The Holocaust, when she first encountered its history in middle school, revolted her, made her sick to her stomach. Yet those crimes against humanity had not, Patton thought, been crimes against her. She was, after all, as lily white as they came. Not until later did she discover the extent to which Nazis had murdered homosexuals. But the book burnings she took personally. And now she stood on the site of one such burning and could not clear her mind of those images in the newsreel of German students delighting in the destruction not just of books but of ideas. She was sure that, if it had been written before 1933, her beloved childhood favorite would have been tossed into those flames. After all the author, E. L. Konigsburg, was Jewish.

Patton turned on her heels and walked out of the plaza as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Twenty minutes later, back in the van, despite the growing darkness and the confined space, she actually felt safe. She did not say anything to Ruthie or Nemo about where she had gone, but she leaned against Ruthie and held her hand and cried for a few minutes. Then she drew a deep breath, sat up, and said, “Let’s go get the motherfuckers.”

“We do make every effort to ensure that we have properly traced the provenance of the books we return,” said Ingrid. “I’m very sorry if we made a mistake in your case. As you can imagine, it can be very difficult to prove ownership of a book after eighty years.”

“Yes, but it’s not only my book that was returned incorrectly. I spoke with several other people who received books from Columbia House with the same inconsistencies, the same forged inscriptions, even the same handwriting in those inscriptions.”

“That certainly is a mystery,” said Ingrid.

Jean found this conversation frustrating. Whatever she said Ingrid simply nodded sympathetically and responded in meaningless platitudes. It was like trying to pin down an American politician in the midst of a scandal. But she wasn’t about to give up this quickly after having come so far.

“I don’t believe it is a mystery,” she said. “I believe that you forged those inscriptions knowing full well those books did not belong to the people you sent them to.”

“That’s a bold accusation to make to a philanthropic woman in her own kitchen,” said Ingrid. “Do you have any proof?”

“I have images of four different books,” said Jean, “all stolen from libraries, all with forged inscriptions, and all given away by you. I wonder how many of these books are stolen.” She pointed to the bookcase that covered one wall of the sitting room.

“You think I would steal books?”