Letters to numbers, I suppose, but she’d have used a cipher. For a short message like this, she’d probably go with a one-time pad no one can break. Now I just need the pad. There’s no point in trying to guess, so I must already have it. Mother would have given it to me. Think, Mia. Think.
“Your mother sends her best. She wants to know where you are.” Mother knows exactly where I am, or she couldn’t have sent Dornberger to meet us. Bleicherode. That must be it. Bleicherode is the pad. I need a pen.
Twenty-one. That’s a “t” … Three … Fifteen …
…
Let’s see what we got.
Trkrclslv
Does that mean anything? Tracker … close. Tracker close. Leave.
Fuck me.
12
Stormy Weather
I have not heard from Mia since she arrived in Bleicherode, and there are few intelligence reports coming out of the area.
I know General Dornberger rendezvoused with them as I asked. I know he delivered my message. I did not want to risk burning him, but I had no choice. I told Dornberger his escape route in the north was compromised, that he had to join von Braun and head south. He could not do it on his own without arousing suspicion, so he took all of his troops with him. He will help as much as he can. He is an intelligent man, enough to know he is more valuable with von Braun than on his own. Dornberger could betray us. He offered to help only to save himself, and there is no reason to believe his priorities will change if the Germans find out. There is also no point in thinking about it. He is on our side for now, and there is very little I can do if he chooses to not uphold his end of the bargain. In fact, there is very little I can do, period.
I am out of focus, distracted by the smallest thing. I am grateful to Hsue-Shen for his insight but muddled by his suggestion. I cannot go back in time, nor can I walk to the general store and order air by its vintage year. Perhaps some form of container, sealed shut and conserved for centuries … I am nowhere near a solution, and my train of thought keeps veering in a more existential direction.
I became interested in climate change because my mother did. She became involved for the same reason. My grandmother is the one who started it all, but why? Why would she choose to go down that path? I realize how important the outcome is for the future, ours and everyone else’s, but we are the Kibsu. Our path is to the stars. More puzzling is the fact that my mother stumbled upon her mother’s notes by accident. My grandmother abandoned her life’s work to pursue this inquiry, and she did not tell a soul. Take them to the stars. That is what we do. Preserve the knowledge. That is how we do it. Why did my grandmother break the rules? And if it was that important to her, why did she not want her daughter to know about it?
More questions and not a single answer. Mia is missing. The Tracker might be closing in on us.
I will pour myself a bath and read from the Enūma Anu Enlil. That should calm me down. I do not know why I like reading from it; it is nothing but the ramblings of ancient Akkadian fortune-tellers. Perhaps it reminds me of who I am. No one knows how we came to lose the knowledge that was once ours, but we did. At some point, one of us had to start from scratch, learn everything from nothing. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like for the Eleven, knowing there was so much beyond the sky but having no way to see it. Dreaming of civilizations a galaxy away, machines that can cross the heavens in an instant, yet stuck in the middle of the Iron Age. We were living in huts. Science was the domain of soothsayers. Somehow, we got our hands on these. The Enūma Anu Enlil was a series of tablets containing omens, some type of briefings for the king, warning him of things to come. Most of it is utter nonsense, but many of these omens were based on celestial phenomena: the way the moon behaves, the position of the sun, some stars and planets.
The tablet I am reading from is particularly grim. Whoever wrote it was not in a good place.
“If on the first day of Nisannu the sunrise is sprinkled with blood: grain will vanish in the country, there will be hardship and human flesh will be eaten.”
Human flesh will be eaten. It would take a severe drought, or perhaps a long siege, to reach that level of desperation. Even then, I doubt cannibalism as a means of sustenance was really a thing. What is more interesting is the idea that a red sky in the morning is a bad omen. There is some truth to it. In high-pressure areas where good weather is found, there is more dirt and dust in the lowest layers of the sky. That dust scatters colors with a shorter wavelength and lets the red shine through. Where most people live, the weather moves from west to east, and if we see the sun rise through good weather that has already passed, that good weather likely made way for some bad. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.”
In these tablets, the red sky brings with it much more than bad weather. “If on the first day of Nisannu the sunrise looks sprinkled with blood and the light is cool: the king will die and there will be mourning in the country. If it becomes visible on the second day and the light is cool: the king’s high official will die and mourning will not stop in the country.”
Those first two days of the month of Nisannu must have been quite stressful. For the king, obviously, but also for the scholar who wrote it. If the sunrise did look bloody and no one died, there would be some explaining to do. Things get better for everyone on the third day.
“If the sunrise is sprinkled with blood on the third day: an eclipse will take place.”
It goes on and on. Some parts are more interesting than others. One of the tablets is a crude mathematical scheme to predict what the moon will look like on a given day. It all seems childish now, but this was information worthy of a king back then. For us, it was a place to start.
To reach for the stars must have seemed an unsurmountable task, like finding air from a thousand years ago, but here we are, closer than ever. We are the Kibsu. We will prevail.
13
Trouble So Hard
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
It won’t be long now.
Tick.
Tock.
They should have let me leave.
“I just want to go for a walk,” I said.
“No, ma’am. We have orders to keep you safe.”
Orders to keep me safe. What he meant is I’m a prisoner. We all are. Thousands of German engineers, wives, children, and nieces held prisoner by the Germans. The Third Reich is falling apart, and the Nazis are scrambling to keep it together any way they can. That includes holding their own people captive. Trust has never been one of Hitler’s strong suits. It won’t last, the Allies are nearby. It’s just a question of time before they get to Bleicherode. I suppose that’s good news, though the SS have orders to shoot us all when that happens. Sore losers. They’ll do it, I’m sure. The real prize isn’t here anymore.
Kammler sent them farther south, to Oberammergau, a small internment camp in the Bavarian Alps. Them. He sent them there. Von Braun and five hundred of his top people. No workers, no wives. No nieces. He had General Dornberger make the list. I guess he still doesn’t trust von Braun. I find the irony slightly amusing, but it doesn’t make up for the mess they’ve left behind. All those families we worked so hard to keep together, they broke them apart faster than they could say goodbye. I don’t know if I was more heartbroken by the crying children or pissed we did all of that for nothing. The SS shoved everyone of value into trucks and they drove away. Dornberger went with them. It’s so absurd, I don’t know why I’m doing this anymore.
Guarding your own people isn’t that hard. There are only a handful of soldiers left here to keep us company, and shoot us all if the Americans get too close. The rest of Dornberger’s men are busy dying in the mud somewhere. I’ve been lying in my bunk for … almost three hours now. I don’t know where everyone is. I have the whole room for myself. The light in here is something else. I opened all the windows to let the cool breeze in. The wind is picking up now. I
can hear it whistle along the window frames. Inside there’s paper flying everywhere, posters flapping on the concrete walls. I don’t care. I’m burning hot.
Bombs are dropping all over Europe. Thirty, forty, fifty million dead—million—and I’m here trying to save a handful, or one. I’ve already killed someone doing it. All so I can hand them over to the Americans for them to make even bigger bombs. The craziest part is the Germans are doing the same thing. Kammler is trying to save the exact same people! And he’s doing it so he can hand them over to the Americans as well! You think this would be easy, right? Hell, they could make a deal with Kammler right now and be done with it. Maybe they will. I hope they don’t. I really do. I want to see that evil prick burn. I want to light the match myself.
Maybe it’s the absurdity of it all. Maybe it’s the notion that the Tracker could show up any minute. Maybe I’m still shaken by what happened with Dieter, or that nurse, but I can’t stop thinking about the people here. Ordinary people, expendable people. There are kids everywhere. There’s a boy, maybe seven years old. His name is Frank. He traveled with his parents from Peenemünde. Days cooped up inside a shitty transport truck on a bumpy road with a bunch of people in brown suits. He didn’t say a word, never complained. He played with a toy motorcycle—probably the one personal item his parents let him take along—a piece of twine, and some paper clips I stole from von Braun’s office. Now he’s here. He’s found a couple of kids close to his age. They play marbles all day in the yard. His parents weren’t on Dornberger’s list. They aren’t on anyone’s list. Dad is an accountant. I’m not sure about Mom. They don’t matter, to anyone. Kammler will have them rounded up and shot if the Allies make it all the way here. God forbid the enemy get their hands on another accountant. It might not happen. The SS might take to their heels when they see the Americans. These people aren’t worth dying for. Not Frank, anyway. Not his parents. Kammler wants them killed anyway. He has no idea who these people are, but there are too many folks here to sort through. Mom and Dad just aren’t important enough to justify the effort, and no one gives a shit about Frank.
I’m not supposed to care either. I’m supposed to find a quiet way out of here and head home. Dornberger will take it from here. I know that’s what Mother wants. She wants me to escape and leave all those families here to be killed when the good guys get too close. Fear the Tracker. Always run, never fight. Mother made me repeat the rules every day as a child. She still does sometimes. I’ll admit, that one always struck a chord. Eight-year-old me dreamed of giant monsters, fire-spitting dragons burning down cities. Mother said the Tracker was just a man, but it didn’t matter. How can the devil just be a man? I know better now, but thinking about him still makes me nervous. Run from the Tracker. Always run.
I’ve never seen him, of course. Mother’s never seen him. We haven’t met the Tracker in … seven generations. Not since the Ninety-Two found her mother’s bones boiled clean in a wooden box. He had left a note: “I’ll see you soon.” I wonder if that’s true. I know the Ninety-Two was as real as I am—I’ve read her journals—and I have no reason to doubt her mother was killed by an evil man. But I wonder if the stories we’re told weren’t embellished, even a little, for our benefit. A bit of flair for dramatic effect. For all I know the Tracker is just a name we give evil when it crosses our path. Something for naughty children to fear. Our boogeyman.
Fear the Tracker. I suppose I do. I should run. That’s what they expect of me, von Braun, the OSS, my mother.
Well, fuck von Braun and fuck the OSS. It’s been three hours, that should be enough. I bought rat poison when we left Peenemünde. It was just a precaution, a way to kill myself, or von Braun if things went south. I made my way into the kitchen this morning and poured all of it in the stew. Not ours, the good stuff they serve the SS. The meat they have isn’t that fresh. They put enough vinegar and spices in there to mask the stench, and the taste of the strychnine. Mother said they still use it as medicine in some places. Put enough of it inside someone and it will do a number on their central nervous system. The muscle spasms should have started before they got to dessert. Thirty minutes later they would have been on the ground, convulsing. They probably broke some bones, bit their tongues off or split their heads open. If they were lucky, their lungs seized and they died gasping for air. If they weren’t, well, it took a bit longer. However long it takes to exhaust yourself to death jackknifing on the concrete floor. I don’t care either way. It’s over by now. I’ll stop by the officers’ mess on my way out and take care of those who weren’t hungry.
These people are safe now, as safe as anyone can be. They can go wherever they please. I can go and finish what I started. This is my mission. I killed a man to get this far. I’ll be damned if I give up now because of some mythic creature I’ve never seen. I’m scared, yes, but I’m not leaving Germany without von Braun. Kammler did me a favor. Five hundred men is a lot easier to move than three thousand. There’s a train leaving in an hour. I can make it. I’ll be in Oberammergau by morning.
14
Dream
There’s no one on this train; it’s quiet. I should be asleep by now, it’s … shit, 3:00 A.M. I’m exhausted but my mind won’t rest.
Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven men lying dead on the ground. I did that. I did it to save thousands, but if I’m honest I didn’t care. I was angry. I didn’t feel remorse when I saw them lying there. I didn’t feel anything. They were Nazis. They were going to kill everyone and I killed them first.
Dieter. That little girl without skin. The SS I killed, the ones I thought about killing on that bridge. They’re all blurring into one another, slowly fading in the background. It’s all part of the scenery. A woman in a red dress floating in the river.
I’m good at this, somehow. I don’t want to be. “We kill to survive, like every other living thing.” That’s what Mother said. I didn’t believe it. Not me.
…
I didn’t want to be like them. I never wanted to be like them.
Look at me now. I’d never hurt anyone before. I’ve been here a few weeks and I’ve killed twice already. It’s getting easier. Dieter was hard. I couldn’t care less about the SS lying on the kitchen floor.
I’m not like that. It’s this war, this place. The Nazis keep redefining insanity. They’ve turned their country into a satanic ritual. It’s in the air we breathe, the water we drink. I’m swimming in it and it’s changing me. I’m losing my fucking mind, one chunk at a time. I need to get away from the war before there’s nothing left of me to find.
15
L’me au Diable
I almost missed them. By the time I got to the Oberammergau camp where von Braun and his men had been moved, General Dornberger had already convinced the superior officer there that it was a bad idea to have all of Germany’s top scientists in one place. One lucky bomb and boom. No more scientists, and a firing squad for the man in charge. The officer agreed to let everyone stay in the villages around the camp, even gave them some civilian clothes so they could blend in. Dornberger delivered in spades. Everyone is free, more or less.
I found von Braun and Dornberger in this café an hour ago. They’ve arranged for some vehicles from Bleicherode to come get us, but they apparently don’t have enough gas to take us anywhere. I don’t know who they talked to in Bleicherode, or if they found out about the guards. They didn’t mention it if they did. I don’t think either of them would care.
This is crazy. I thought I’d have to break them out of an internment camp. I imagined a firefight, bombs going off, blood everywhere. Instead I find two dandies drinking espresso in an upscale café. Their idea of “roughing it.” You can’t get coffee anywhere nowadays, no sugar, no tea. The owner of this place must have friends in high places. Von Braun saw me when I came in. He nodded at me, got me a chair, and went on with his conversation as if nothing happened. I had to interrupt for them to fill me in. In a nutshell, we need to find gas and enough food for five hundred people while we wa
it for the Americans. I don’t know how long that will be. Still, this all seems petty compared to what I had in mind. It could be as easy as—
—Forgive me for interrupting again, gentlemen, but do we have any VzBV letterhead left?
They’re smiling. I guess they hadn’t thought of that. Dornberger doesn’t seem all that convinced, but von Braun is getting up. Oh, they’re both leaving now. Thank you for ignoring me. You’re welcome! All they need is a typewriter and the project-for-whatever-we-said-it-was will requisition all the fuel and supplies we need. The only thing left to do now is to wait for the Americans to come to us and drink some coffee. I need one. I haven’t slept a wink.
This café is like Neverland. Outside it smells of death and dampness. In here it’s fresh coffee and chocolate pastries. Where on earth did they get chocolate? It’s like the war never made it past the front door. White china, white linen, white chairs. Come in! The world’s gone to hell, but we’ve got Franzbrötchen!
Here comes the Kellnerin.
—Einen Kaffee, bitte.
I— Shit.
The war’s back. Waffen-SS just walked in. Wow, there must be a dozen of them. I can see their reflection in the window. They’re moving on either side of the door. One of them is just behind me, I can hear him breathe. They must be making way for someone. I wonder—Here he is. Oh, great! Two oak leaves on his collar patch. He’s an Oberführer. That’s a … I don’t know what that is, an über-colonel or something. A very important asshole. You can tell how full of themselves they are by how slow they walk. This one is slooooow. I hope he wants his coffee to go. I also wish he’d come in five minutes ago, when I had a major general sitting beside me.
Happy thoughts. A week from now, I could be back in Washington eating pancakes. Oh, here’s my coffee.
A History of What Comes Next Page 6
