentina. To relatives and acquaintances, François sent postcards telling them that he had received a good job offer in Paris. Martin assured them that the furniture would be safely stored or sold until their return.

Now they were standing on the platform waiting for the train. They had packed only the essentials in an overseas suitcase and two large bags. François had dispensed with books and packed photo albums instead. They were to go with them on the trip as a home kit. They had already said goodbye to Martin the night before.

When the train took them away, they felt a deep sadness. Even Julien had tears in his eyes. Perhaps it was because he had met a girl a few days before. Although he had forbidden her, Irene had come to the station. He was grateful to her. So he took a piece of hope with him into the foreign country.

In Antwerp, a service man was waiting. He helped them to maneuver the luggage into an automobile. After a drive across the city and along countless ships, they finally arrived at the berth. The Albatros was small compared to the other freighters. Waiting at the gangway was an older man in a bright suit and a flashy straw hat. His laugh took over his whole face: Welcome to Antwerp. I am Carlos Jeronimos de Silva, antiques and jewelry dealer from Buenos Aires. You are welcome to call me Carlos.

Buenos Dias. I am François Gaspard. This is my wife Juliane and my son Julien.

Oh, you speak Spanish?

Just those two words.

That can be changed. We have almost three weeks.

The escape

Carlos was a good teacher. If in the first days he spoke French and translated the most important words into Spanish, he gradually switched to speaking only Spanish. He had given them a dictionary so they could look up missing words. Since the crew did not speak French, they were forced to express their wishes in the foreign language. In the process, they expanded their vocabulary with the most important swear words that were not listed in the dictionary.

While Juliane and François Gaspard mourned the voyage, for Julien it was an adventure. He was eager to learn from the sailors about their homeland. He saw himself equipped for life in the "New World.

Argentina welcomed them with pleasant temperatures. The sun illuminated the colorful panorama of Buenos Aires. The crew stood at the railing. They looked for familiar faces ashore. A cluster of people had gathered and were shouting unintelligible words. The captain came up and proudly said, These are my friends.

You could see his delight. I still have some work to do.

Uniformed officers came on board and checked the passports. Carlos spoke to them and inconspicuously slipped a bill into the officer's pocket. They were allowed to disembark. The wardrobe trunk was lowered from a crane. The immigrants clustered around it. Carlos supervised the unloading of some large crates. A group of dockworkers made sure everything was loaded onto motor trucks. The luggage found its place. The foreman had a delivery bill signed. He gratefully accepted a dollar bill.

Carlos saw the astonished look on Julien's face. Instead of an answer, he said, Welcome to Buenos Aires. It's good to be back home.

François supported his wife. She had become seasick several times during the crossing and felt tired and weak.

A large limousine was waiting. The chauffeur had opened all the doors. Carlos spoke a few words with him. He sat down in front. The Gaspards took a seat in the back. Briskly they drove through the streets. Many of the houses seemed to have just been built. Palm trees stretched up between them.

The colorful hustle and bustle was unusual and could hardly be registered by the eyes. It smelled of car exhaust fumes and the scent of exotic fruits. Loudly, street vendors offered their wares. People sat in street cafés and watched people strolling by.

It became quieter. Green fences and high walls obscured the view of massive villas. They stopped at a large gate with stylized flowers. The chauffeur opened it and drove along a carefully paved path to a multi-story house. It blended harmoniously into the garden, which was bordered by tall trees. A wide marble staircase led to the entrance. House servants were waiting there. Carlos greeted them and introduced the visitors. They went into a salon whose large windows overlooked the garden.

When I get home, I always sit down in this armchair, smoke a cigar and look out the window. When the sun goes down, it bathes the room in a warm light and I feel like I'm part of Rembrandt's paintings. Everything is then full of harmony and you forget for a moment the ugly sides of the world. My great-great-grandfather chose this place for the house. At that time it was just a bare hill with a single tree. He was one of the Latin American-born officers who had served in the Spanish army and, upon their return, fought for the independence of their homeland. A follower of José de San Martín, he became a member of the Masonic Lodge 'Lautaro'.

François was astonished: I didn't know about the role of the Freemasons in Latin America. Were there no reprisals against members of the lodges here?

There were. In Spain, it meant prison or even death. That's why they met in secret. Although Freemasons were among the founding fathers of Argentina, there is hardly anything about them in the history books. All the more their traces can be found in the Constitution. The abolition of slavery, the introduction of universal, free, secular and qualitative education and many social achievements are results of their work. Most of the Argentine presidents were Freemasons. Unfortunately, there were also black sheep who thought they had to give up their ideals during the dictatorship. We are just not a homogeneous mass, but an association of like-minded people.

The clatter of dishes could be heard from next door. Lunch was brought in and wine poured. Carlos rose.

"We Argentines are open-minded towards emigrants. Our ancestors had also all come to this beautiful country as emigrants. It is the sum of the people that makes it. I wish you