What Doctor Gottlieb Saw (2 page)

“When was this battery built?”

“We can't keep up with demand. But we managed to squeeze this one in just before the test. Klaus wasn't happy about the delay. He complained we were making him late. I closed it up, ran it through the test rig, got a green light, handed it to him. And off he went.”

After passing inspection, the battery had gone directly from Osterhagen's hands to Klaus's. And Klaus, concerned about being late, would have gone straight to the test site.

Where, moments later, it failed. Thus saving his life.

Gretel hadn't come near the battery. Another icicle caught Gottlieb in the chest, stole his breath. What if he had been wrong about her? What would he tell von Westarp?

*   *   *

Gottlieb retrieved a film from the archives before returning to his office. He finished preparing the projector just as his next patient arrived.

“How are you feeling, Klaus?”

“Perfectly well. Why wouldn't I be?” Typical bluster.

“I understand you had a close call yesterday.”

Klaus shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

“I think you're being insincere. You became physically ill after Oskar's accident, didn't you?”

Klaus glared at him. After a pause just long enough to conjure a plausible excuse, he said, “My battery malfunctioned. I got a shock. It made me sick.”

“Ah. I thought it might have been a reaction to seeing Oskar buried alive. I'm glad to know I was mistaken.”

Von Westarp's successful methods carried a price. Kammler wasn't born a stuttering imbecile; the Twins weren't born mute; Klaus hadn't always suffered from claustrophobia.

“It was—“ Klaus cleared his throat. “—my battery.”

“Terrible way to go,” said Gottlieb. “All that stone and soil.” He shuddered. “How long can you hold your breath? It's what, about two minutes now?”

This was central to Klaus and Oskar's training.

“I suppose. Why?”

“Well, I worked through the arithmetic, you see. Morbid curiosity, I suppose. Do you know how far Oskar might have fallen, assuming he lasted that long? I was astonished. It's miles, actually.” Gottlieb paged through his journal. “I have the figure here, somewhere.”

“I couldn't care less,” said Klaus. His voice echoed.

Gottlieb stopped. “Apologies. I get carried away at times.” He pretended to make another note. Then, as casually as he could manage: “Have you spoken with Gretel recently? I think she worries about you.”

Rapidly: “We're not close.”

“Too bad. It's touching, her concern.”

“She's my little sister,” he said.

“Yes. Silly to think she's capable of protecting you.”

Klaus went rigid. He covered it well, owing to years of physical conditioning, but Gottlieb saw the discoloration of his knuckles as he squeezed the armrests.

What do you know about your sister? You suspect she isn't well. Even if you won't admit it to yourself.

Gottlieb said, “I'd like to watch something with you.”

He turned off the lights, then started the projector. It cast flickering images across the ridges and whorls of horsehair plaster in the wall.

Klaus plucked at the bandages on his finger stumps. “We've already discussed this.”

The black and white film depicted a recent training session. Chiaroscuro Klaus waved a ghostly arm through solid granite. The test went as intended, until he lost his concentration and started thrashing like a caged animal. His face contorted with wild cries for help. The scene ended as medics arrived with a bone saw.

The film reel flapped on its spindle, fanning the scent of warm acetate through the office. Gottlieb hit the lights.

“How do you feel when you see this, Klaus?”

“I said we've already discussed this.”

“Do you feel differently after the accident yesterday?”

“Why would I?” His fingers worried at frayed gauze.

“I understand that you won the toss. So it would have been you who made the first attempt, if your battery hadn't failed. That doesn't evoke any particular feelings?”

“Why? It was Oskar's mistake.” Klaus said, with halfhearted bravado, “He died from of a weakness of will.”

“But you wouldn't have made the same mistake.”

“Of course not. I saw the danger immediately.”

“Yet you didn't warn Oskar.”

“Why would I?” Klaus slammed the door on his way out.

Clearly, he hadn't seen the danger. He hadn't internalized the lesson from the previous accident. And that oversight had almost left him buried alive: a claustrophobe's nightmare. But Klaus would never again take things for granted. He now understood, in a visceral way, the importance of mental discipline.

*   *   *

…line integral of the electric field is thus proportional to the time derivative of the magnetic flux. Note, however, the sign of the induced electromotive force, which resists changes to the current….

The text devolved into hieroglyphics. Then the hieroglyphs became smudges of ink that meandered across the page like earthworms seeking high ground after a rainstorm. Gottlieb's eyes had mutinied.

He removed his reading glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed his eyes. Sunset had come and gone hours ago, so the farm was dark except where a ring of klieg lights had been erected to aid the search for Oskar's body. Because Gottlieb hadn't managed to get his desk lamp repaired, he'd been forced to read by candle light.

His eyes burned. It wasn't a very good candle.

He was steeling himself for another reading attempt when there came a tentative knock at the door. Gottlieb opened it.

Osterhagen stood in the corridor. “Evening, Doctor.”

“Hello?”

“I've been feeling the tiniest bit crazy lately. Can you fit me in for a session to fix my brain?”

“Well, it's late—“

“Relax,” said Osterhagen, raising one hand. “I figured you might need some company.” Glass tinkled when he hefted a paper sack. “Figured you could use some of this, too.”

Gottlieb pushed the door wide and waved the other man inside. “You're quickly becoming my favorite patient.”

Osterhagen entered. The faint ammonia odor from the lab still clung to him. He smelled like cat piss.

From the bag, he produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He inspected one glass in the candlelight, fished out his handkerchief, then gave it a quick rub. Gottlieb pretended not to notice.

Osterhagen splashed liquid amber into each glass, saying, “You're sure I'm not interrupting? You look…”

Gottlieb said, “No. I was just reading.”

Osterhagen glanced at the book. “Ahhh. Maxwell's equations.” It came out as though he were greeting an old friend. He flipped through the pages, careful to keep Gottlieb's place. “That puts me back in my student days.”

“I can't decipher any of this,” said Gottlieb. “It's gibberish.” He shoved the book aside.

Osterhagen handed him a glass. “Many people say that what you do is also gibberish.”

Gottlieb sighed. “So I've heard.”

Osterhagen raised his glass. “To those who practice gibberish, for the betterment of Germany.”

Gottlieb touched it with his own.
Clink.

The tastes of oak, and earth, and fire slid across his tongue. The scotch traced a smooth, slow burn on the way down, like smoldering silk.

“Wow.” He checked the bottle. “How'd you get this?”

“My son sent it. He's a cargo inspector at the port in Bremen. Good job. It has some nice side benefits.”

Several moments passed while they drank in silence. Gottlieb took a heavy swig, dousing the ice in his gut with liquid fire.

“At least they haven't outlawed electromagnetism yet.” He pointed a thumb at his chest, splashing his shirt in the process. “I'm guilty of ‘Jew science.'”

“Ouch.” Osterhagen wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “But that shouldn't matter, if von Westarp has need of you.”

“Well, that's the question, isn't it? The good doctor seems to think I'm at fault for yesterday's accident.”

“I figured it was something like that. You're not alone, though. I thought he was going to round up all of us engineers after the power surge. Even those of us who aren't working on the generator. I spent half the morning running all over the farm to replace blown fuses, the other half wondering if I'd get a shallow grave for my trouble.”

Gottlieb raised his glass. “To those of us destined for a bullet in the temple.”

Clink.
Gottlieb emptied his glass. Osterhagen refilled it, then his own. More silent drinking.

Osterhagen smacked his lips. “They do it in the forest near the battery lab. The executions, I mean. Sometimes I hear it.” He burped. “My advice? Don't beg. It only makes them angry.”

“Not as angry as trying to leave the farm.”

That happened once or twice per year. Some staff members couldn't handle the sight of deeds that should have been—in a properly ordered universe—impossible. Those who tried to leave eventually ended up in the forest. Those who stayed eventually found their way to Gottlieb's office.

“True,” said Osterhagen. “So what really happened yesterday? You must have a theory by now.”

“No theories. Many suspicions.” Gottlieb lowered his voice. “I think it was Gretel. Can't prove it, though.”

“Ah. That one.” Osterhagen took a long sip. A long, careful sip.

“What do you know about her?”

Osterhagen shook his head. “Nothing. I know very little about any of the test subjects.”

“But…”

“The men in the battery lab avoid Gretel. More than they avoid the others. They leave it up to me to deal with her.” Gottlieb gestured for him to elaborate. He did, but only just: “She makes them uncomfortable. Me, too.”

They spoke of sons and fathers, electromagnetism and psychotherapy. When he departed, Osterhagen took the lamp but left the bottle.

*   *   *

Gottlieb woke when the rising sun cleared the forest, high enough to stream through the office window and spear him in the eyes. Sleeping at the desk had made for terrible posture, so now his headache throbbed in time to the carpenters' hammering. Each blow reverberated in his skull.

As the last vestiges of sleep abandoned him, Gottlieb remembered fragmentary dreams of snowflakes and avalanches, butterflies and hurricanes, corn poppies and ravens.

He'd slept through breakfast, but it mattered little because anxiety had shot his appetite in the temple. The fortifying fire of last night's drink had become a heap of cold ashes in his stomach and bitter despair on his tongue. Dr. von Westarp would return from Berlin today, but Gottlieb was no closer to staying his own execution. No closer to unraveling Gretel's actions.

He
had
to know what had happened to Klaus's battery.

Rudolf arrived at the office, yawning and rubbing bleary eyes, just as Gottlieb was stepping out. He frowned when he saw Gottlieb locking his office.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “I really need to see you.”

“I'm sorry,” said Gottlieb. “I'm quite busy. We'll have to reschedule.”

“When?”

Gottlieb squeezed past him. Over his shoulder, he called, “Find me this afternoon.”

Look hard, though. I might be buried in the forest.

He had to skirt the training field on his way to the battery laboratory. Reinhardt stood in the center of the field, frowning at moist piles of hay until they sprouted violet flames. Gottlieb retraced his path past the generator station (still more cursing and banging). The hammering grew louder as he passed the carpenters at work on the new building.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor
.”

Gretel swung out from behind a wall stud. Gottlieb jumped. He hadn't seen her chatting with the foreman. She leaned in his path, a buttercup tucked behind one ear.

Her eyes, darker than overripe plums, searched his face. She said, “You look troubled.”

His heart thrashed inside his ribcage, seeking escape. She'd frightened him on purpose, to play with him, to keep him off-balance. But Gottlieb didn't need to wait for the panic to subside before he could craft a suitable response. His professional training took over. He turned the question back on Gretel.

“I'm sad about Oskar. Aren't you?”

“Yes.” She jumped down beside him. It fluttered the mud-stained hem of her dress, as well as her hair, and the wires protruding from her skull. He caught a whiff of the flower, and tried not to flinch as she brushed against him.

She clucked her tongue. “Poor Oskar. Such a tragedy.”

“And a senseless one,” he said. “An accident like that might have happened to anybody.”

“Not anybody.” The tone of her voice carried faint disapproval, as though he'd said something dim. More brightly, she said, “Are you looking for a late breakfast? I'll walk with you.”

And she did. Neither spoke. Gretel was, of course, unconcerned by the awkward silence. The clinician in Gottlieb, the small part of him not overwhelmed with the desire to flee, double-checked his diagnosis against her behaviors. The superficial charm fit.

He noticed something odd: she wasn't barefoot. Yet the day had dawned warm, and clearly she'd been to the meadow.

He said, “I see you're wearing shoes today.”

Gretel nodded. Frowned. “The workmen spilled a bucket of nails. They haven't found them all.”

She turned for the mess hall, but he continued toward the battery lab. “Wait.” She gave him the flower. The hairy stem tickled his fingers. “To brighten your office.”

Osterhagen was already hard at work, still dissecting Klaus's battery. But he shook his head when Gottlieb entered.
Not yet, my friend.