riffled through a few, then gave them back. “German,” he said. “Maggie tried, but I can’t read it.” He picked up one of the sandwiches, made a face but started eating.
“I can’t read it either.” Annie flipped a few of the sheets and offered the documents a second time. “Everything’s been translated.” Geoff ignored the papers and kept looking at her. She put them on the table and reached for the soda. Then, after a long swallow: “The papers are a collection of letters—answers to a questionnaire—from synagogues in cities that are in France or Germany today but in 1535 were part of the old Rhenish Palatinate.”
Geoff took another sandwich. “These are terrible.”
“I thought they must be. Why are you eating them?”
“I’m ravenous. It’s too miserable out there to leave and look for something better. About that translation.” He indicated her papers. “Who did you get to do it?”
“No one. Shalom arranged—” She saw his expression and broke off. “They sent me the digital copy first. The German wasn’t translated then. And I know what you think, but—”
“I don’t think anything yet. Go on.”
“As you probably know, the Shalom Foundation was set up to study Northern European Jewry from the Middle Ages to the Second World War.”
“I know that’s Weinraub’s story,” he said.
“It’s true,” Annie insisted, tapping the sheaf of papers to make her point. “This is documentation of a study conducted over the last couple of years. They went looking for Jewish memorabilia that might still be in the hands of congregations that survived the Nazis.”
There was half a sandwich left. “Last chance,” he said. Annie shook her head. He picked it up. “I take it some things were found.”
“Yes, some remarkable Judaica. Often old and rare, because that’s what people took the greatest care to hide.”
“That part makes sense.”
“It all does,” she insisted. “When the questionnaires they sent out came back, there were five stories with a remarkable commonality. In each case, the item was identified as a gift from a man living in London in 1535.”
“Your Jew of Holborn,” Geoff said.
“Exactly. Two of the synagogues have contemporary proof of provenance, sixteenth-century inventories. The other items show up in later documentation but still pretty early. And in every case the attribution is the same. A gift received in 1535 from the Jew of Holborn. The same wording passed down through each congregation’s history.”
“In German.”
“Of course. Old German, obviously, given the dates.”
“Which you can’t read, but not to worry, your Shalom Foundation took care of that and had a translation done for you.”
“Yes.”
He took a few seconds, then nodded toward her papers. “Seems odd Weinraub would give someone without German a research assignment based on the information in those documents.”
Annie put everything back into her bag. “I read Latin,” she said. “And I’m fluent in Italian.”
“Fair enough. It just seems—” He broke off.
“Go on. Say it.”
“Okay, it seems Weinraub is taking advantage of the fact that you’re a lovely and highly intelligent female who happens to be particularly . . . fragile.”
“ Fragile being code for a drunk.”
“That’s not what I meant.” And when she didn’t respond: “Look, connecting the dots is part of my job. I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions, but sometimes the obvious answer is the right one. If Philip Jeremiah Weinraub picked an architectural historian who for ten years has done nothing in her field, and who doesn’t speak the language of his source documents, he has a reason. He’s a nutter, but he can afford to hire anyone he wants for this task.”
“So why choose the deeply flawed Annie Kendall?”
This time he didn’t contradict her. “I take it you replied to an advert he ran somewhere. What do you know about the other applicants?”
“Nothing,”
“I can’t read it either.” Annie flipped a few of the sheets and offered the documents a second time. “Everything’s been translated.” Geoff ignored the papers and kept looking at her. She put them on the table and reached for the soda. Then, after a long swallow: “The papers are a collection of letters—answers to a questionnaire—from synagogues in cities that are in France or Germany today but in 1535 were part of the old Rhenish Palatinate.”
Geoff took another sandwich. “These are terrible.”
“I thought they must be. Why are you eating them?”
“I’m ravenous. It’s too miserable out there to leave and look for something better. About that translation.” He indicated her papers. “Who did you get to do it?”
“No one. Shalom arranged—” She saw his expression and broke off. “They sent me the digital copy first. The German wasn’t translated then. And I know what you think, but—”
“I don’t think anything yet. Go on.”
“As you probably know, the Shalom Foundation was set up to study Northern European Jewry from the Middle Ages to the Second World War.”
“I know that’s Weinraub’s story,” he said.
“It’s true,” Annie insisted, tapping the sheaf of papers to make her point. “This is documentation of a study conducted over the last couple of years. They went looking for Jewish memorabilia that might still be in the hands of congregations that survived the Nazis.”
There was half a sandwich left. “Last chance,” he said. Annie shook her head. He picked it up. “I take it some things were found.”
“Yes, some remarkable Judaica. Often old and rare, because that’s what people took the greatest care to hide.”
“That part makes sense.”
“It all does,” she insisted. “When the questionnaires they sent out came back, there were five stories with a remarkable commonality. In each case, the item was identified as a gift from a man living in London in 1535.”
“Your Jew of Holborn,” Geoff said.
“Exactly. Two of the synagogues have contemporary proof of provenance, sixteenth-century inventories. The other items show up in later documentation but still pretty early. And in every case the attribution is the same. A gift received in 1535 from the Jew of Holborn. The same wording passed down through each congregation’s history.”
“In German.”
“Of course. Old German, obviously, given the dates.”
“Which you can’t read, but not to worry, your Shalom Foundation took care of that and had a translation done for you.”
“Yes.”
He took a few seconds, then nodded toward her papers. “Seems odd Weinraub would give someone without German a research assignment based on the information in those documents.”
Annie put everything back into her bag. “I read Latin,” she said. “And I’m fluent in Italian.”
“Fair enough. It just seems—” He broke off.
“Go on. Say it.”
“Okay, it seems Weinraub is taking advantage of the fact that you’re a lovely and highly intelligent female who happens to be particularly . . . fragile.”
“ Fragile being code for a drunk.”
“That’s not what I meant.” And when she didn’t respond: “Look, connecting the dots is part of my job. I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions, but sometimes the obvious answer is the right one. If Philip Jeremiah Weinraub picked an architectural historian who for ten years has done nothing in her field, and who doesn’t speak the language of his source documents, he has a reason. He’s a nutter, but he can afford to hire anyone he wants for this task.”
“So why choose the deeply flawed Annie Kendall?”
This time he didn’t contradict her. “I take it you replied to an advert he ran somewhere. What do you know about the other applicants?”
“Nothing,”
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