From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  Some of the anger slid from Varina’s face. “Sorry,” she said. Looking back at the stacks of papers she asked, “So, what exactly do you want here?”

  “How many languages can you read?”

  “Everything I see here, plus a few more.”

  “Okay. We’re looking for anything that’s scientific in nature, even if it doesn’t have any outward bearing on polio. If you’re willing to, just go ahead and translate everything that’s there into German.”

  Varina snorted. “Easy! Come back tomorrow with something hard.”

  “You can use Dr. Speer’s office. I can carry you if you think you can refrain from breaking any of my bones.”

  “Thanks but I’ll manage myself.” Varina threw back the blankets, revealing one pale, but nearly normal looking leg. The other was a stick; shrunk to half its normal size. A shared gasp from the watching women told Adolf that Varina didn’t often reveal her weakness to strangers.

  With the help of a crutch, Varina pulled herself upright. Adolf was startled to see she was only about five feet tall, and probably less than one hundred pounds. She handed three notebooks to Adolf. “These are all part of the same influenza study. We’ll start with them.”

  “This is great!” said Adolf. “We’re going to find a cure here; I just know it!”

  Varina snorted. “We’ll see about that. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up over the work of some dead American Jew named Salk.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Adolf sat on a bench in the courtyard and gazed up at the bleak winter sky. Empty machine gun towers stood like black skeletons at the four corners of the Polio Camp. It should be comforting to be so completely forgotten by the Party. But to Adolf, it was simply depressing: the people here weren’t even worth guarding. They were already dead.

  And so was Adolf. It was official now; he’d just heard it himself on Dr. Speer’s radio. Although the banished doctor had been left with a radio only for the convenience of the Party who might occasionally need to contact him, it still picked up the news station.

  The badly burned corpse of Adolf Goebbels had been discovered in Italy, just weeks before his twenty-third birthday. His captors had tried to force him into bombing Party Headquarters in Rome, the sight of recent Catholic dissidence. The heroic young Aryan had made a valiant attempt at escape, and thus died rather than betray his race. His grieving parents were not available for comment.

  It was this last part that worried Adolf. He didn’t know if that meant they were dead, in prison, in hiding, or busy trying to denounce him.

  He returned his attention to the letter he had been working on ever since he arrived here.

  Dear Ilsa,

  I’ve found useful work at last. It’s physically demanding, but leaves lots of time for reading and contemplating my future. I’m meeting interesting people. I’m so popular that some of them say they wish they could take me with them when they leave.

  While I wish I could be wherever you are now, sharing your work with you, I’ve come to realize that our lives have taken different paths. I guess what I really wish for is your faith; your certainty; your ability to know that you’re making a difference.

  For myself, I’ve learned a few important things, none of which suggest I’m any sort of hero. I want to save the world, but I don’t want to hurt anyone in the process. Cowardice or arrogance? Then there are days when I want to chuck it all, find you, and find a place where we can live quietly, if not happily, ever after.

  What if I had to choose? Between having you and saving the world? Honestly, I couldn’t say what I’d do—

  Adolf stopped writing and reread the letter. Then he tore it up. There were some things you didn’t commit to paper.

  He considered beginning again, when the choking sounds of poorly maintained diesel engines broke into his thoughts. It had been over three weeks since the last transport. This morning, not one, but two trucks were approaching the gate.

  Adolf quickly ducked into the men’s ward while the trucks were unloaded, still more fearful of being recognized than of polio. Of course, after nearly two months without contracting the disease, Adolf had begun to fear it less. And now that he was dead, he should probably worry less about capture, and more about becoming anonymous.

  After the drivers had dumped their human cargo and hurried away, Adolf joined Dr. Speer and the few other able bodied inmates at triage and transport.

  The patients in the first truck were all from the same town in southeastern France. “Former town,” Adolf heard some of them saying. Apparently, the new polio had struck suddenly, as it often did now, infecting nearly the entire town. However, a large number on the truck were already showing signs of recovery; others of only partial paralysis. Soil and water samples accompanied the orders to investigate any factors which may have contributed to either the virulent spread, or the unusually high rate of survival.

  With a start, Adolf saw that several of the patients wore Hebrew letters sewn to their clothing, or in charms around their neck. He thought of Markus, who sold Jewish mysticism to the desperate. Apparently, there were others like him, and with desperation so much on the rise, business must be good. A man who had died en route clutched a crudely carved wooden symbol so tightly that Adolf couldn’t pry it loose. Ironically, it was the chai; the Hebrew word for life.

  Since so many occupants of the first truck were able to take over the job of transporting the more critical patients to the wards, Adolf went to help with the second. It was nearly empty when he arrived, and he stopped in his tracks at what he saw. This was a day for surprises.

  Three African men, with skin like coal, and short, wiry black hair, stood apart from a small group of olive skinned Egyptians.

  “Adolf? A word with you please?” Dr. Speer was beside him. Adolf nodded and followed the doctor a short distance, noticing the troubled look on his mentor’s face.

  “Have you ever seen a Negro before?” Speer asked.

  “No. I’ve never even seen a picture! I had heard there were still some in Africa, but—“

  “Quite a few, actually. For the moment. Adolf, I’ve just received a very disturbing report, along with a set of special orders for this group. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course,” said Adolf, feeling his stomach tighten.

  “The Party scientists have noticed an unusually high resistance—possibly even immunity—to this disease in a few of the remaining groups of inferior races. It doesn’t mean anything yet, but I am ordered to directly expose these subjects to the polio virus, and observe them for ninety days.”

  “And then?” asked Adolf. “If they don’t contract it?”

  “Whether they do or not,” said Speer, “I am then ordered to terminate them, and attempt, through autopsy, to learn any pertinent information that can be gained.”

  Adolf felt his heart jump. “And…will you?”

  “Exactly what else do you think I can do?” Adolf knew the anger in Speer’s voice was not really aimed at him, but at those in power whom he could not reach. Still, he felt the man’s pain; shared his helplessness.

  “Are you a gambling man, Doctor?”

  Speer smiled bleakly. “I’m letting you stay here, aren’t I?”

  “So why not go even further? Gamble on finding a cure in the next ninety days. Varina says you’re close.”

  Speer shook his head. “That’s a vaccine, not a cure we’re working on. And that sort of time table would be insane.”

  “A vaccine appears to be what the Party hopes to find.”

  “Finding a vaccine won’t save the Africans, you know,” said Speer. “And once it’s discovered that I’ve disobeyed those orders, it won’t save me. They’ll just shoot me, and give the credit to some Party Scientist who’s in favor at the moment.”

  “That’s assuming any of us are still here when they come to investigate,” said Adolf.

  Dr. Speer sighed. “I’m probably going to regret asking you this, Adolf, but w
hat do you have in mind?”

  “Find the vaccine, then evacuate the camp.” Adolf gestured to the deserted guard towers. “There’s no one here but us! We don’t even know if anyone’s going to remember to come here looking for results in ninety days. The Party doesn’t waste resources guarding this place, because by its very nature, polio renders its victims too immobile to represent a threat to Party Security.

  “I know it’s a huge risk, but if you think there’s a chance you’ll have something within three months, I say we take it and walk away.”

  “Walk away?”

  “Ah, er, those of us who can,” said Adolf, suddenly realizing how difficult transporting—and then hiding—the crippled would be. But he knew it could be done.

  The doctor had that far away look that told Adolf he was weighing things in his head. Suddenly, he smiled. “Why not? I always did love the old story of King Louis’s horse.”

  “King Louis’s horse?” asked Adolf.

  “Don’t you know the old story? There was a thief, who King Louis of

  France—I don’t know which number—condemned to death. The thief told the king that if he granted him a pardon, and gave him a year, he’d teach the king’s favorite horse to talk.

  “A friend of the thief told him he was mad; that no one could teach a horse to talk.

  “But the thief said, ‘Who knows? After all, a year is a long time. The king could die, or the horse could die, or I could die. Or, the horse could talk.’”

  Adolf laughed. “You are a true hero, Herr Doctor. I only wish we had a year, instead of three months.”

  “Ah, well. Timing isn’t everything. And who knows? If I find the vaccine, they might not even shoot me!”

  Adolf sat alone in the courtyard, trying to read. It was cold, but dry. For the moment, at least, Adolf thought, staring into the low, steel gray rain clouds that matched his mood.

  As if things weren’t bad enough already…

  That was becoming a familiar phrase. Adolf thought briefly about putting it to music. Everywhere he went, he seemed to make things worse. For himself. For his friends. And, in this place of death where the rarest of doctors—a true healer—struggled against impossible odds—here was Adolf, playing games with people’s lives, and goading a good man into becoming a martyr. Why? What did he hope to accomplish?

  Adolf thought of his family, as he had constantly since hearing word of his own death. He hoped that the circumstances of it all, as reported by the Party, would exonerate Helmut, and protect his position.

  But it wasn’t likely. The news broadcasts were for the consumption of the masses. The men who ordered those broadcasts knew the real story. And the shameful facts of Adolf’s treason would be well known to everyone in the upper echelons.

  Like any powerful man, Helmut had enemies. In the Reich, people moved up by pulling down whom they could and climbing over the bodies. Helmut wasn’t the kind of man to live with disgrace. And if he was dead, what of Adolf’s sisters? His mother? Uncle Gustav?

  A chilling thought occurred to Adolf, one he hadn’t had before. If Herr Goebbels had chosen suicide, might he have taken his entire family with him? Adolf shook his head, willing the nightmarish image away. It was too awful to contemplate.

  The discovery that he had company came as a relief. Two children, boys, he judged by their shadows, were standing about a body length behind him. Adolf did not turn around, but sensed they were more interested in the book which lay open on the bench, than in him.

  “It’s easier to read if you come closer,” he said.

  Adolf didn’t think he spoke loudly, but both boys cleared the ground, bumped into each other as they landed, and began to run—squealing the entire time.

  “Come back here!” Adolf called, this time conscious of his commanding tone. It had the same effect on the children as his father’s voice had had on him.

  Both boys approached, heads hanging. “Sorry to disturb, you Herr Adolf,” said the older one. Adolf guessed he was about ten.

  “Don’t be. I needed the distraction. Did you want to see what I was reading? You can read it, if you know how. If not, I’d be glad to read some of it to you.”

  The boys exchanged a nervous glance. “Isn’t that one of the Sacred Texts?” one asked.

  “Well, I consider what’s in it to be sacred, but that’s just me. It’s a book about an ancient religion called Judaism—“

  Both boys jumped back. “See, I told you,” whispered the younger one. “He’s one of them.”

  “Jean Paul has a book like that,” said the older boy. “Or, at least he did, back in the village. He and some of the other important men used to read from it.”

  Adolf’s initial excitement turned to puzzlement. Sacred Texts? Important men? He recalled the Hebrew letters which some of these boy’s neighbors wore as charms against polio.

  “Did Jean Paul come to your village and tell you that there was magic in his book?” he asked gently. “Did he sell your friends charms that looked like this?” Adolf pointed to the right hand page; the one written in Hebrew.

  Both boys were shaking their heads. “Jean Paul isn’t a peddler—“

  “—was peddlers sold the charms—“ said the younger.

  “He’s secretary to the Party lazzanoffer—“

  “You mean ‘liaison officer?’” said Adolf.

  “Right! Him and the other big men started reading these books a few months ago. They’re supposed to…supposed to—“

  “We don’t know what they’re supposed to do! But Jean Paul says they’re only for the Chosen Ones. They wouldn’t tell anybody else, or even let us touch the books.”

  Adolf sighed. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. This was, after all, a stratified society. People naturally adapted anything new into familiar patterns. Hadn’t he and his friends found what they wanted to find in Judaism as well?

  But still… “It isn’t like that at all,” he found himself telling the boys. “Jean Paul and his friends are right—there is great power in these words, but they are for everyone.”

  The boys looked at each other, then back at Adolf. He read doubt and suspicion in their eyes.

  “The people who wrote these books are all dead,” he continued. “They were all killed by the Party, just for believing what’s in these books that Jean Paul and some others have found. Anyone who wants to can read them and find out what they believed, but there’s no one left alive to tell us if what we interpret is right or not.”

  “But Jean Paul says—“

  “Look around you!” snapped Adolf. “Do you see any Party members? Do you even see any Aryans, other than the doctor and myself? Jean Paul doesn’t have any power here; he can’t tell you what to do anymore. So I’m asking you: do you want to know what’s so special about these books?”

  Both boys nodded vigorously, nearly losing their hats.

  “Sit down,” said Adolf, gesturing with both hands to the bench on which he sat.

  The older boy leaped to obey, but the younger one grabbed him by the frayed collar of his jacket and whispered something.

  “Andre wants to know if we can bring a friend. He’s back in the ward.”

  “Bring whomever you like,” said Adolf. “Tell anyone who’s interested that there’s a… a Torah study in the courtyard.”

  The boys took off running. They returned a few minutes later, carrying a third boy between them, his body wasted from polio. Behind them, over a dozen other patients and test subjects walked, were carried or were dragged on blankets. Adolf nearly laughed as they settled down at his feet, apparently waiting for some great message. Then he sobered. The message was great, even if the messenger wasn’t.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Adolf began. “All I can tell you is what I know. Long ago, there lived a people known as Jews. They were different from other ancient people because they worshipped but one god—a god whose name and face even they didn’t know, but whose spirit was all around them.

  “
They had a great civilization, and wrote about their beliefs, hopes, fears, passions—everything. Our illustrious leaders—“ here, Adolf spat on the ground, to the shock and delight of his audience—“murdered every last man, woman and child who followed these teachings. But the truth cannot be killed. It lives, in books, and in the hearts of those who seek it. In fact, the Jews believed that God’s words were written within every person’s heart. And that it’s up to each of us to find them.”

  Adolf opened the Torah to the first page of Genesis. “I can read to you from the beginning, or, if anyone has something special they would like to discuss, we can start there.”

  No one seemed inclined to speak, so Adolf began reading from the first chapter of Genesis. When he reached the expulsion from Eden he stopped. “Now, back at the museum,” said Adolf, “we would stop here, and discuss what this story might be trying to tell us.”

  “Never talk to snakes?” said a boy in the front row.

  “No, dummy,” said the girl beside him. “That’s just a symbol.”

  “What’s a symbol?” asked the boy, looking at Adolf for an answer.

  Impressed, Adolf looked back. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “Ask her.”

  The girl, less intimidated by him than most of the others replied, “It’s like a truth that wears a fancy mask.”

  A few of the children laughed but Adolf applauded. “Excellent!” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mirielle.” She was about eleven or twelve. About Marta’s age, Adolf thought, if she was still alive. This girl, however, looked nothing like Adolf’s last memory of his sturdy blond sister. Mirielle was thin and wraithlike, with dry, colorless hair and nearly translucent skin. He had the disturbing feeling that she would not be with them for long, though the polio did not appear to have left her crippled.

  It took a lot of patience on Adolf’s part, but slowly, people overcame their shyness or awe, and began to ask questions and express opinions. Unlike the privileged college students who were his first colleagues, these people were from the lower classes; the kind his father felt existed to be stepped on. But they were soon arguing with Adolf as an equal, perhaps because so many were short on time.