Authors: Ranjini Iyer
The Colossus (8 page)
From Samuel Rosen’s diary
Krippenwald special labor camp
About 90 kilometers west of Berlin
January 6, 1942
This is my fourth week at Krippenwald. I haven’t felt like writing so far but I must. It’s a miracle I still have this diary. That must be considered a gift. I have found a cleaning job in the kitchen and am staying focused on getting through one day at a time.
After the successful human trials of the Indus pills, the Nazis asked me to work on chemical warfare. Invisible gases that are undetectable, but lethal—not just to those directly under its onslaught, but for miles around. I finally took a stand. Schultz pleaded with me not to. But I had had enough. The Nazis have raped my country and my people. I had been a coward so far. But I decided not to be anymore. Once I refused to do as I was told, I was sent away.
Here at Krippenwald, the inmates—semi-skilled jewelers, shoe makers, tailors, and cooks—are kept barely alive and working, sometimes on projects that utilize their skills,
sometimes in the nearby stone quarry. But people keep continually disappearing.
Krippenwald has gas chambers, too.
A few days ago, Lars managed to smuggle a note into the camp.
Herr Dr. Rosen,
I trust you are keeping fair health.
I was banned from entering our lab the minute you left. But I have found out that the scientists have succeeded in completing the composition profile that you started, with the bacteria included.
The pill will be mass-produced. The initial plan is to dispense to minor soldiers on the front. After, it might be marketed as a wonder drug. All I know is based on rumor. I’m not even allowed in the building anymore.
I’m leaving for London next month. I’m sick of this place.
I promise to get in touch with Frau Rosen. We will pray for your release and the end of this horrific war.
Yours sincerely and gratefully,
Lars Lindstrom.
I may not see Lars again. It’s hard not to grieve.
I wonder if my team at Berliner have found the answers Lars and I didn’t. Have they figured out why the animals developed all the unexplained conditions? And why is the contagious nature of the bacteria being ignored?
Forget it, I tell myself. The past is gone.
February 10, 1942,
Today as usual, the shrill whistle woke me at 6:00 a.m. I reached for the aluminum bowl by my sliver of a pillow. Clutching the bowl to my chest, I stepped out for roll call into the bitter morning. We lined up for breakfast. I got my morning ration—watery turnip soup and a two-inch long piece of hard, yellowing bread.
Lowered nutrition is key to the Indus pill experiment.
I walked to my usual spot, from where I have a clear view of the SS clubhouse.
“You’re not on the membership list this month, either,” a boyish voice said.
Ernst. Dear Ernst Frank, my constant companion and comfort these days. He plopped himself beside me and smiled through the grime and dirt that lined his handsome face.
Ernst Frank is a happy-go-lucky man-child, barely twenty. A peddler of dubious herbal cures during peacetime, Ernst managed to convince the SS that he had a marketable skill, and was therefore allowed to stay alive at Krippenwald, where he quickly charmed a shoemaker inmate into taking him on as an assistant.
His honest manner and ability to laugh at his circumstances won him my friendship. But it is his willingness to suffer through painfully detailed stories about Berliner and my work that has endeared him most to me. That and his unconditional camaraderie.
Poor Ernst lost his wife and two-year-old daughter to the gas chambers a year ago. He spent months after their deaths trying to kill himself. Following a third attempt involving a makeshift noose that broke before it could do harm, Ernst had a change of heart. The best thing he could do for his beloved Inge and baby Sophie was to go on, he decided. Now what Ernst yearns for most is to have a child, hopefully a daughter, who will become the center of his life. Never again will he find himself helpless as he did when his loved ones were carted off in front of his eyes to the gas chambers, he rants and swears.
Ernst took a whiff of his bowl and declared the toilet water in it to be delicious. How I envied his ability to smile through his pain.
A whistle sounded. The soup guard called out, “Herr Doctor!” I didn’t respond. Why would I? I wasn’t Herr Doctor or Herr anything here. “Doctor Rosen,” the guard called in a singsong voice. He was smiling. Had Peter Schultz been able to exert some influence? Were they going to release me? I stood up and went to him.
The idiot asked about my Indus pills and congratulated me on their success. When I turned away, he struck my cheek with his leather whip, called me a Jew swine, and dismissed me.
I returned to Ernst, lowered myself to the ground, and raised my bowl to my lips to finish the last dregs of the tasteless soup.
Ernst put a hand on my injured cheek. He looked livid, but only for an instant. He asked why the guard had called me. I told him the guard had asked about the pills my company had made. I would tell Ernst the truth. I just didn’t feel like it yet. I was too ashamed.
Ernst tore off a piece of bread with his teeth. He said they call the pills the “profit maker.” And asked me if I knew why the camp inmates’ nutrition had been reduced.
Ignoring his question, I asked him when he had taken the pill.
A year ago, he said. And his fever occurred a month after he took it. I asked him if he knew if the others who had taken the pill had gotten fevers. He said that fevers and colds occurred in many inmates. But disease isn’t uncommon here.
I asked if they had been given more than one dose, and he said they had. But the fevers had only happened the first time. It was obvious he wanted to know why I was asking all this. I promised to tell him, but right then I wanted to think.
Presumably the bacteria had caused the fevers once. The fevers didn’t recur because the body now had the bacteria protecting it, acting like a vaccine possibly. I asked him if people had developed any other symptom than fevers. Other ailments.
A few have died of unknown diseases, he said. Others…he pointed to the gas chambers.
I wonder if I needn’t worry, since the symptoms of fevers came and went like in our lab monkeys. No one was being carted away with strange symptoms. But our test group monkeys hadn’t shown any symptoms after their fevers went. And their nutrition had been much below normal. Like the camp workers’ here.
The control group, on the other hand, showed the odd assortment of symptoms. And they had normal nutrition—like the guards here. How would I know if the guards had developed
anything? Besides, even if one of them had any issues, how could we attribute it to the pill? Plus how was I to know if the guards had been given the pill or not?
One thing is certain. The bacterium is now free to spread, potentially infecting anyone who breathes it. It is contagious among humans. That’s one thing Lars and I have proved.
I am unable to put my mind at ease these days. What I have helped do is unconscionable. Of this I am certain. Will I ever be forgiven for it?
Will I ever forgive myself for it, I wonder.
That was all that remained of the diary.
“Opa burned the rest.” Max held the diary close to her chest.
Julian picked up the envelope he had left on the coffee table. “These are the papers the DANK Haus people faxed me. Copies of everything they got from Germany on Bernard Baston. It has details about the dig and names and addresses of those involved. Irrelevant, most likely. I wasn’t much help after all. I’m so sorry.”
“No!” Max touched his hand. “You’ve been very helpful. And kind. Thank you so much.”
Julian waved away her gratitude. He didn’t make a move to pull his hand away, and she didn’t remove hers either. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I rather enjoyed chatting with the guy at the DANK Haus. But Max—”
“Yes?” Her hand was growing warmer by the second.
“You haven’t told me the whole story.” His soft voice turned Max’s knees to Jell-O.
“What do you mean?”
“The bit about the, uh, suspicious death.” His eyes were shining.
Max pulled her hand away, nauseated by his transparent interest. But she had no right to be mad at Julian. After all, she had used her poor father’s death as the carrot to entice him.
Max decided to trust Julian. She had trusted him this far.
She told him about Lars and the package her father had sent him, in as impassive a way as she could manage. She ended with how the
man from Berliner, most likely, had attacked Lars and threatened her. She felt such relief after telling him.
Julian sank into the couch. His eyebrows were furrowed. “Your father,” he said softly. “How awful. You must think me callous coming here looking for a juicy mystery.” He jumped up and took her hand. “Did you go to the police after the incident with this man, especially since he had broken into your home?”
“I was frightened. Besides, this man is probably in Germany now. And how do I explain his attack? Say that my father may have killed himself or been killed over some pills my grandfather found in India decades ago? Nazi Germany, India, ancient civilization. It’s all too out there for a police complaint!”
Julian’s eyes softened. “But I’m a stranger,” he said. “Is there no one you can confide in?”
There was pity in his voice. Max thought of the few friends she had, who for one reason or another had all left town. They were married and tied up with kids and families, living a life that was alien to her.
She missed them terribly, especially now.
Truth was, she had no one. Except Uncle Ernst.
“Uncle Ernst knows some of this, but I haven’t spoken to him since I met you,” she said flatly. “Talking about Lars and Papa upset him. I didn’t even mention the attack on us. He is old and unwell and he is all I have.” She was getting flustered. “If something happens to him because I involved him in this, I’ll never forgive myself. So yes, I suppose I have no one to tell.” She added with an air of defiance, “Unless you count my assistant, Kim!”
Max cleared the table and began noisily stacking the dishes by the dishwasher. Julian gently pushed her away and loaded the dishwasher while she wiped the counter and put away the leftovers. She covered Julian’s unfinished slice of flan with plastic wrap and put it in a box for him to take home.
When the kitchen was clean, Julian re-filled their wine glasses and led Max to the couch. They sipped their wine in silence.
Max stared into her glass, wanting to drown in its intense burgundy. “I’m sorry I got angry earlier,” she said.
“No worries,” Julian said. He turned to her. “Max, I’m not a criminal expert and I know nothing about chemistry. But I want to help. So tell me, how can I?”
Before she could answer, the phone started to ring.
Max answered. It was Lars.
“I’m calling from a neighbor’s phone,” he said. “Best if you call me back from a different phone.”
Max asked Julian if she could borrow his cell phone, and seconds later she had Lars on the phone again.
He spoke in choppy sentences. “I wanted to tell you something before you decide what to do.”
“Is it that yellow-haired beast again?” Max felt an icicle of fear run down her back.
Julian stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Maybe,” Lars said. “My computer hard drive has been wiped clean. My place torn apart, my safe broken into. It has begun, Max. They probably know I gave them the wrong key. Have you found out anything? Are you coming to London?” It sounded like Lars was pacing, out of breath.
Max put a hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” Julian asked. Max held up a palm asking him to wait.
“I’m ready to leave town, Maxine.” Lars sounded close to tears.
Max tried hard to stay calm. “I have learned a few things from Opa’s diary entries. But I don’t know if they’re relevant.”
“Perhaps we should just let things be,” Lars said. “It’s safer that way.”
Max felt like she could die with relief. Yes, that was the way to do it.
A thought nudged at her. What if Lars’s disease progressed, and he was not around to help if she decided to do something? Then she’d have no one, absolutely no one to talk to who’d have any idea about her father’s work.
“I agree. That’s what we should do,” Max said, but not as forcefully as she had wanted to. “This is getting way too dangerous.”
She heard Lars exhale sharply. “If you change your mind and want to see me while I’m still healthy and useful, come. You’ll have to decide in the next two days.” With that, Lars hung up.
Max tried to smile at Julian. “Thanks for coming,” she said in an unnatural voice and handed Julian his phone. “Hope that call doesn’t cost you too much.” That was all she was going to be able to say without breaking down and becoming completely incoherent. “I really appreciate it.” She was starting to sound like a robot.
Julian took both her hands. “
What
is going on? Who was that?”
Max looked at the floor, pools of tears dangerously forming in her eyes.
Julian knew a lot already. What difference would it make telling him this, too? He would just be walking away after she told him, never to be seen again. She told him what Lars had said.
Julian’s face turned bright pink. His voice took on a lower timbre. “I cannot believe this man. I understand he was shot at. That is enough to frighten anyone. But he was the one that got you involved. He ought to at least—” Julian shook his head.
Max felt grateful for Julian’s support, but she couldn’t blame Lars. She too wanted to leave the whole thing alone now. Behemoth corporate villains, bleached blond assassins, computer drive wiped out, homes ransacked. Watching such things in a movie was tense enough.
Living it was hell.
But she mustn’t show her true feelings, for once the dam burst she’d be sniveling, snotty, and red faced like a small child. So unattractive. For once she was glad her shallow thoughts were helping her put on a brave front.
“If I were a stronger person, I’d go to London and do what it takes. For my father,” she said. “A part of me feels I should.”
Julian gave her an admiring look she didn’t deserve and couldn’t bear to face. She turned away.
They stayed holding hands, their faces lit by the dim floor lamp in her living room. Max wanted the moment to last forever.
She could almost sense a stranger’s fetid breath on the back of her neck with Julian’s sweet breath on her face canceling it out. These
people were obviously keeping track of Lars’s movements, maybe even hers. What was she going to do? That blond meant business. How dangerous was this whole thing anyway? Could they be sure it was Berliner? Lars was assuming it. It could be someone else from the pharmaceutical industry using Berliner’s name. Goodness, could it be Kevin Forsyth?
Would she find a bullet in her mailbox like Russell Crowe had done in
The Insider
? News flash Max, you already got a bullet in your mailbox. Two in fact. One grazed Lars’s neck. And the second had been aimed at her face.
This was all so unfair. And to add insult to already grievous injury, Julian was leaving now, probably for his wife or girlfriend’s shapely arms. He hadn’t mentioned one, so maybe he was single. She ought not to think too deeply along those lines. What was the point?
“I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” she said. “But I couldn’t have done any of this without you. They’re such inadequate words, but thank you. So very much.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I suppose I should say good night.” He gave her hands a little squeeze.
“Good night,” she said sadly. She wanted him to go.
And
she wanted him to stay.
He let go of her hands. They dropped to her sides, limp and lonely.
Max looked at the dim floor lamp. She should change the bulb. It made the place look so damn depressing.