Sarah shuffled down the hall, the sound of running water recalling her thirst and panic near the docks. This time there was just a steamy fog and mirrors bejewelled with drops of water, a comforting heat and the gentle scent of soap. She locked the bathroom door.
He had taken her photo against a white wall, a head-and-shoulders shot in her stained dress. Now Sarah pushed the grimy material into a sink of warm water, but after a perfunctory rub she realized it was hopeless. The blacker the water, the worse the dress looked. She gave up and climbed into the huge, filling tub. It was scalding hot, so she stood on one foot and then the other, waiting for the pain to ebb away as the cold tap spat into life. Facing her was a giant mirror that filled the wall, and between water-drop trails Sarah could see her whole body.
Her legs and arms were criss-crossed with scratches, scabs and livid bruises turning black. Her knees were swollen out of shape. Underneath somewhere was her mother’s porcelain skin, but it was lost from view. The contusions couldn’t hide the muscles, though, the taut wire and whipcord that Sarah was pleased to see hadn’t faded in the years since she was banned from gymnastics classes. She hadn’t wasted the time spent hanging from the banisters of their Vienna apartment or flipping down its halls after all. She had wanted to be ready for the call, to hear it had all been a dreadful mistake and that she had to come back immediately.
Yet the Fatherland managed quite well without you, didn’t it? No shortage of winners at the Olympics in ’36, were there? Didn’t miss the mongrels and Mischlinge at all…
What about Owens? Jesse Owens the American Negro. She’d watched him. Faster and better and longer than all the blond-haired, blue-eyed, statuesque supermen.
The voice fell silent. Sarah could now drop both feet into the water and she slowly crouched into the steam. The rest of her body was flat and uninteresting to her, which was fine for now. Her head spun with grown-up problems and injustices, but she still looked like a little girl. Getting unwieldy body parts, getting confused and angry, getting tall and heavy…it could all wait. She needed to be light and lithe.
The water burned her knees and she hissed into it. She looked up one last time to see her face. Her nose was now black, fading to yellow at the edges. Given time to stare, she realized that she looked different, almost unrecognizable from certain angles. The eyes were the same, pale blue but fierce and deep and alive like her mother’s. Her hair was long and knotted and greasy, but unmistakably golden blonde, like a crown of precious metal that had been dropped on the floor. She teased out the braids and shook it out over her back into the water.
With that familiar mixture of shock, pain and tremendous comfort, Sarah sank into the water, submerging herself entirely before settling on the surface. She dissolved into the soapy liquid and risked letting her mind off its leash. She found herself thinking of Owens.
Going to the Olympic stadium had been hugely risky for a Jew, even back in ’36. There had been so many trains and buses and public places that were forbidden to her where she could have been recognized or stopped or hassled, but in the end, she was just another little blonde girl swept up into the crowd. In an audience of a hundred thousand, she was invisible.
It was clear in the early seconds of the hundred-metre final that Jesse Owens was the strongest. There was no ignoring it. He accelerated away from the Aryan field with ease, challenged only by Ralph Metcalfe, another black American. The crowd stuttered momentarily as Nazi Party members and worried faces looked around for direction. How were they supposed to react to the defeat of the supposedly superior race?
But the excitement was too much and soon no one could help themselves. Owens shot through the tape and Sarah screamed herself hoarse along with everyone else.
However, as Owens and his teammate stood on their podium giving a simple military salute, surrounded by white faces and Heil-Hitler arms, Sarah saw the danger they represented. Not just for the National Socialists and their delusions, but for her and those like her. This humiliation of the hosts was a potent counter-argument that had been missing from Germany for many long years and Sarah could almost feel the coming backlash, their need for revenge.
She became scared and slipped away early on half-empty buses. But Owens’ wins, all four of his gold medals, thrilled her in a way she couldn’t quite grasp. Until now. She realized he was the enemy of her enemy. He had embarrassed the Nazi Party and the nation in its own garden. He cowed the people until they couldn’t help but follow him. She yearned for a fraction of that power.
She shut off the gold taps with her feet and floated. She could hear voices, muffled but just about distinct enough to make out.
“…worth it. What were you thinking?” Tense. Agitated.
“Just do it…and as quick as you can.” The familiar voice, dismissive.
“You’re getting soft. That’s dangerous.” The accent was thick and difficult to pin down. “Now we’re a bloody underground railroad.” English. Two words of English.
“Shut up.” Voice like a slap. Reproving. Warning. In charge.
They moved away. A door slammed.
English…or American? No, English. Sarah had been sure that he’d be French. She trawled through remembered conversations. He was good. Very good.
You haven’t a clue who he is. Not the slightest idea.
Doesn’t matter. Not at all. I’m…
Safe? Is that the word you want to use?
Fine for now, is what I was going to say.
Sarah slid a sponge down one leg, removing some of the most superficial scabbing and leaving lines of new pink skin in its place. She could hear his voice again.
“…yes, I’ll hold.”
She nudged a larger scab into the water and the skin welled up bright red, dripping blood into the suds. She scowled at herself.
“Yes, thank you…this is Herr Haller, yes, good morning. My sister has sent her child to the city in totally unsuitable clothing. I’ll need a whole new wardrobe sent out to me immediately… Some travel clothes, a formal outfit… Oh, yes, a Jungmädel uniform would be excellent… About twelve years old… An average twelve… If I wanted to trail down to Schöneberg with a poorly dressed niece, I wouldn’t be speaking to you, would I? You have experts in this area? Make some judgements, Fräulein.…yes, yes, yes…” Sarah listened to him bully and overrule, cajole and manage from a position of total ignorance. Just carry on, stand up there like you’re meant to be there and people will believe it. He was very, very good – her mother’s acting lessons made flesh. She couldn’t help but be impressed.
So all the information you have about him is automatically suspect.
Yes, it is.
“Ursula!” Sarah jumped at the closeness of the voice, just outside the door and too loud. “I have to leave. There’s food in the kitchen. I assume your mother got that far in your education?” A question not expecting an answer.
Footsteps. Door. Silence.
Sarah was alone. Again.
Sarah had grown up in some luxury, even if it had been fading, slipping away in pieces her whole life. That meant everything had been thick. Thick carpets, thick curtains, thick doors, thick gowns. This apartment was expensive in every way, more expensive than anything Sarah had seen in some time, but it was different. This was about the absence of things. Polished marble and white walls, untouched. A barely used leather sofa and an armchair made of chrome pipes. The low glass table had a small pile of magazines that seemed to float in mid-air and there were no curtains, just white fabric covering one giant window through which a directionless sunlight flooded the room. Even the decoration, where it existed, consisted of right angles, lines and angular birds.
And dominating one wall, as if appearing next to her, a huge portrait of the Führer.
At least the bathrobe was thick. She huddled inside it against the sudden chill.
The kitchen was of similar design but showed signs of habitation. There was fresh bread, meats and cheese, which she pushed hungrily into her mouth without assembling the components into a meal. The bread was warm and fluffy, the sausage spicy and the cheese unbearably creamy on her tongue. An icebox revealed milk, clean and cold and topped with cream. She gulped it down, letting it trickle from the corners of her lips and down her neck.
Further investigation revealed empty cupboards, the kind she’d come to associate with slow hunger and shortages. He isn’t here much, is he?
She took the remaining bread to gnaw on and went in search of closed doors.
The main bedroom where she had slept had one closet with mirrored doors. Inside were four suits, shirts and ties, all identical. A row of shoes gleamed black. No dust, someone cleans. That means that nothing truly revealing will be found in the open.
There was a box room, with no boxes, or windows, just a poorly assembled camp bed. It didn’t look slept in so he must have folded the sheets. Soldiers do that.
One door was locked. Sarah kneeled and peered through the empty keyhole and saw a small room lit by daylight, maybe a desk and chair. She cocked her head to one side and examined the lock itself. The brass gleamed like it had never been used, so she looked down and examined the paintwork below it. There were no telltale scratches where a bunch of keys would have left a mark. A long key, on its own, that he wouldn’t risk losing outside. Somewhere easy to get to from here, but somewhere safe from the cleaner.
Sarah had played this game endlessly as a child. Left alone and bored in the big house in Elsengrund as her mother slept the afternoons away, she had explored, figuring out where things were and why, where there were keys and why there were locks. She uncovered the puzzle pieces and wove stories from things she found. It didn’t matter that she didn’t always understand the secrets. It was enough that they were there to be discovered.
By the time she was breaking into houses in search of food she was not just a formidable thief, but an insatiable voyeur.
The armchair was on the other side of the room, and the sofa was too far to be convenient, but there wasn’t really anything else in the room. She looked back at the lock, which read Chubb of Wolverhampton. Well-made and tough to pick, even if she’d had anything to do it with. Chubb locks were a challenge she relished and she delighted in out-thinking them. She leaned her head against the door. Maybe behind the painting? Too easily discovered, bound to pique interest if it was found by whoever cleaned.
She looked along the surface of the wall stretching away to the window. She realized that the column shape in the middle was merely decorative. The rather severe bird attached to it stood a few centimetres from the rest of the plaster. She shuffled over to it with a chuckle. She slid her small hand underneath and found what she was looking for halfway up. The key was on a rubber hook and rested on soft bumpers. It couldn’t have been dislodged by accident.
It slid into the lock silently and the well-oiled barrels rolled inside with an irresistible elegance. British locks were excellent, she thought, not like most of her mother’s German knock-offs that barely opened even with the right key. She covered her hand with the end of the robe and turned the polished door handle. No telltale smudges to give her away.
What if you don’t like what you find?
She looked back to the painting. You mean, what if he really is a Nazi, but one who rescues Jews?
He hasn’t rescued you. You rescued him.
Shhhhhh, thought Sarah.
The door opened to reveal a small office. It was lit by a skylight high above, with a bookcase that covered most of the back wall, a green metal filing cabinet and a walnut desk. It was a mess of papers, files, magazines and open books. A small and ugly rug lay wonkily in a corner. One revolving chair sat facing the door.
Another girl would have been disappointed, but Sarah knew better.
The desk was scattered with maps and magazines, or rather dull tomes with titles in several languages like Physikalische Zeitschrift, Physical Review and Die Naturwissenschaften. There were no identifying papers or keys, no notepads to investigate and even the blueprint for an airship that she found underneath it all told her nothing new.
The only personal item was a letter, sitting on top of a blank envelope. A quick shuffle revealed it was from a Lise Meitner, “with thanks”. It contained some drawings that Sarah couldn’t make sense of, something about drips of water, bunches of grapes, zigzag arrows and numbered letters, but in the absence of anything else she turned to the front page and skimmed through it.
Dear Helmut,
Uh-huh, thought Sarah.
I am writing this letter “in the clear” as I think they call it and entrusting it to Otto to deliver to you in person, as time is short. First, thank you for your help getting to the Dutch border. Your plan was a good one and now I’m safely in Sweden.
The phrase underground railroad drifted again through Sarah’s mind. So she was not the first.
It was these events that have made up my mind to entrust you with this. I have been denied the resources, lab time, money and access required to prove the following beyond doubt, as I always have been denied these things, first as a woman, then being classed as a Jew
Bullseye.
and now a refugee. So rather than attempt to persuade the governments of France, Britain or the United States without the appropriate proof, I am hoping that you will see the danger and act.
Sarah glanced at the clock. Plenty of time.
We have talked about “nuclear” physics, Fermi, Otto Hahn and my work in some detail before so you know the background…
Sarah kept reading, but the words grew more technical and more complex until it seemed she was reading a new and unfamiliar foreign language. She skipped further and further ahead and was about to put the letter down when she spotted a phrase in capital letters and underlined.
…a bomb, about the size of a GRAPEFRUIT, with ENOUGH DESTRUCTIVE POWER TO FLATTERN A CITY.
She read back, but the preceding paragraph was impenetrable. She read on.
Trust me when I say that the construction of such a device will be possible, along the lines I’ve described. When the war comes and sides will finally be chosen, my conscience will not let me build such a thing, but I am only too aware that human nature will happily demand such a thing of others less inclined to refuse.
One such is Hans Schäfer, of whom I have talked before. Not only does he know all this, but now he has access to the notes and materials I had to leave with Otto. He has no respect for academia, and he has the personal fortune to follow this up in his own time and to his own agenda. Worst of all, he has the connections within the new order to turn research into production under conditions impossible elsewhere.
I have little fear… That said, he scares me, like I am a little girl with a monster under my bed. He has scent of a weapon the likes of which God himself would hesitate to use in all his vengeance. He will build it if he’s allowed to.
Helmut, DO SOMETHING. Stop him, or at least slow him down in some way.
With thanks,
PS: BURN THIS.
Sarah carefully replaced the letter, struggling to control a prickling excitement. Evil scientists and shadowy experiments. It read like a cheap paperback. But when she thought about bombs, she pictured the cannonball and burning fuse from the cartoons. How would one throw a bomb that powerful? She delved into her head for more and unearthed a memory of a man talking about the Weltkrieg, the World War, of endless mud and giant holes.
She gazed up to the skylight as the light brightened momentarily. The sun had escaped the cloud and now tiny motes danced in the golden column. She tried to grab them, delighting in their ability to escape her.
Escape. The skylight was too far for her, but within the reach of a grown man, standing on the desk. The people who had started hiding communists and others preferred attic spaces, because there was always a way out onto the roof. Cellars were coffins.
Her hair got in her face as she shook it again. She needed a brush. So he had an escape route. Did he move into the top-floor flat deliberately, or was it a coincidence?
She wandered over to the bookshelves. When she had visited other houses, she had always sought out their books. Like the contents of a desk, a library tells you about the person. There are books passed on in the family. That’s who they were. Then there are the books they think they should have. That’s who they want to be. There are the books they want you to see. That’s who they want you to think they are. There are books they want to believe they like and then the books they really like, the dirty little secrets. If they’re old and dusty enough, that tells you all you need to know about that person’s mind. Everything was there if you only troubled to look.
Sarah read everything, voraciously and indiscriminately. Her desire for the written word was insatiable. When she had lost everything, there were still a few precious books for her to escape into. Even these small shelves were a feast for her eyes.
She recognized a few names. Mein Kampf; Guderian the dull tank man; books from her father’s library, The Thousand and One Nights, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ; books in German, French, English, Russian, Arabic…Japanese? She ran a casual finger from right to left. Steinbeck, Shakespeare, Scholem, Sartre, Sade…Scholem? That’s a compromising possession, she thought. Doesn’t get more Jewish than that, just as Herr Haller had said to her in that filthy toilet so long ago…yesterday? No, the day before. H. G. Wells – she pulled The Time Machine off the shelf. Most copies of this had been burned when the Nazis came to power. The World Set Free? She hadn’t read that.
It was a confused picture. The letter was incriminating, but that was new. Ordinarily, was there enough here to warrant an escape route? Only if he was hiding something else. On a whim, she tapped the wood behind the books.
Nothing. Just a wall. Sarah laughed out loud at herself and with a little skip she shoved the book back into place with the others. This time the wood made an unmistakable hollow bump.