Eleanor. It was obvious that she didn’t remember him but that was expected. What he did not expect was his disappointment. He had been there when she had discovered the broken, mangled body of her daughter. He realized now that some part of him had hoped that the shared moment of tragic discovery would stamp his image in her mind as she had been carved in his.
God gives...God takes away...blessed be—
Malcolm shuddered. There was something about Eleanor that was almost unnatural. She unnerved him but tonight she had needed his help and, in a move that surprised even himself, he had taken up her cause. Why?
His eyes narrowed to crinkled slits as he glanced at the two prostrate men. It was unlikely that they would remember him. Even if they did, finding him again in a camp this size would be next to impossible. Shaking his head, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 12
Berlin, Germany. April 1915
Karl Schmidt eyed Fritz Haber’s corpulent form with a mixture of surprise and irritation. Surprise because, despite seven hours of rigorous testing, Fritz was still as fresh as the dew at dawn. Irritation because, in all that time Fritz had not stopped humming. If the tuneless noises from his mouth could indeed be called a hum. Haber wore the look of a man who had just discovered his first love.
Karl could only guess whether that love was directed at a woman or the nefarious quest to develop the perfect weapon of mass murder. Knowing Haber, it was probably a mixture of both. Karl shuddered. His own repugnance with the project grew with every passing day. But he clung to the hope that he could somehow nudge Haber back onto the true path of scientific knowledge. In warning the Allies of the coming plan, he had done what his conscience required. The enemy had been warned which was in harmony with the unwritten code of chivalry. What the British did with that warning was up to them.
The droning grew louder and Karl’s eyes rolled skyward. “Do you think everything will be ready?” The question was voiced more to rescue his ears than to obtain information.
“Hm?” Haber threw him a blank stare.
“Are you quite alright, Fritz?” He stepped around the cart on which carefully labeled bottles of bleach were stacked. Bleach provided the chlorine which formed the base of their weapon of mass destruction that would be released upon the Allied forces at Ypres.
“I could not be better, Karl.” Fritz placed the glass beaker onto one of the steel, rectangular tables that filled the center of the laboratory and lifted the safety glasses from his eyes, resting them on his gleaming forehead.
“What could be wrong?” He rubbed his plump hands together. “In less than a month my newest invention will wreak havoc on our enemies. The military will bestow the honorary rank of Captain upon me. My renown will spread beyond Europe’s borders and,” his sickening smile spread even further, “Charlotte will find me utterly irresistible.”
Karl stuffed his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. Charlotte. Not Clara. So, the rumors that Herr Haber was infatuated with the manager of the Gesellschaft social club were true.
“Is this the true purpose behind your work?” He inclined his head toward the bottles of bleach. “Is that a justifiable reason to seek knowledge? The hunger for the praise of a woman... who is not your wife?”
The smile faded from Haber’s lips. “Wife? I have no wife. If you knew what I put up with, Karl, you would understand.” His face darkened. “Clara, my wife, ridicules me. She publicly decries my work and refuses to come to my bed. Does that sound like a wife to you?”
Karl was silent.
“Of course not.” Haber ripped the safety glasses off his head and tossed them next to the beaker on the table. “Our animal ancestors knew that limiting oneself to one female hastens the demise of the species. Look at the rooster or the lion. Many females for one male.”
He shrugged off his white lab coat and Karl realized with surprise that he sported a stylish suit below. “We should be like them, acting upon our desires without judging one another. I, for one, refuse to confine myself to one contentious woman when there are other, more welcoming, opportunities available.”
He waddled across the floor. “You’ll clean up, won’t you Karl?” Without waiting for an answer, Fritz Haber slipped outside, humming a tune that only he could recognize.
CHARLOTTE NATHAN PLACED one hand against the cool curve of an ornately decorated marble pillar and watched from her perch in the balcony as Fritz Haber cruised into the main hall of the Pringsheim Palace. His steps betrayed no anxiety but his eyes, which relentlessly probed each corner of the room showed his eagerness. He was looking for someone. He was looking for her.
She would deliberately make him wait a few moments more, of course. The anticipation would make her actual appearance even more memorable. She leaned against the pillar, fingering a pearl necklace that hovered just above the tops of her breasts. Fritz turned first one way then another, responding absently to those who called out to him in greeting.
When they had last met, it was obvious that the spark of attraction had been mutual, though not for the same reasons. He had been unable to tear his eyes away from her body while she had been unable to stop dreaming about the opportunities that could arise from a relationship with Fritz Haber, the scientist who fed the world. Haber was knowledge incarnate, a man whose ambition and skill could pave the way for unmatched social status.
Charlotte flicked aside a tendril of her dark hair as her mind shifted to Haber’s wife, Clara. How a woman who prized herself on her ability to observe molecular patterns could be so blind to the patterns of human relationships was a mystery. Each time Clara criticized her husband, she effectively slammed the door in the face of opportunity. Charlotte had attended one of Clara’s speeches—a vociferous attack on the use of chemical weapons. The memory was enough to explain why Fritz now stood two floors beneath her, impatiently scanning the room for the woman he had met only once but obviously desired.
“Her loss is my gain.” The corners of Charlotte’s mouth turned upward as she stepped out of the pillar’s shadow and into the light. By this time, the spacious lobby was empty of arriving guests and she was ready to play the game. Poor Haber suffered enough already at the hands of his wife. From the woman who would be his mistress, there would be nothing but pleasure.
“Good evening Fritz Haber.” She rested her forearms lightly on the railing leaning over the balcony.
Haber’s head jerked upward. “Ah, Ms. Nathan. I have been looking for you.”
She drew back, pouting. “Call me ‘Ms. Nathan’ again and I won’t talk to you for the rest of the evening. For you, I am just Charlotte.”
He nodded, lips twitching beneath his moustache in a smile. “Good evening ... Charlotte.”
“Come upstairs.” She motioned to the sweeping staircase that extended from his right to the balcony where she waited. “I’d like to give you a private tour of Pringsheim.”
“Yes, of course.” Fritz stood straighter and smoothed his tie, then hurriedly mounted the wide, red carpeted stairs. Within moments he had reached the top and Charlotte shifted toward him.
“Welcome.” A smile dangled on the corner of her lips. “I am so glad to see you again.”
She edged closer and his gaze roamed over her. She turned, allowing his eyes to wander. “I feel as though you were last here only moments ago.”
“Oh?” Haber’s eyebrows squished together. “Um, what do you mean?”
“You may have left Pringsheim,” Charlotte whispered, “but you never left my mind.” Backing away with a light laugh, she leaned against the railing.
Fritz licked his lips. “Nor mine.” He stepped closer and Charlotte retreated into the shadows of the pillar, moving out of sight of those below. There was no point in pretending to be coy. Not when they both knew what the other wanted. She moved closer loosening the knot of his tie.
“I like you Fritz Haber.” She stared up at him, mouth parted. He heard her unspoken invitation and crushed
her lips with his own.
Charlotte arched into him, overcome by the sense of achievement that flooded her mind. It didn’t matter that this man was bound to another woman. She didn’t care if he had a child who waited for him at home.
She pulled away, holding out her hand and moving down the darkened hallway. “Come.”
“Find us a private place.”
Charlotte turned to him slowly and, when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and low. “Like I said, I want to give you a private tour. I know of a very private room whose door locks from the inside.”
She held out a pale, soft hand, knowing from the gleam of devilry in his eyes that he would not resist.
“She refused me for all these years.” Fritz’s lips curled back in a snarl as he slipped his hand in hers. “I am no monk.”
Charlotte’s mouth curved in a victorious smile, knowing that he was speaking of his wife. “No, you’re no monk, Fritz.” She pulled him down the dark, carpeted halls toward a pair of gilded doors. “I’m counting on that.”
CLARA STARED AT HER husband’s closed bedroom door, silently willing her hands of ice to turn the handle. Her heart thudded dully against her chest, thumping like an executioner’s drum as it counted down the last moments of a condemned prisoner’s life.
A flash of heat spread throughout her upper body, spilling over to her face. Closing her eyes, Clara ignored the sensation. It would pass after about a minute. It always did. As she waited, her mind rolled back to a memory she couldn’t escape.
When they had last quarreled, Fritz had hurt her with a comment that had cut into her mind and, like an infected wound, festered in the weeks that followed.
We have not been together in years.
It was true. The last time had brought a child on the scene; a child that had chained her to the role of wife and mother—a path from which she craved escape. She wiped her forehead, unable to stop the beads of sweat that escaped her bun and trickled down her long, thin neck to the damp collar of her nightgown.
Fritz had approached her several times over the years but, the realization that being a wife could mean becoming a mother yet again, stifled any spark of desire. So, she had refused her husband, plying one excuse after another until he no longer sought her out. Knowledge was her lover. Science was her mate. The only part of Fritz that she desired was his mind—and even that had proven to be a disappointment.
Now, as she rapped on his door, Clara felt more like running from the husband she had come to despise then giving herself to him. But the constant sight of Hermann’s drawn, pale face had driven her to the point of attempting a reconciliation. While she could not escape the feeling that her son’s existence chained her to the home, she did long to see him smile again.
Hours of tossing on her bed while punching her pillow had finally driven her to accept the truth: she had failed as a wife and as a mother. More importantly, she had failed as a scientist. Regret for what could have been pressed down on her shoulders like an iron mountain, crushing her spirit. If I had only said no when he proposed. If only...
But she had not said “no.” She had willingly gone to the sacrificial altar of marriage, naively believing that there was room enough in Fritz’s heaven for two stars to shine. Her chest began to heave, rising and falling like the bellows of an organ.
Now the sky had fallen, sending her dreams crashing into the dust of reality. It was only a matter of time before Fritz officially left her and that she could not allow. Hermann needed a father—even if he was a cockroach.
Clara licked her lips. There was only one way she could possibly salvage this failed experiment called marriage... and it lay through her husband’s bedroom door.
“Fritz?” Her voice cracked as she called his name.
There was no response. Run! Every neuron in her brain, every cell of her body screamed its protest at what she contemplated but, setting her shoulders, she pushed down on the handle. The door moaned softly as it swung on its hinges. She edged inside a room that was immersed in darkness.
Clara felt her way to a tall bronze lamp that stood in the corner, and turned the switch, wincing as the light struck her eyes. She saw at once that Fritz had not been in his bed. Her eyes slid to the oaken grandfather clock whose solemn tocks filled the room. It was half-past eleven.
Where is he? She had not heard him come in but that was not unusual. He often came and went without acknowledging her existence. But as a rule, he was always in bed by ten o’clock.
She stepped forward, mind spinning through possible scenarios. There had been no emergency contact and no call for help. Fritz was renowned in their neighborhood and throughout most of Berlin. If he was in trouble, someone would have notified her. He would not spend the night in the lab—
Her spine stiffened as the answer plowed into her mind with the mercy of a freight train.
A woman. He was with a woman.
We have not been together in years.
The irony of the situation threatened to choke the very breath from her lungs. Here she had forced her way past her own inhibitions only to realize that she was too late. Clara bit her lip as she wandered aimlessly forward, her mind scrambling to justify her suspicions.
Of course, Fritz would be unfaithful. What else could she have expected from a selfish, narrow-minded bigot who couldn’t see beyond his own animalistic needs? She swayed as shock gave way to a maddening rage that blotted out all reason.
Fritz had ostracized her, abused her, and now he had betrayed her. She needed to strike back. She needed to respond... but how?
Clara took another step forward, stumbling as her foot struck the edge of a small black dresser. Her fingers flew out and she clutched at the handle of a drawer to steady herself. It slid outward and, as she regained her balance, she caught sight of the dark butt of a pistol.
Fritz’s pistol.
At the sight of this small but infinitely powerful tool, the remaining threads of her reason snapped.
“Yes.” Clara giggled as she seized the gun. “My answer.”
What better answer could there be to her husband’s folly than this gift, given by the god of science? Fondling the weapon, she stroked and kissed its smooth bore. Never, in all her forty-four years of life had she felt so empowered.
“He thinks that we can’t hurt him.” Clara pressed the revolver to her lips then laughed again. It was a sharp, bitter sound, more like the cry of a wounded animal than a human expression of joy.
“He thinks he is untouchable. Safe with his lover in a perfect world.” Her strokes became more rapid as her eyes glassed over with tears that failed to express the pain that filled her soul. “But you and I know better, don’t we?”
She kissed the weapon again, savoring the cold strength that emanated from its iron frame. “His perfect world is fragile. One word from your beautiful, round little mouth and it will all be over.” Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she envisioned her husband’s face, contorted with pain and rage. Another face—that of her son— tugged at the edges of her conscience but she quickly shoved the image aside.
“No Hermann.” She eyed the gun hungrily. “You’ve held me back for far too long. It’ll be better this way, you’ll see. When it’s all over, I’ll be free.”
Clara pulled the drawer out further and snatched up five bullets. Then stuffing the weapon into a pocket of her cream cotton nightgown, she clamped a moist hand over the ammunition, and slid the drawer back in place. She glided to the door and flipped off the lights, letting the darkness enshroud her. Her heart now thumped with a steady anticipation, drawing a cool serenity from the metal she clutched against her chest. She could have achieved so much more if Fritz had not invaded her life, wooing her with his empty promises of love and mutual discovery. She was a woman who thrived on doing the impossible.
They had said that she would never obtain her doctorate.
But she had.
They had said that she could never conduct her own research. But she proved th
em wrong.
Now, her conscience told her that she didn’t have the nerve to carry out her plot.
But she would.
A calculating smile slithered across Clara’s face. Sooner or later Fritz would come home and, when he did, the world would never be the same again.
Chapter 13
Etaples, France. April 1915
The heels of Veronica’s white flats thumped against the wooden floor of Saint John’s hospital, a place which looked more like a cross between a graveyard and a butcher’s block than a place of healing. As always, the young nurse moved quickly, knowing that within the next thirty minutes yet another ambulance would roll to a screeching halt outside, depositing still more casualties of humanity’s relentless quest for power.
Her eyes darkening, she quickened her pace, dodging steel carts and stepping around scurrying medics. She had grown up believing in a merciful God who watched over those who trusted in him. That was before the men in her life had all died. A grimace twisted her face. Perhaps humanity’s faith had been the greatest casualty of the war. Mankind had stopped believing in a God who seemed as cold and distant as the stars above.
Take Eleanor for example. The sight of her friend, bent over a patient, made Veronica cluck with sympathy as she came closer. Not only had the young mother lost her only child, but her husband had disappeared in the chaos of war. How could a merciful God allow this to happen? In all likelihood, Will was probably lying belly-up in a trench, staring with vacant eyes at the empty heavens while his brains leaked out from a bullet hole onto the muddy ground. But she would never tell Eleanor that.
Veronica touched her shoulder gently. “Can you pick up the next lot at the train depot?”
Eleanor, whose back was to her friend, yelped and whirled around. “Get away from—” The words died on her tongue as recognition set in.
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