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Authors: Ben Aaronovitch
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that.
‘White Library?’ I asked.
‘Also known as the Bibliotheca Alba and the centre of German magical practice until 1798 when the French, who owned that bit of Germany at the time, shut down the university.’
‘The French didn’t like magic, then?’
‘Hardly,’ said Postmartin. ‘They shut down all the universities. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of the French Revolution.’
Details of what happened to the contents of the library next were sketchy but, according to Postmartin’s records, the entire Weiße Bibliothek had been smuggled out of Cologne to Weimar.
‘Where, buoyed no doubt by the rising tide of German nationalism,’ said Postmartin, ‘it became the Deutsche Akademie der Höheren Einsichten zu Weimar or the Weimarer Akademie der Höheren Einsichten for short.’
‘Because that is much shorter,’ I said.
‘The Weimar Academy of Higher Insights,’ said Postmartin.
‘Higher insights?’ I asked.
‘ Höheren Einsichten can translate as either that or “higher understanding,”’ said Postmartin. ‘As both in fact. German really is a splendid language for discussing the esoteric.’
It wasn’t quite the German version of the Folly. ‘Far more rigorous, much less smug,’ said Postmartin who believed that the Akademie had probably been in advance of the Folly for much of the nineteenth century.
‘Although one likes to think it was neck and neck by the 1920s,’ said Postmartin. In the 1930s it was swallowed up by Himmler’s Ahnenerbe , an organisation dedicated to providing both an intellectual framework for Nazism and Indiana Jones with an endless supply of disposable bad guys.
And round we come to Ettersberg once more, I thought. And whatever it was Nightingale and his doomed chums had been doing there in 1945.
I asked whether the Germans had a modern equivalent of the Folly.
‘There’s a branch of the Bundeskriminalamt – that’s the Federal Police Force – based in Meckenheim called the Abteilung KDA which stands for Komplexe und Diffuse Angelegenheiten which translates as the Department for Complex and Unspecific Matters.’
Leaving aside the wonderful name, the Federal Government maintained a most un-German vagueness about what the department’s responsibilities are. ‘A stance uncannily similar to that taken by their counterparts in Whitehall with regards to the Folly,’ said Postmartin. ‘That in itself is quite distinctive, really.’
‘I supposed it never occurred to you to just phone them up and ask,’ I said.
‘That’s an operational matter, so nothing to do with me I’m afraid,’ said Postmartin. ‘And besides we didn’t think it was necessary.’
It had been an article of faith amongst the post-war survivors of British wizardry that the magic was going out of the world. You don’t need to establish bilateral links with sister organisations if your raison d’être was melting away like the arctic icepack.
‘And besides, Peter,’ said Postmartin, ‘if this book did come from the White Library then there’s a good chance the Germans may want it back and I for one have no intention of letting it out of my grasp.’ He laid his white gloved hand gently on the cover as emphasis. ‘However did Arts and Antiques come by it in the first place?’
‘It was handed in by a reputable bookseller,’ I said.
‘How reputable?’
‘Obviously,’ I said, ‘reputable enough. Colin and Leech in Cecil Court.’
‘The thief must have been blissfully unaware of what he had,’ said Postmartin. ‘That’s like trying to flog ,’ he rolled the word around, obviously enjoying the sound of it, ‘a Picasso down the Portobello. How did they wrest the book from him?’
I told him that I didn’t know the details and that I was following that up as soon we were finished.
‘Why hasn’t that been done already?’ asked Postmartin. ‘Leaving aside its more esoteric qualities, this is still a very valuable item. Surely an investigation has
‘White Library?’ I asked.
‘Also known as the Bibliotheca Alba and the centre of German magical practice until 1798 when the French, who owned that bit of Germany at the time, shut down the university.’
‘The French didn’t like magic, then?’
‘Hardly,’ said Postmartin. ‘They shut down all the universities. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of the French Revolution.’
Details of what happened to the contents of the library next were sketchy but, according to Postmartin’s records, the entire Weiße Bibliothek had been smuggled out of Cologne to Weimar.
‘Where, buoyed no doubt by the rising tide of German nationalism,’ said Postmartin, ‘it became the Deutsche Akademie der Höheren Einsichten zu Weimar or the Weimarer Akademie der Höheren Einsichten for short.’
‘Because that is much shorter,’ I said.
‘The Weimar Academy of Higher Insights,’ said Postmartin.
‘Higher insights?’ I asked.
‘ Höheren Einsichten can translate as either that or “higher understanding,”’ said Postmartin. ‘As both in fact. German really is a splendid language for discussing the esoteric.’
It wasn’t quite the German version of the Folly. ‘Far more rigorous, much less smug,’ said Postmartin who believed that the Akademie had probably been in advance of the Folly for much of the nineteenth century.
‘Although one likes to think it was neck and neck by the 1920s,’ said Postmartin. In the 1930s it was swallowed up by Himmler’s Ahnenerbe , an organisation dedicated to providing both an intellectual framework for Nazism and Indiana Jones with an endless supply of disposable bad guys.
And round we come to Ettersberg once more, I thought. And whatever it was Nightingale and his doomed chums had been doing there in 1945.
I asked whether the Germans had a modern equivalent of the Folly.
‘There’s a branch of the Bundeskriminalamt – that’s the Federal Police Force – based in Meckenheim called the Abteilung KDA which stands for Komplexe und Diffuse Angelegenheiten which translates as the Department for Complex and Unspecific Matters.’
Leaving aside the wonderful name, the Federal Government maintained a most un-German vagueness about what the department’s responsibilities are. ‘A stance uncannily similar to that taken by their counterparts in Whitehall with regards to the Folly,’ said Postmartin. ‘That in itself is quite distinctive, really.’
‘I supposed it never occurred to you to just phone them up and ask,’ I said.
‘That’s an operational matter, so nothing to do with me I’m afraid,’ said Postmartin. ‘And besides we didn’t think it was necessary.’
It had been an article of faith amongst the post-war survivors of British wizardry that the magic was going out of the world. You don’t need to establish bilateral links with sister organisations if your raison d’être was melting away like the arctic icepack.
‘And besides, Peter,’ said Postmartin, ‘if this book did come from the White Library then there’s a good chance the Germans may want it back and I for one have no intention of letting it out of my grasp.’ He laid his white gloved hand gently on the cover as emphasis. ‘However did Arts and Antiques come by it in the first place?’
‘It was handed in by a reputable bookseller,’ I said.
‘How reputable?’
‘Obviously,’ I said, ‘reputable enough. Colin and Leech in Cecil Court.’
‘The thief must have been blissfully unaware of what he had,’ said Postmartin. ‘That’s like trying to flog ,’ he rolled the word around, obviously enjoying the sound of it, ‘a Picasso down the Portobello. How did they wrest the book from him?’
I told him that I didn’t know the details and that I was following that up as soon we were finished.
‘Why hasn’t that been done already?’ asked Postmartin. ‘Leaving aside its more esoteric qualities, this is still a very valuable item. Surely an investigation has
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