In September 1992 a small publishing house in Vancouver released The Song of Henry: A Modern English Translation of the Heinrichlied, Germany's Forgotten National Epic. The book jacket described the The Song of Henry as "a vigorous, vibrant and bawdy account of the reign of the Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV, who beat back the pernicious influence of the Catholic Church and forged the kingdom that became modern Germany."

Without question, it was Roger McAllister's tireless publicity that sold The Song of Henry. In the months of October and November, 1992, he made at least 10 public appearances each week—early morning chats on small TV stations, late night interviews on the radio, readings in coffee shops, and book signings at struggling independent bookstores. Roger McAllister would always begin by telling the reporter, the anchorpersons, or the assembled book buyers the same story—the story of how he had discovered a manuscript in the attic of a modest little house—a house like hundreds of others in British Columbia.

In 1988, McAllister found his way to an unassuming address in the Fairfield neighborhood of Victoria, where, he had been told, there was a large collection of 19th century European books in the attic. Three middle-aged sisters met him on the porch. The sisters explained that this was their father's house, now vacant. The father had died a month before, after many years as a widower. His name was Jakob Josephson. One of the sisters produced a formidable set of keys, and opened the front door. McAllister followed the first sister into the living room, and the other two followed him. Looking around, McAllister assumed that the old man had been a professor, or maybe a rabbi. The room seemed to have recently been cleaned—every book removed from its shelf and dusted. It felt like a museum exhibition. No one sat down.

The house was so modest, McAllister would always be sure to tell his interlocutor, that he was shocked, later that week, when he realized his clients were the same Josephsons who had been so much in the news three years before, when they sold their family business, JKJ Graphics, to a Swedish conglomerate for $980 million (USD).

"There is something in the attic we want you to appraise," said the first sister.

"Well, not appraise exactly," said the second sister.

"Review... inventory... maybe catalog..." said the third sister.

"And then destroy," said the first sister.

At this point, McAllister would pause, and look at his interviewer, or his audience.

"Now I had never in my professional career been asked to destroy anything—I'd often recommended destruction, in the case of certain collections—snow globes, for instance, but people rarely took my advice. Needless to say, I was intrigued."

Jakob Josephson, the deceased occupant of the modest Fairfield house, had been born in 1896, in Munich, Bavaria, the youngest child—and only son—of Joseph Konrad Josephson, an atheist, anarchist, and fervent German nationalist, who, for most of his life, dismissed the anti-Semitism of his neighbors and comrades with a shrug. In the Munich book business Joseph Konrad Josephson called himself Konrad Joseph, which he thought sounded more German, and kept the Judaica in a back room, hidden away, as if it were pornography.

"Superstition!" he told his son. "I keep only it for your mother's sake."

In the attic of the Fairfield house, the three sisters showed Roger McAllister several chests and boxes, apparently the remnants of Joseph Konrad Josephson's Munich bookstore. The youngest sister explained that these boxes—and one chest in particular—had developed a whispered reputation, among the younger generations of the Josephson family, as "Grandpa Joseph's Nazi papers."

Roger McAllister didn't actually own the warehouse, but he was quite confident in its security. After all, he had the only set of working keys, and the only codes for the alarm system. He had been trading property management duties for discreet access for a dozen years, and if the owner ever wanted her own keys and codes, well, all she had to do was ask. McAllister had promised the daughters of Jakob Josephson that he would review the books and papers of their grandfather, Joseph Konrad Josephson, the under conditions of utmost privacy, and "my warehouse on Russell Street" was just the place.

The friendship between Adalbert Kehr and Joseph Konrad Josephson was easy for Roger McAllister to understand, at least the beginning of that friendship: they were both young men full of fiery dreams, but equally in love with dusty books. Josephson, who was already beginning to introduce himself as Konrad Joseph, had just taken over his father's used book stall in Munich (he quickly moved the Judaica to a back room), and dreamed of making his shop the center of Munich's revolutionary community; Kehr had just finished his studies in philology at the University of Marburg, and had won a post in the Prussian civil service. His first assignment was to Silesia, a lonely clerkship in a converted abbey which offered a single consolation: access to an ancient library.

The correspondence between Adalbert Kehr and Konrad Joseph quickly revealed Kehr to be the lonelier of the pair. More than a hundred years later, when Roger McAllister read their letters, he could feel the emptiness of Grüssau Abbey in every page, every long dense page that Kehr wrote.

In 1878, adopting an aphoristic style that simultaneously reflected the declining state of his own health and his recent break with Wagnerian Romanticism, Friedrich Nietzsche published Human, All Too Human, A Book for Free Spirits. Only 1,000 copies were printed, and of these, only 120 were sold. Eleven of the sales apparently took place at the Konrad Joseph book store in Munich, to the members of Joseph Konrad Josephson's socialist reading circle.

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
October 1879

Old friend,

You may find it hard to believe, so inextricable a part of my very being this place must have seemed to you over the duration of our correspondence, but I will soon be departing from Grüssau Abbey. The townspeople may be ignorant and suspicious; the pastor may be cruel and dogmatic; but I will always think fondly of Grüssau, remembering neither the town nor the parish (still less my trivial and stultifying duties!) but dwelling only in my mind upon the Abbey itself--this wondrous cavern of time.

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
May 1880

My old friend,

My apologies for not sending you my address earlier. Looking back now, I see this winter as one long bout of melancholia (who would have thought that life in a city like Leipzig could be lonelier than my existence in the Abbey!)--but all that is over now--and I am filled with energy. The breezes and birds of Spring may have something to do with it, but I trace the current elevation of my spirits to a more prosaic source--at last I have an interesting project at work--I have been assigned to the laboratory of Johann Karl Friedrich Zöllner!

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
January 1881

Old Konrad,

Last night I thought of you (I was in a beer hall at the time--does that surprise you?) and I thought how long it's been since I've written!

First of all I must report, with optimism tempered by caution, that Herr Dr. Zöllner has taken ill, and all work on the dimensionomanomenter has, for the moment, been suspended. What a tragedy for Mankind it would be if this project (which still requires daily infusions of Herr Professor's genius) never arrives at its destined completion--and so, we are all quite hopeful that this setback is only temporary, and that our leader will return to us soon, with full potency of mind.

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
June 1882

Konrad,

I do not know if you have attempted to write me--whether or not you have, please accept my apologies. Once again my life is full of darkness, but in the shadows I see rays of hope. But the most important message I wish to convey is this: do not send any letters to me in care of of Leipzig Patent Office on Augustusplatz. I am not sure if you are one who used that address, I don't even know whether you know which address I mean, but if you do know, please forget it.

Do I sound disjointed? My life is disjointed. The dislocations, the tremors, the lurching of history--it began two months ago, with the death of Herr Professor Zöllner.

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
August 1884

Dear Friend,

It's been months, I know, since I've written to you--how long has it been? For all I know the gap in our correspondence should now be measured in years, not months!--but something has happened, or rather, is about to happen, and I must share my exhilaration with someone who knows of what I speak--and that could only be you, dear Konrad! Old friend, I hope that you will understand why I write to you at this time, to you--my sternest critic, my most honest correspondent, my only friend, really, during those lonely years at Grüssau. For I have just learned some great news: my translation of The Heinrichlied may finally see the light of day!

Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Joseph
September 1884

My old (and only) friend,

What a fool I have been! Only 24 hours ago I felt excitement for my literary future--but now, as this hired carriage (which I cannot afford) takes me from Naumburg back to Leipzig, I see with clarity that my work as a translator, as the discoverer and protector of an ancient manuscript, will bring me no opportunities, but rather will always mark me, in the eyes of the cunning, as earnest, gullible, and full of self-pride--as a grinning, gap-mouthed fool!

In other words, my dear Konrad, today I had my meeting with Elisabeth Nietzsche.