Free The Last Days by Laurent Seksik

table, dressed in white, with a Super Fino Montecristi on his head. Koogan got up and greeted them effusively. They embraced warmly.
    Koogan expressed his joy at seeing them again. A whole year had gone by, yes, it was in fact a full year since they’d last met, in September 1940. He recalled episodes from Zweig’s South American lecture tour—he called it a triumph, how else could one describe those crowds who had come to listen to the author whose books had then sold by the thousands? Koogan listed the countries they’d visited. No one else could achieve that kind of success. No other author in the world. Not even Thomas Mann. Koogan stressed how proud he was to be Zweig’s editor, the editor of the greatest living writer of their time.
    “Would you like some champagne to celebrate our reunion?”
    Stefan declined Koogan’s offer. “The greatest living writer of their time,” Koogan repeated. Stefan was very fond of Abrahão Koogan and therefore forgave him his excessive excitability. Koogan spoke of a time that no longer existed. His books had been banned all over Europe. He no longer had a homeland, or even a house.
    “Is it true that you’re learning Portuguese?” Koogan enquired.
    Stefan replied in the affirmative. He was fluent in French and English. During his South American tour, he had given his lectures in Spanish. He entertained the slightly foolish notion that he would one day have learnt so many languages that his German vocabulary would simply dissolve into the melting pot of foreign words. The German language would be nothing but a dead tongue in his mouth. He would expel it with a cough. Then and only then would he be able to get on with his life. Nevertheless, German was a stubborn tongue. Even though it had poisoned the universe, its honeyed words still flowed effortlessly from his mouth.
    “Reveal all,” Koogan said, “I’m eager to hear what’s in that manuscript you’ve brought along with you.”
    Zweig held out the package, asking him to take care of it. He only had two copies, and the second copy had left Rio the previous night and was headed for Sweden, being intended for that dear Gottfried Bermann-Fischer, who was currently living in exile in Stockholm and who had set up a small German-language imprint there. When he’d dropped the package off at the post office, he’d felt as though he were throwing a message in a bottle out to sea. By the time the ship reached its destination, the Germans would undoubtedly have conquered Sweden.
    “I’m extremely proud to be the first to hold one of your books,” Koogan said excitedly, “and it doesn’t matter which book it is. Your autobiography!” He lifted his eyes to the heavens. “I’m holding
The World of Yesterday
in my hands!”
    Who could still be interested in the story of his life? What had been the point of all those months he’d spent in America, sequestered in the prison of his past? He reproached himself for being so proud. For wanting to write a memoir while the fates ofhis nearest and dearest hung in the balance! Half of his friends were in cemeteries, while the other half were pacing around a German dungeon. He’d often felt ashamed of this project. In an attempt to exculpate himself, he’d tried to explain his motives for doing so. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t really an autobiography. He hadn’t wanted to tell the story of his life. It wasn’t about him. His life wouldn’t interest anyone. He could sum it up in a few words. He was born. He had written, he had never stopped writing. He had fled, he would never stop fleeing. He hadn’t wanted to pour his heart out. The book’s aim had been to describe the exceptional people he’d rubbed shoulders with. To paint a picture of an era that was on its way out, a world that the Nazis were desperately trying to obliterate. Writing that book had been like forging a funerary urn to accommodate all of those friends who hadn’t received a proper burial. He had wanted to