Genocidal Organ

by Project Itoh

  “Well, I take my hat off to you, Ms. Lucia—you sure do know your Kafka.”

  “Well, my Holocaust more than my Kafka. John used to talk about it all the time.”

  “John? Oh, you mean the gentleman that you used to see?” I maintained my facade of barely remembering his details.

  Lucia nodded. “John was always discussing the Holocaust. It must have been the subject of his research. It’s not as if he were actually Jewish himself …”

  “You said he was involved in a DARPA research project, right? Studying history? That’s unusual.”

  “Well, I never knew the details. Say, Mr. Bishop, you seem awfully interested all of a sudden.”

  “Not particularly,” I assured her, covering my tracks as deftly as I could. “It just struck me as somewhat incongruous, that’s all, the US Army spending their time and money researching a well-worn subject such as the Holocaust. I would have thought they’d want to spend their time on more practical things, like, I don’t know, robots, or artificial intelligence, or high-tech polymers or something.”

  “When you put it like that, I suppose you’re right,” said Lucia. “But it wasn’t just the Holocaust he was interested in. He also talked about Stalin a lot. And Cambodia. Sudan, Rwanda, places like that too. His research always seemed to be focused around all the cruelest episodes in recent history.”

  “Okay, so the Holocaust was just a part of that.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Lucia and I left a pebble each as an offering to the Kafkas. For Franz and his three sisters. Unlike Franz, his sisters had only the years of their deaths inscribed, not the actual dates. These were unknown, as with so many Jews who met their fate during the Holocaust. The Holocaust was such an all-encompassing word that the details were soon swallowed up in the dark depths of history.

  “But we do know exactly when they were transported to the concentration camps. Those records survive,” Lucia told me in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “It’s like with us—whenever we move, take the metro, buy some food, or ride a tram, there’s always a record.”

  “I guess so. And I guess, like with Sarajevo and New York, it’s not just to act as a deterrent to terrorists but to quickly and accurately identify any victims if the terrorists succeed. Killing two birds with one stone, you might say: preventative measures and help with the mop-up if the worst ever does happen.”

  Lucia smiled. “Mr. Bishop, you almost sound like you’re lecturing me. But you don’t need to convince me. Don’t worry, you’re preaching to the converted. I don’t particularly feel that Big Brother is watching us in a totalitarian Orwellian nightmare.” She laughed. “But while we’re on the subject of historical lectures, what I will say, though, is that the government at the time didn’t have anywhere near as clear a picture of their own citizens as they made out. No database or central records. They were basically relying on a ten-year-old national census. So how did they record, analyze, sort, and compile effective records of who actually was and wasn’t Jewish? Punch cards. The operation to transport Jews to the concentration camps was the largest coordinated transport effort in human history at the time. The Nazis could only do this by generating and tabulating data on punch cards, based on the results of the old census. They used IBM machines to organize all of this. IBM hadn’t invented the modern PC yet, of course, but they did have tabulators that they called ‘computing machines’ that were already being used for industrial purposes, and it was relatively straightforward for the Nazis to set these up for their own purposes.”

  “So you’re saying that without IBM’s … tabulators, the Nazis would never have been able to organize the mass transit of Jews to the concentration camps?” I asked, as if I were reviewing information for a quiz. “Well, they say that the modern computer was born out of cryptanalysis and grew up on ballistics. It looks like the computer’s ancestors can’t escape the shadow of war either.”

  “John showed me one once. A transportation schedule for the Jews, tabulated by IBM. John’s actual research was top secret, but the schedules themselves were open source, so I guess he didn’t see any harm in it.”

  “Hmm. I’m getting a mental image of a couple snuggling down on a couch to spend the evening poring over Holocaust memorabilia. Not exactly your usual dinner and a movie, eh?”

  “I guess not. We were an odd couple, that’s for sure.” Lucia laughed. “He often used to say that genocide had a unique odor about it.”

  “Odor?”

  “According to him, the Holocaust, Katyn Forest, and the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge all had a lingering scent about them. Whenever there was some sort of genocide—a deliberate, large-scale massacre—that country always had this distinct odor about it.”

  The smell of genocide.

  John Paul must have come across this theory in the course of his historical research.

  “Presumably he wasn’t talking literally about the smell of dead bodies?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I guess he was using poetic license. Maybe he was trying to discuss a discovery he made during the course of his research without actually having to compromise any of the secret details.”

  “And so you never really found out what exactly his research was about …”

  “Yes. I don’t think he told anybody. He had a small team around him doing some of the legwork, but I think he did most of the heavy lifting himself. I don’t think he even discussed his work with his wife.”

  “His wife. Oh. Uh … so you were … uh …” It was never an easy job, trying to seem surprised by information that you already knew full well. I gave it my best shot.

  “Yes,” Lucia said, “he had a wife. And a daughter. I knew about them both. You must think I’m the worst sort of woman …” Lucia trailed off and then turned away from me and started walking toward the metro station alone.

  I hurried after her. “Um … look … Ms. Sukrova. I’m really sorry, I was prying. None of this is any of my business, and I had no right …”

  “No, it’s my own fault. I shouldn’t be so careless with my tongue.” Her eyes were filled with sadness. “I’m so sorry for ruining a perfectly good day.”

  “Please. The fault really is all mine … I was being far too familiar with all my questions. If there’s any way I could make it up to you, I would.”

  Inside, I was sneering at myself. Laughing at how low I was stooping at this moment.

  Ms. Lucia Sukrova. I already know full well that you used to date a married man.

  I know which restaurants you ate in. I know what magazines you bought. I know which branches of Starbucks you took your coffee in. I know how many condoms John Paul used to buy.

  I know all this, and yet here I am talking to you, putting on a bare-faced facade, painfully dragging all this information out from your own lips just so that I can pretend to you that I’ve acquired this information from you “naturally.”

  “Mr. Bishop? If you do really mean that about making it up to me, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to accompany me to just one more place?” Lucia asked. She was still smiling sadly.

  I was overwhelmed by remorse at my own shamelessness. I had no right to look on her face. I was no man.

  2

  The club was pounding with youthful vitality. The dance music pumping through the club was like an alien being to me. I’d long since stopped following the latest trends in music, so I wouldn’t have known whether to describe the setup as a Prague thing or just a young person thing.

  “You know, this isn’t really my scene …” I said, though my face undoubtedly already showed that fact.

  “I thought you said you’d do anything to make it up to me.” Lucia pulled me in by my arm. “Just to keep me company?”

  Truth be told I found it hard to believe this was Lucia’s sort of scene either. She seemed out of place in such a lively atmosphere. She was most beautiful when talking about books, and there was nothing in her classroom to suggest she was interested in this sort o
f hedonism.

  As I was cajoled into the club by Lucia and crossed the threshold, I was assailed by an uneasy feeling. Something wasn’t quite right, though I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what. I was alert, anxious. Something was missing.

  We arrived at the bar.

  I looked over to the dance floor to see a mass of writhing young men and women—hardly more than boys and girls—grinding, making out, sharing hormone hits. The tiles of the dance floor were covered by a strikingly realistic video projection of the abyss. I could imagine myself tripping over the edge and plunging downward for all eternity—except that the young people were dancing right above it, floating on the void.

  One of the young people stood out: a skinhead who’d coated himself with a holographic nanolayer. A thin film on the back of his head created a display field that made it look as though his skull was transparent and his brain was visible for all to see. Just CGI, of course, but I couldn’t help but wonder if hell was in there too …

  Lucia had already found us a couple of empty bar stools and fired off a drinks order.

  “Have you had a proper beer since you arrived in this country?” she asked. “A proper Czech beer, I mean.”

  “Uh … just a Budweiser or two.”

  “The real Budweiser Budvar? Or just what you Americans call Budweiser?”

  “Um, the second one, I think. It’s what I drink back home, anyway.”

  “Well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we? Oh, I’m sure your stuff’s fine as far as it goes, but this here’s the real deal.”

  Two glasses arrived on cue.

  “What you Americans call ‘Budweiser’ is really just a brand name, no more. And, in fact, if you look closely at the label of the stuff you usually drink, you’ll see that it’s made by an American company called Anheuser-Busch, unlike our stuff, which comes from the city of České Budějovice—Budweis in English—a bit to the south of here. That’s why your Budweiser can’t be marketed by that name in many European countries; Budweiser Budvar is the only one allowed to use the trademark. Anyway, more to the point, this is a great Czech beer—the best in the world, I think.”

  I listened to her speech and I was surprised. Not because of anything she said, but because she casually flipped out a change purse from her jeans. I hadn’t seen such a thing for years. I was even more surprised to see Lucia take a bill out and hand it to the bartender as a tip. This was a blast from the past—a flashback to the pre-automatic-transaction era.

  Then it hit me. The reason why I felt something was not quite right when I entered this joint.

  We hadn’t been ID’d on our way in.

  If Lucia clocked my surprise, she didn’t show it. She just took a swig of her beer. A hearty one at that. Maybe there was more to this lady than first met the eye.

  I was evidently reeling from the shock, as Lucia eventually did catch on to my dazed expression.

  “Aren’t you going to drink anything?” she asked.

  “Uh, sure. I was just a little surprised, is all …”

  “By what?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly every day you see paper money.”

  “I suppose you’re right—since Mobs became widespread, you mean?” she said, referring to the ubiquitous mobile terminals.

  “So … is this place black market or something?”

  Lucia laughed. “Hardly. It’s all above board, just about. The Czech government, or I guess I should say the Euro government, still acknowledges bills as legal tender. Not too many places are happy taking them, of course, but—”

  “Here is one of them?”

  “Exactly. It’s a regional thing. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure that paper money is technically legal tender as such, although it’s certainly not illegal. It’s more like what would you call in America … scrip?”

  “Scrip, huh? I’ve heard of it, but I thought it had been abandoned last century, given up as a failed experiment.”

  “Last century’s grassroots attempts at establishing parallel currencies, you mean? Yes, they were abandoned, even if some of them were successful enough while they lasted. Based on cooperative ideals, issued by local organizations with lofty socialist goals such as ‘back to basics’ localism. They were usually well meaning enough but, like most things based on idealism rather than harsh day-to-day pragmatism, never really took off. Whereas the money in my pocket now comes from a very different sort of impetus. A punk spirit, if you will.”

  “Punk scrip? I’m not sure I follow you,” I said.

  “Money that’s untraceable. The government isn’t too happy about it. It’s something of a thorn in their side, and there are plenty among the powers that be who’d like to see it eradicated. But they’ve never succeeded in passing a law to ban it. Even within government, not everyone’s in favor of tightening the surveillance state further, and I suppose that paper money is something that helps even the odds in the little person’s favor.”

  I looked around the club again. This time I noticed, dotted among the youths, a number of older people, older than us. People who would have remembered a time when they didn’t have their identity and movements checked and tracked and cross-corroborated twenty-four seven, 365 days a year. And then I realized that one of the older customers was waving at us and making his way over here. He wore a well-cut sports jacket, casually carried off over a cashmere turtleneck.

  “Lucia ahoy!”

  “Ciao, Lucius!”

  An acquaintance of Lucia’s evidently. She beckoned him over to the bar and bade him sit down next to me.

  “Lucius is the owner of this club,” Lucia said by way of introduction. “A shrewd operator, but don’t let that fool you—he also has an introspective streak and is a gentleman to boot.”

  “Haha. The only ‘introspection’ you’ll see from me on a day like this is when I consider what to do with my delivery boy if he doesn’t get my Budweiser kegs here on time.” His was a deep, steady voice.

  “This gentleman here’s Mr. Charles Bishop,” Lucia said, completing the introductions. “Recently arrived in Prague, sent here by his advertising company.”

  “Bishop,” I said, savoring the ring of my alias. “Swell place you got here.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind. It’s nothing.”

  We were sticking to small talk for now—there was nothing bigger to talk about yet.

  “So, Lucia, what’s been keeping you from us this past while?” Lucius asked.

  “I’m sorry—work’s just been crazy,” said Lucia. A lie. Certainly for the last few days, while Williams and I kept a watch on her, traffic to and from her apartment had been pretty light.

  “Well, it’s good to be busy,” Lucius said. “But we’ve missed you here. Tyrone in particular. He’s madly in love with you, you know.”

  “If you say so,” Lucia replied, but she was laughing.

  Lucius pointed toward the other end of the bar. “Don’t believe me? Just go and ask him yourself. He’s standing over there on his own like a lost soul.”

  “So he is. Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Lucia stood up and started walking over toward the man Lucius had just identified as Tyrone. It was just Lucius and me at the bar now. I took a sip of the Budvar.

  It really was good.

  “So, how do you know Lucia?” Lucius asked. I glanced up, checking for any signs of wariness or jealousy on his part—was I encroaching on his territory? But no, judging from his tone of voice and demeanor, he was just making light chitchat, asking as a friend.

  “I’m her student. She’s teaching me Czech.”

  Lucius made a show of mock surprise. “Well what do you know! There’s a first time for everything. Normally Lucia never brings her students here.”

  “Well, I wanted to see Kafka’s grave today, so she was kind enough to act as my guide, to help me find it. We were out and about anyway, so here we are, I guess.”

  “Kafka’s grave, huh? Right opposite the metro station? Pretty tough to find, I
imagine?”

  Was he testing me? My guard went up. Still, better to try and deflect any suspicion or hostility rather than tackle it head on.

  “Yeah, boy did I feel a fool. Still, better safe than sorry.” I grinned broadly. The quintessential clownish American tourist. Lucius smiled too—my story seemed to be washing.

  “So, how do you like our humble little joint? Paying your way with real money and no tedious ID checks.”

  “It’s great! Is this pretty normal for the Czech Republic?”

  Lucius laughed and shook his head. “Hardly. The government isn’t too keen on this sort of place. We’re black sheep, too far under the radar for their liking. Not that they can do anything to us legally. I expect they’ve got a few plainclothes public safety officers mixed in with the rest of my clientele to try and keep the peace. As if we’re going to have any trouble when the beer’s so good!”

  “Well, this is certainly new to me—there are no places like this left in the States.”

  “Yep, Europe does have its advantages. The US might be the home of the free, but these days there’s probably more you can get away with on this side of the Atlantic,” Lucius said. He caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a dry Cinzano on the rocks.

  “Necessary sacrifices in the war against terror, I suppose. You have to admire the European sangfroid, though, losing Sarajevo like that and still being as liberal as this when it comes to freedom.”

  “Freedom always involves choices, though, doesn’t it?” Lucius replied, lifting his glass of vermouth to his lips the moment it arrived. “Like the worker who voluntarily submits himself to losing his individual liberty while he labors but in exchange gains the freedoms that his salary affords him. He can now buy things. No longer is he tied down to having to till his own fields and reap his own harvest and hunt for his own meat. He can pay farmers to do all that for him and enjoy the benefits of fresh vegetables delivered to his doorstep, meat that’s already been painstakingly butchered and deboned, even have his entire meals prepared for him. Is he a wage slave or a freedom fighter?”