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."

"Nazi...." McAllister would repeat the word in a solemn stage whisper, shaking his head. "Certainly, Konrad Joseph had friends... he had correspondents, colleagues, comrades who later did in fact become... "

Here McAllister would trail off in sadness and dismay. After a moment he would recover, and with new energy proclaim to all listeners that Joseph Konrad Josephson himself had never and could never have been a Nazi—and not simply because he was a Jew, McAllister would say, his voice rising, but because "he was an idealist, like Wagner, and idealism, however deluded, should never be a source of shame."

Often at this point his interviewer would lean back thoughtfully, allowing the moment of passion to dissipate.

McAllister would then relate how he had found the old books in that attic fascinating, absolutely fascinating, but unfortunately, in his professional opinion, they possessed more historical interest than market value. So he had arranged a donation to the German Studies Department of a Lutheran college in Nebraska, which proved to be a wise tax strategy for those members of Jakob's family who had settled in the United States—here McAllister would offer his apologies for "mentioning the U.S. Tax Code in polite company." As the laughter subsided, McAllister would reveal that it was these same cousins, the "American Josephsons," who had later brought a lawsuit against him (a matter he could not discuss, on the advice of his attorney) and quickly resume his story:

There in the attic, before McAllister could touch a thing, the three daughters had insisted on two conditions: first, that he destroy the contents of the chest, and second—

McAllister had stopped the daughters right there:

"You do not hire an appraiser to be a garbageman," he told them. "You know that I will read and study everything in that chest. I will take detailed notes."

The eldest daughter thought for a long moment and eventually said "Yes. We know." Her sisters nodded in agreement. "You may keep your notes," the second sister said. "But eventually," the third sister insisted, "you must destroy everything you find in this attic."

McAllister reluctantly agreed, and asked about the other condition.

The sisters looked at each other. Finally the youngest spoke up.

"If you discover anything that shows our grandfather to be a Nazi collaborator, not only will you destroy it, but you will never mention it to a living soul,"she said.

"Not even us," said the middle sister.

"Especially not us," said the eldest sister.

Then McAllister would proudly announce that he had kept both promises. On the night when the first review copies of The Song of Henry were traveling, by overnight courier, to the critics, he had shredded every piece of paper that he had found in the attic. Then he had chopped the chest itself into kindling and burned it all in an industrial furnace.

And as for the second condition, that was easy: there were no secrets to keep, nothing to hide. The papers had showed that Joseph Konrad Josephson had hated the Nazis as much as he loved Germany.

At this point an astute reporter, or a dyspeptic member of the audience, might challenge McAllister: how could anyone believe that a man like him would destroy anything of value? And wasn't it possible that he was keeping his second promise right now: by lying to protect the name of a very rich family?

McAllister would respond with broad smile: "Well it seems then that I am either keeping a promise or telling the truth! One way or another, I must be honest man!"