The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (29 page)

He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but stopped. Then, without warning, he turned and exited. He didn’t speak. Nor did he discard the flowers. His colleagues followed him out the door. The doctor joined them, as did Pabst.

Klaus waited until he and Gretel were alone. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“His wife will miscarry this afternoon.” Gretel said it with the same bored disinterest she might have used to pronounce the day’s soup not to her liking.

Klaus mulled this over. He was coming to understand that mad or not, Gretel did almost everything for a reason. He tried to see the world through her eyes, tried to think as she did. Cause and effect.

“That’s why you’ve been picking flowers.” He didn’t ask, because it wasn’t a question. “You knew he’d balk. But you also knew about his wife, and you knew how to exploit that situation to convince him to heed your advice.”

Gretel clucked her tongue. “Such a devious brother I have.”

She blew loose petals and crumbled leaves from the table. Then she carried an armload of bottles from the windowsill to the table and began to rearrange the flowers.

Cause and effect.

“Why didn’t you warn them?”

She concentrated on her wildflowers, saying nothing.

Cause and effect.

Klaus watched her try another arrangement, saying, “If I asked, would you tell me what you’re doing?”

“I’m arranging flowers. Perhaps you aren’t so clever as I’d thought.”

“You know what I meant. Tell me, Gretel.”

“And allow you to be swept along in my wake? Never.”

Klaus stomped out of the room. He slammed the door.

The machine shop was a cacophony of drilling, hammering, welding, and sawing. It smelled of hot steel and oil. In addition to countermanding Klaus’s directives regarding the supplies, the doctor had also increased his order. Now he wanted thirty incubators of each type.

Klaus remembered the day that the doctor first unveiled the devices. He had been perhaps eight or nine when the doctor first locked him inside his incubator. He’d screamed himself hoarse when the claustrophobia consumed him, pounded his fists raw. There was no room to move inside; it had been built especially for him, and modified accordingly as he grew over the years.

In those days, von Westarp had kept them all in the same room. When Klaus had become too exhausted to scream and carry on any longer, he listened to Rudolf, Heike, Kammler, and the rest cry all night
long. Except Gretel, of course. Of all the children, she and she alone never cried. Not once that he could remember.

Klaus remembered something he hadn’t thought about in years. There had been many more test subjects back then. So many, in fact, that the field behind the house was—

—And then Klaus knew why the doctor had ordered the machinists to requisition so much extraneous matériel. The gas lines, the lime, the earthmoving equipment. None of this was for building incubators. It was for the mass disposal of bodies.

The doctor was planning for a massive influx of test subjects. Too many to bury one at a time, as he’d done in the old days.

19 September 1940

Williton, England

n
ine hours of bombing had erased the road to Williton, rendered it indistinguishable from the surrounding countryside. The churned and cratered earth still smoked in places. Here and there broken macadam peeked from the mud, but this only suggested a road, inasmuch as a shattered dish suggested a family dinner.

The undercarriage of the Rolls screeched as Marsh gunned the car over another hillock, causing debris to rake the belly of Stephenson’s car. Then the suspension groaned when he forced the car to bounce across another cleft.

“What if she’s cold?” said Liv, kneading a blanket in her fingers. It was pink, it had elephants and baby stains on it, and it smelled like Agnes. “I hope she’s not out in the cold.”

“She could be safe. They could be in a shelter.”

In London, one heard tell of folks emerging from their shelters with nary a scratch, only to find their neighborhoods flattened. Sometimes they had to wait for the rescue men to clear away debris before the door could be wedged open.

The little information doled out by the BBC suggested this would be unlikely.
Luftwaffe . . . Carpet bombing . . . Williton.
The details were hazy to Marsh. He’d been out the door on the way to beg, borrow, or steal Stephenson’s car before Alvar Lidell had uttered four sentences. In the end, he stole it. As well as the petrol canister that Marsh tossed in the boot while Liv urged him to
hurry, God’s sake, Agnes needed them, why couldn’t he do it faster?

“I hope she’s not hungry. What if she’s hungry? We didn’t bring her food. We should go back and get her food.”

Marsh drove on, wishing for Williton to emerge from the smoke, whole and pristine. It didn’t. He stopped the car when he couldn’t cajole it over the debris any longer. He killed the engine. They climbed out.

Rubble. They stood on the shore of a sea of rubble that stretched to the horizon. Here and there men in wide-brimmed metal helmets like sun bonnets scrambled over the mounds. Searching, or carrying stretchers. Sunset glinted on one man’s helmet, highlighting the letter
R
painted over the brim. But for the occasional rockslide of broken brick and masonry, the rescue men moved silently, like ghosts in somebody else’s graveyard.

TNT and baby. Two scents that should never mingle.

Liv mumbled, “She’s cold. She’s hungry and scared.”

“Where?” Marsh had never been to Williton, didn’t know the village, didn’t know where to find Liv’s aunt.

They walked. Every block was a jumble of senseless images. Pulverized brick. A dented tea service. Shattered window glass. A Victorian fainting couch half-collapsed beneath a heap of charred timber. Jumbled masonry. A child’s shoe. A bathtub. A cracked chimney, the bricks pulling apart in a snaggletoothed grimace. A family Bible. A dining room wall. A teacup.

What they didn’t see were the telltale mounds of Anderson shelters.

That could have meant they’d sheltered in cellars. Cellars. Yes. Perhaps they were trapped inside. Underfoot, just feet away, waiting for somebody to free them. If he could find a cellar, find people alive and
well and waiting to be dug out, then he’d know Agnes was safe somewhere, too.

“She wants her blanket,” said Liv.

The debris tore his trousers, gouged his knees. Window glass sliced his fingers. When he hurled the bricks aside, they landed with a crash and tinkle, oddly high-pitched for such heavy things. More bricks. More crashing.

He found a rhythm. Lift, hurl, crash. Blood and dust caked his hands. Lift. Hurl. Crash.

“Raybould.”

He couldn’t spare Liv more than a glance. A trio of rescue men had joined her: one old, one pudgy, one pale. Good. More hands.

“Raybould,” she said again, less quietly this time.

They stood there, watching. Why weren’t they helping him? He wrestled a length of timber from the wreckage. It perforated his hands with splinters.

Footsteps crunched through the debris. A hand rested heavily on his shoulder.

“It’s over, son.”

Marsh tossed aside another piece of timber.

The rescue man crouched beside Marsh and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s our job,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Marsh’s fingers wrapped themselves around something solid, a brick or piece of masonry. Lift. Hurl. Crash.

The hand on his shoulder moved to his elbow and tugged. “Why don’t you come with me. We’ll get you some food.”

Marsh’s fist closed around the corner of a brick.

“Come,” said the rescue man, standing up. “It’s over.”

“Nobody fucking tells me to abandon my daughter.”

“What’s that?” The rescue man leaned forward. “Why don’t you stop for a moment so I can hear you better?”

Marsh launched to his feet as he spun. He put all his weight, all his rage, behind the thing in his fist.

It connected with the corner of the rescue man’s mouth. Marsh felt
something crack and give way. The man toppled backwards. His helmet clattered down a pile of debris. Marsh dropped the thing in his hand and leapt on him.

“I said nobody—” His fist connected again. “—fucking tells me—” Now the other fist. “—to abandon my
daughter!”

A pair of arms wrapped around his waist and lifted. But Marsh’s rage had been uncorked. He thrashed. He threw his head back, connecting with something that made a soft
crunch.
The grip on his waist loosened, but then more hands grabbed him from behind. He stamped down on the third man’s instep and shoved his elbow back with as much force as he could muster, wrenching his shoulder as he did so.

“Oof . . .” The third man grunted, but didn’t loosen his grip. He outweighed Marsh by a considerable margin, and so was able to pull him away.

The pain in Marsh’s twisted shoulder and his lacerated hands became cracks in the dike restraining something immense and black. He didn’t want to feel it, but it flooded through his defenses.

“Nobody . . . ,” he panted. He sat in the mud because the words were too heavy. “Tells me . . . Oh, God, Agnes. Where are you?” The last came out as a sob.

He looked to the man he’d hit. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties. Spittle and blood trailed from his lips. His mouth was dark red. The pale fellow crouched beside him, helped him up with one hand as he pressed a handkerchief to his nose with the other.

Mud seeped through Marsh’s trousers. Cold. Wet. He wished the cold would seep into his heart and numb him.

“We sent her away,” said Liv.

She was sitting on what had been the front stoop of somebody’s home. Marsh pulled himself up and joined her.

The rescue men gathered up their fallen companion. The man with the bloodied nose took one arm over his shoulders, and the pudgy man took the other. They limped away, casting glares and curses in Marsh’s direction.

“Why did we send her away?” asked Liv, shivering.

Marsh draped an arm across her shoulders. She pulled away. They cried.

Night fell. The stars came out. Liv shivered again.

“You tried to send me away, too,” she said.

3 November 1940

Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials

T
he machine shop was a loud place. Klaus worked alone in an isolated corner, far in the back. Building incubators he could handle; the rest of the new construction projects left him feeling ill. He hated to think about the ovens.

He didn’t realize somebody had approached him until the tip of the spanner turned orange. Wisps of smoke spiraled up from the blackened pinewood beneath the bolt he’d been tightening. Klaus dropped the tool when heat came surging down the handle into his hand. It slapped the floor like a dollop of taffy.

“Did I get your attention?”

Klaus turned, sucking at the new blisters on his palm. Reinhardt stood behind him, looking slightly amused.

“Haven’t they sent you to Africa yet?”

“Not yet.”

The stink of melted linoleum emanated from where Klaus had dropped the tool. It glowed a dark red-black color as it sank into the floor. Klaus grabbed a pair of tongs from an adjacent workbench and dumped the spanner into a water barrel, creating clouds of steam.

“You could have yelled,” said Klaus. “Or tapped my shoulder.”

“And risk startling you?” Reinhardt shook his head. “That could have been dangerous. You’re very jumpy.”

“Dangerous to whom, me or you?”

“I had your well-being in mind,” said Reinhardt. “Do try to be gracious about it.”

Klaus fished the spanner from the barrel. The handle had warped, and the jaws had sagged out of true. Reinhardt’s stunt had reduced it to so much mangled steel.

Klaus said, “You’ve ruined it.”

“I’ll melt it down if they wish to recast it.”

“What do you want? I’m busy.”