I am a historian. That means I belong to a group of secret super-heroes responsible for upturning the soil on past misdeeds and brushing the dirt from forgotten pioneers. Historians aren’t flashy. We don’t James-Bond around in Aston Martins (not on our salaries). We’re the agents you’ve never heard of, the ones you didn’t know were there. But we’re also the ones who get things done, often with a single-minded devotion that borders on obsessive behavior — and truckloads of patience.

This story starts over a year ago. I had stumbled upon a bit of forgotten history, and wrote an article about it for Scientific American. An institute for supporting transgender patients had been founded by a Jewish gay man…in Berlin, Germany… in 1918. This was news to me. It was news to most people. And yet, if you have seen the black and white footage of Nazi book burnings, you’ve witnessed the destruction of the institute and its library. Sometimes history hides in plain sight; like many tales about marginalized groups, these pioneers had been passed over and forgotten. I wanted to recover them.

The trouble, of course, has to do with the Nazi book burning itself. So much had been destroyed; how was I to recover anything at all? (Queue the scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). I found the key in a footnote to an obscure PhD thesis — which made reference to a doctor’s unpublished dissertation. Only one copy existed, in faded carbon print, at a library in Berlin.

In our modern age, you might think obtaining it would be as simple as requesting a digital file. Not so. Due to complicated copyright law, I could not ask the librarians to copy the document. I could not even pay to have it digitized to the library collection. As the principle researcher involved, I must go myself to make a scan in person.

It would be a pricey flight, and Russia had just invaded the Ukraine (Berlin is about 400 miles from the Ukrainian border). Yet I must fly to Berlin or risk losing access to this crucial document. And I — well. I am a historian. I inquired after what I might need, which included a pre-registration at the library, my own flash drive, and a Covid test, taken less that 24 hours before I entered the archive. Credit card, activate! I boarded a flight.

I arrived at the library by 11 am, having secured a morning rapid test. My German is not particularly good, but I entered and asked brightly where I might find the rare books. I was told to get a locker for my purse and jacket, which I was fully prepared to do… then the security guard added “You will need your own lock.” This detail had been overlooked in my lengthy instruction email. No, they didn’t know where I could purchase one. So I left the library and went hunting.

Having secured the lock, I found the basement lockers and did as I was bid. The rare book room would be found on the top floor — up six flights of stairs. I arrived, still fresh in my black suit, and presented my credentials.

“Ah yes. We have been expecting you.” She lay one hand on a manila folder behind her. “Please give me your library card.”

Except I do not have a library card. I have a registration number, as instructed. But that is not good enough. I must trade the number for a card — back on the first floor. I retrace my steps and arrive at a kiosk.

“Hello; I am an international researcher. This is my registration number; may I have a card.”

“Certainly,” she tells me. “What is your permanent address in Germany?”

She was speaking English to me, but I thought perhaps I’d heard that wrong. Permanent address. As in my home in Germany. I explained that I did not have one. No address, she explained, no card. And no card, no document that I had just traveled 4000 miles to collect.

“Is it hot in here?” I asked, because I am now perspiring in minor panic, worried I’ll have to go full National Treasure to achieve my ends. “Could you perhaps call upstairs? They knew I was coming from the U.S.; I feel there must be some way around this.” (Because surely I cannot be the only non-German person to research in a famous Berlin library, I think privately). She returns apologetically — she hadn’t understood that I only wanted a temporary card, she says. She also pointed a finger-gun to her head and said “black hole, here.” The card came into my hands. I returned up six flights of stairs to present my prize.

“Thank you. To use the scanner, please give me your university card.”

My email instructions, while lengthy, were apparently far too brief. I did not know about the university card. But luckily I could get one on site. On the first floor. After I retrieved my wallet from the locker in the basement.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say to the security guard. “Um. Is there — an elevator anywhere?” He doesn’t seem to understand me. I try the registration desk and am pointed in a vague direction. I do not find the elevator. I do find the prepaid card machine. And I return to the task at hand.

This time, she hands me the folder. I hold it tenderly. This is the key to much of my research — this one life story, in 27 pages of a hospital intake interview. I place it gently, lovingly, on the scanner deck with my pay card and insert the USB stick.

“Error. We see no USB stick.”

“It’s here,” I say, plugging it in again for good measure.

“Nope. No USB anywhere. Error. Good bye.” And the machine turns itself off. Frankly, it IS hot in here. I dab at my forehead and explain the problem to the archivist. I should mention I am not the only person in here. Researchers in the rare books sit at distant desks, wondering why the English speaking idiot at the front won’t be quiet.

“Ah. There must be something wrong with your drive.”

“Can I test it in your computer?”

“This is against the rules.”

Of course it would be. What should I do? She informed me that the machine takes USB and SD cards. No she doesn’t know where to buy those. No, the library doesn’t have extra. No, there isn’t another scanner anywhere else in the building, or perhaps on the planet. And I am running out of open hours.

Imagine a ruffled and jet-lagged traveler in a too-warm suit coat trying to find a pharmacy or convenience store in Berlin, on the hoof. Because I’d been previously hunting for locks, I knew of a Rossman’s within a mile. When I got there, however, I realized I had left my wallet in the locker at the library. There were twelve euro in my pocket, left over from the copy card purchase — and I found an SD card and another USB for exactly that amount. And back I went.

This time, I really [redacted expletive] wanted that elevator. I didn’t ask. I followed dubious signs around a maze and found what I assume is a freight elevator behind a set of double steel doors. Zero ADA compliance. Up to the sixth floor I went — and discovered that no, this USB stick doesn’t exist either in the eyes of the scanner. BUT I brought the SD card. I’m sweaty, however, and heaving trouble opening the plastic package. The librarian offers help. She rips the plastic in two, and the SD card goes sailing through the air… and utterly vanishes.

It is my belief that any SD card carelessly dropped goes immediately to the 14th dimension. Regardless, this episode ends with me on my hands and knees under the scanner machine with a flashlight and ruler. I find old paper clips and dead bugs. I am besmirched with dirt. I have long since taken off my suit jacket. Ultimately, I slide into a seated position with my legs spread out in the dust.

“Ok. Now what?” I asked. I am out of money and nearly out of time. She taps her chin.

“Well. I suppose I could just make a digital copy for you and email it.” …The thing they told me was impossible under threat of law, the reason I flew to Berlin, the reason I am presently sitting on the archive floor.

“WHAT.”

“Or,” she adds, reaching over and unplugging the scanner. “I’ll just reboot it. Whenever it has stopped recognizing USB in the past, this usually fixes it.”

Whenever it happens. This fixes it. I have been here for hours, and all over Berlin buying replacements. I do not say this, however, because just then the machine whirs to life and tells me YES I SEE THE USB PLEASE PROCEED. Then the librarian says something I will never forget — the key, the last sacrifice, the needful thing:

“Sometimes, you just need enough despair in the air.”

I get up. I have so far managed not to cry at any point. I scan the document.

“Can I put this USB in your computer to make sure the material is really there?” I asked.

“I am not permitted to do that,” she says. But I am sweaty and dirty and not bothering to be quiet anymore.

“I’m thinking you could, though,” I say. Maybe it’s inflection. Maybe it’s despair. Maybe it’s the bloody-minded historian who just won’t leave her alone. She agrees and yes, the document saved properly.

I leave. I drink. I send the file to my translator. I fly home.

And that is largely how research gets done when you’re a historian (secret agent super hero). You get dirty. You overcome obstacles. You just don’t bloody leave off trying to do the thing. And in return, you get to reveal those forgotten treasures — the beautiful stories and the ugly ones — to the world. Because we cannot learn from history unless we recover our history.