by Kay Kenyon
The officer at the table, not as young as the last one, wore round wire-frame glasses and looked very much the clerk despite the uniform.
“Nora Copeland,” he said. Her passport was now attached to a file, and he glanced at it. “American.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You will put your suitcase on the table.” His English was very formal. He glanced at her handbag.
She placed both the suitcase and handbag on the table, and the soldier began his search. After a time, he turned to the officer, nodding that they held nothing of concern. He left the sanitary towels in the bottom of the suitcase. As she and Hannah had guessed, handling such items was distasteful to the SS, particularly in front of other SS men.
The officer said, “We will take your suitcase now. You are assigned new clothes.” He gestured at one of the bundles on the table.
“Yes, of course.” She paused, a tasteful hesitation. “But I have need of the . . .” She glanced at the sanitary towels.
“You will have provisions for such needs once you are settled.”
“But, well, it has been a long drive.”
The officer, offended by the subject, swept a hand toward her suitcase. “You may use the toilet down the hall.”
She took the nearly empty suitcase and left the room, finding the lavatory at one end of the barracks hall. Once inside a stall, she tore open one of the sanitary towels and, detaching a layer of gauze, spread it over her lap. Two of the napkins that held the tincture had been carefully sewn shut. She split open the stitches and tapped the powder onto the gauze fabric, then rolled it up and tucked it into a slit in another towel. She pushed this one into her underwear.
On her way out of the lavatory she threw the ruined towels into the garbage.
She tried to wipe the smirk off her face as she returned the suitcase to the intake officer. He narrowed his eyes at her. She had no right to smile.
Stop it, she told herself.
Her driver sped them up the road a short way to their destination. Her stack of supplies and clothes sat next to her. She now wore a shirt and slacks, sturdy black shoes, and a wool jacket. Her driver was a Nachkomme, or so she judged by the elongated skull beneath his peaked SS hat and the unnaturally long hands on the steering wheel.
He must have been augmented over a period of years, to have such decided markers for the . . . disease, she wanted to say.
The disease she had now contracted.
She was eager to meet her contact. So many things she needed to know about the Aerie. The back door. But at the moment, the main thing she wanted to know was, When does the giggling stop?
He parked next to several other black cars, one of them especially long and sleek, perhaps belonging to someone important. He motioned her out of the car.
She found herself standing in front of a massive cliff face rising five or six hundred feet. A knife-edged wind carried sleet sideways into her face. Soldiers dressed in the gray Waffen SS uniform and the SS black stood in knots, talking. The Aerie lay just above her. The Monarch’s nest. A gun battery was just visible at the top.
All amusement fled.
She noted an officer emerging from a door carved into the cliff. He carried a courier bag and hurried to a waiting car. When she passed through that door she would be inside the Aerie. It had been her goal, but the triumph she had felt moments before dimmed. She was walking into their redoubt.
Her driver, still not having spoken a word to her, ushered her through the door in the cliff.
In a brightly lit, chiseled stone hall, a lift. Flanked by two guards.
Her Nachkomme escort pulled the collapsing cage doors open, and securing them, punched the button to ascend. Standing next to her, he was taller than she, but not dramatically so. He took a moment to regard her. He kept his face professional, cool, but his nostrils flared.
Seeing this, she inhaled deeply to test her own sense of smell. Was that odor she detected that of his oiled hair?
They moved upward, accompanied by the lift’s smoothly functioning hum.
36
THE AERIE
A FEW MOMENTS LATER. The cage rose into the open air. They were in a booth open on two sides. In front of them, a spacious courtyard flanked by a few buildings. The square was dominated by a massive lodge, its second-story windows hung with Christmas wreaths. Facing it on the opposite side of the yard, a snow-covered residence that must be Annakova’s chalet.
Outside both buildings, guards with submachine guns.
Icy paths through the snow crisscrossed the square, showing the travel patterns of the Aerie’s occupants. Her escort led her along one of these. Kim noted that the shelf on which this retreat had been built butted up against the sheer cliff of a mountainside. They were high in the German Alps, in a fortress location accessible only by lift, except for the secret way in and out that Hannah had spoken of. A back door. Somewhere. It certainly existed or otherwise, Hannah would not have been so sure. Clearly she was trying to reassure herself. And why? How wretched if she had been taken in, imagined a friendship formed under duress and she, committed to doing her part in the great struggle, had let herself . . . believe. This was not the time for doubt. It was only fear that brought such thoughts.
When they came to the edge of the plaza, the officer led the way up a sanded walkway into a barracks area dotted with fir trees. They passed a frozen pond with a shed on the bank.
Their destination, the nearest barracks. A few stairs led to the doorway, and they climbed these, entering a short hall with rooms on either side, doors closed. Farther on, a communal space was just visible: beds, storage trunks at their feet.
The officer opened one of the doors. Two women sat on bunks, with a third bunk empty. The door closed behind her.
One of the women, a thin, pinched-looking blonde wearing an alpine sweater, pointed at the remaining empty bed.
Kim placed her clothes parcel on it. Since it nestled next to the window, it was undoubtedly the coldest station. She sat on the precisely made bed and looked around her. Open shelves were already full of the others’ supplies. A picture of Hitler in a cheap wooden frame hung over one bed.
“I’m Nora. Do either of you speak English?”
The blonde woman said, “I am Erika.” She cocked her head at the other woman, stocky and dark-haired. “That is Hilde.”
Hilde remained silent, reading a book.
“We will speak English if we must,” Erika said, “though it would be better to speak German.” She looked up at the picture of Hitler as though seeking his approval for the sentiment.
From the walls came a solid clunking sound followed by a brief gust of warmth from the floor vent. Kim shivered, pawing through her stack of clothes for a sweater. She found one along with a tan shirt, three pairs of knickers, large. Two pairs of wool socks. A brassiere shaped like a harness. A cream-colored nightdress incongruously patterned with bluebells.
On the sly, Kim assessed her roommates. Erika was in charge. She spoke first and had the picture of the Führer. The dark-haired one was nervous, afraid of the other woman, darting glances at her whenever Erika’s back was turned.
It was crucial to know what Talents each of them had. Pray God it was not the spill; Kim was at high risk of divulging since her intention, her critical need, was to maintain her cover. So if one of them had the spill, she was at risk. Even if you were one yourself, you were no more able to fend it off. This, she had learned to her disadvantage with Erich von Ritter. Also a danger: hyperempathy. Kim was subject to bouts of alarm among Nazis, an emotion that would trigger suspicion. Perhaps worst of all: precognition.
“Where do you come from, Erika?” Kim asked. She smiled at the woman, but it was not returned.
After a long pause: “Düsseldorf.”
Kim turned to Hilde, but the woman pretended she did not see.
“I’m from Albuquerque. I expect you haven’t heard of it, but it’s in the Southwestern United States. I’m not used to all t
his snow.” Erika frowned. “Though it is exceptionally pretty, of course.”
She mustn’t lay it on too thick. She hoped that Hilde would be more amenable to conversation, perhaps when Erika was not around.
Her first priority was to make contact with Dietrich Adler, whom Oberman Group called Tannhäuser. There hadn’t been time for Hannah to let him know that they had sent an operative. Adler was the one who knew the hidden escape route. She would need it if something went wrong. However, if all went according to plan, she would transmit the disabling drug to Irina Annakova at the ceremony and no one would be the wiser. Even if the woman knew something was amiss, she almost certainly could not guess what had happened.
Erika turned to her. “The lavatory is down the hall just before the great room. It is for women only, because this barracks is women’s quarters. We are the only women in residence. The civilian men are in the barracks up the hill.” Her tone and demeanor stiffened. “There will be no fraternizing,” she said, as though Kim might be particularly susceptible. “Our seating for lunch is promptly at one thirty at the Festival Hall.”
Kim was very hungry indeed. She suddenly craved a savory mutton stew or a brisket of beef. Rare would be lovely.
“What do they serve?” she asked.
“Potatoes.”
Erika marched the two of them down to what they called Festival Hall. This was the largest building in the Aerie, with the ground floor taken up by dining rooms, kitchen, and staff offices. Erika had made it clear they would be going together. Hilde, who had finally introduced herself, walked at their side.
Their barracks was on the hillside under the cloak of evergreens, but ahead Kim noticed that the hall was covered with snow, brilliant in the sunshine. It struck Kim like a hammer between the eyes.
Erika glanced at her. “You are all right?”
“Oh yes, fine. I’m not used to the snow, is all.”
“It is mountain altitude,” Hilde said, trundling along, apparently happy to be out of the confines of the barracks. So she knew some English after all.
Shots came from the woods. Kim spun around to look.
“It is only target practice,” Erika explained.
Before they resumed their walk, Kim saw a soldier patrolling in the woods, submachine gun at the ready.
“You are not used to being around guns,” Erika said with conviction.
Kim longed to set her straight. “You are right. It gave me a start.” As they entered the back door of the hall, she tried not to sigh in relief to be out of the molten daylight.
They filed down a hallway past a kitchen. In the wall, lunch servings were lined up on a counter. The three of them each took a bowl of soup and continued to a small dining area with long tables set up end to end. Farther down the hall was a great room where the SS Nachkommenschaft took their meals. Erika waved her to the end of one of the tables, pointing to where she should sit, but Kim pretended she had not seen the gesture and took a seat with her back to the window. She was next to the man she had seen in line at the intake center. Looking around, she saw five other men scattered at tables.
The one from the intake center smiled at her briefly and went back to his soup.
Potato soup, Kim discovered. She could not eat it. But she must. She spooned in mouthfuls. Bread and jam, also doubtful. She must not appear to have any symptoms of augmentation. They would expect that from her later, but not yet.
Three more souls joined the group, speaking German, presumably Talents. All civilians. They would be ones sent to infiltrate governments, judiciary, railroads, civil defense—all critical institutions requiring undermining and subversion to clear the way for the painless annexation—of what Hannah had claimed would be Poland, France, the Netherlands, Czechoslovakia. And Russia. Or at least the rich Ukraine. A bit more than the ostensible Lebensraum, breathing room, that Hitler claimed was the limit of his ambition.
On the other side of her, a white-haired man in a dark suit took a seat. Down the table, Erika cast fretful glances at her. She might have been directed to watch the occupants of the women’s barracks. Well, Erika would not be going into the toilet stalls with her. Hannah’s idea to smuggle the powder in sanitary products had been brilliant.
Only two of the men had the physical symptoms of the Progeny. Perhaps the others had not yet undergone a large number of—or any—augmentations. She strained to hear the conversations in the room, curious about nationalities, the languages.
A server brought in a platter of cold sliced beef. The sight was very welcome. The elderly man helped himself. Kim reached for a share, taking a nice portion.
Even as busy eating as she was, she noted that one of the Nachkommenschaft was wolfing down his food. It reminded her that she must not.
The old man seated next to her turned in her direction. “Es ist gutes Rindfleisch.”
“Ich spreche nicht viel Deutsch.” I don’t speak German very well.
Speaking English with a heavy Russian or Slavic accent, he said, “I think English, then.’ ”
She nodded. This might be the man Hannah had called Evgeny, a friend of Annakova’s.
He went on. “What I said to you: ‘It is good beef.’ ”
“Very tasty,” she agreed.
“Cook serves special when I am here.” With a smug smile, he fixed a look at his tablemates. “Da, she like it when I come to table. Yesterday, goulash!” He went on. “You know goulash?”
“Yes. I am an American. I have heard of goulash.” She smiled at him, and they made eye contact. “You speak German and English and I am guessing Russian as well, sir. Languages are a great skill.”
“Da! And Czech. I do not get good English practice, though.” His watery blue eyes strained to focus on her. Then he glanced at her plate and picked up a small roasted potato. Examining it, he tossed it back onto the platter. “Is cold. I do not like cold.”
He frowned at his plate. “You will die,” he murmured casually.
Startled, she looked at him.
“Yes. Die.”
She could not contain her look of dismay.
“I see picture.” A sly smile. “Your death. You wish to know?”
“No.” Instinctive. Of course no.
“Da. You want to know. This thing I see clearly.”
What if he had precognition? “Don’t tell me.”
“I tell you, lady. Is important.”
Rising from her chair, she pushed back from the table. “No. I said please don’t.”
Erika looked up, frowning.
What did he see? Her death here in the Aerie, out there on the plaza, shot in the head? A bad death in a Gestapo basement? In forty years, alone at Wrenfell? She had to get away. Because she most certainly did not want to know.
She fled the table, heading to the door. People looked up from their plates; Hilde rose from her bench.
The old man turned in his chair to shout at her. “Is blood in the snow! Blood staining on white shirt! A man with uniform. A gun. I see this!”
She hurried from the room, into the hallway.
He followed her, shouting, “Wait! Wait!”
Almost to the outer door, something made her turn to face him. The desperation in his voice. The pathetic state of an old man, mentally unstable, helpless. At her sudden calm, he approached her. She noted that he wore an old-fashioned suit with waistcoat and cravat. He walked by the pass-through where bowls of soup sat cooling.
Standing before her now, his voice was calm and soft. “I see city also. St. Petersburg, great city of Mother Russia. City I am born in. But Nazis, they kill her.” He put a hand on her forearm, his grip solid, like a friend telling you something that you didn’t want to hear but must for your own good.
He held up his hand, finger pointing to his temple. “Not just bullet to head. Nyet. Slow death. Mothers, fathers, babies, horses. And dogs—they are first to go! No food except crows and rats.” His eyes filled with tears. “People eat body of own children.”
Erik
a had come out of the dining room into the hallway but remained by the door.
“Bodies stiff in snow. Ground is frozen so no one buried, but in stacks.” Tears slipped down his face. He struggled to speak. “How many die? A million. Da! A million. I see, I count bodies. And if you live, going insane from hungry, from sorrow.”
He held up a finger as though making an academic point. “Who is killing city?” He looked behind at Erika, who stood watching from the doorway. He whispered to Kim. “German army.”
“That is enough, Evgeny.” Erika speaking up.
He turned to face her. “Oh. You say so?” He began walking toward her. Putting on a burst of speed, he rushed to the kitchen pass-through. Lunging at it, he swept the bowls off the counter. Crockery shattered on the floor, soup splattering the walls, himself, Erika.
People crowded out of the dining room, staring at the scene. A woman shouted for help, as Evgeny rampaged through the shattered plates and bowls, kicking them and smearing potato soup as he went.
Two SS guards slammed into the hallway from outside and took hold of Evgeny, subduing him.
Kim caught her breath, stunned by the eruption of rage and despair.
As Evgeny was marched past her, he mumbled, “So many ways of dying. So many.”
“I know,” she found herself saying.
The light from the open door flooded her mind. The glare of snow blinded her for a moment. It wiped her clean of small things, leaving the larger truths, of suffering, insanity, death. And the simple thought: Only God remains. And He is a bright and indifferent light.
She followed the soldiers out onto the plaza. As they led the old man away, she heard him grumble, “I am needing lunch. My lunch.”
They escorted him in the direction of a group of small cabins on a knoll across from the gun emplacement.
Feeling numb, Kim walked back up to the barracks. Erika hurried after her. “Wait, Nora.”
Ignoring her, Kim increased her pace. Her heart pounded unnaturally, too fast, hammering at her breastbone.
Erika entered the room as Kim sat on her bed, head in her hands. “We all excuse ourselves from the meal table together,” she intoned.
