Lycanthropos

by Sackett, Jeffrey

The injection was given at thirty-two minutes after two. At thirty-three minutes after two, Wladjechslaw Plocharcyck began to writhe in pain, and at thirty-four minutes after two he was dead.

  Mengele nodded with satisfaction. "As I suspected. Professor Festhaller was incorrect. The Sorbs do not have a waste elimination system which differs from that of true humans. Injecting concentrated urea into their blood does cause death." He turned to his assistant. "Make careful note of that, Petra."

  Mengele and his assistants had been carefully recording the results of their experiments ever since they had begun their work at Auschwitz the previous year. Festhaller had been an early supporter of the idea of using the inmates of the death camps as experimental animals, and it was his support that had brought Himmler around to seeing the value of the research. A priceless opportunity, he had told the S.S. Reichsführer, to expand our scientific knowledge both of genetics and human biology, an opportunity which we may never have again.

  And so the boundaries of human knowledge had been steadily expanding under the careful scrutiny of Mengele and his fellow physicians and assistant chemists. They had posed and then answered many questions in their work at Auschwitz. Precisely how long does it take a naked man to freeze to death unsheltered in the depths of winter? Which best counteracts hypothermia, human body heat, animal body heat, or artificial heat? What is the precise pressure required to crush a human skull? When equal force is exerted in pulling legs in opposite directions away from the body, how long does it take for the limbs to separate from the pelvis, and what level of force is required, and does the right or left leg separate first, and is this related to the right- or left-handedness of the subject?

  They had vivisected numerous pregnant women in various stages of pregnancy so as to study fetal development. They had injected blue dye into eyes to see if eye color was alterable. They had measured the effect of relative degrees of heat upon skin, noting the precise temperature and exposure length required before the epidermis began to blister. They had experimented with sterilization processes, noting the relative worth of methods ranging from simple castration and uterine removal to chemical injection. They had removed body parts to see if Jews and Gypsies and Slavs were similar to other lower life forms such as lizards in the ability to regenerate lost tissue such as tongues and arms and ears and noses.

  So much work left to be done, Mengele often thought, and so little time in which to do it. But, ever loyal and dedicated to learning, he had steeled himself to his task and had continued to press on.

  The door of the operating room in the so-called hospital swung open and Professor Festhaller waddled in, smiling broadly and holding his hand out toward Mengele. "Herr Doctor!" Festhaller said cheerfully. "I’m sorry I’m late, but I had an unexpected meeting with Reichsführer Himmler this morning."

  "Perfectly all right, Herr Professor," Mengele said, smiling and shaking the proffered hand. "I didn’t know when you would be arriving, so I went ahead without you." He nodded at the corpse on the operating table. "I’m afraid you owe me that beer you wagered. Urea is toxic to the Sorbs."

  Festhaller frowned. "Really?"

  "I’m afraid so," Mengele nodded, still smiling, happy at having won the friendly wager. "It look less than three minutes."

  The Professor shrugged. "Ah, well. It seemed like a good possibility to me, but of course, I was just speculating. One cannot ague with the results of experimentation."

  "No, one cannot," Mengele agreed. He gestured at Petraand said, "Have you met Fräulein Loewenstein?"

  Festhaller turned to the young woman and smiled. "My pleasure, Fräulein."

  "The pleasure is mine, Herr Professor," Petra replied, shaking his hand and noting that his handshake was weak and liquid.

  "I have made careful records of everything we’ve been doing with the Sorbs since we spoke last month," Mengele said. "I think that you will find the results interesting. The Sorbs seem to have absorbed a great deal of Aryan blood over the centuries..."

  "Yes, yes, in a moment," Festhaller interrupted. "Before we get into all that, I have some special orders for you from the Reichsführer." He reached into the inner pocket of his heavy overcoat and pulled out a brown communications envelope, clearly sealed with Himmler’s personal insignia. He handed it to Mengele and said, "A new project is being begun, Herr Doctor, a fascinating new project."

  "Indeed?" Mengele replied as he opened the envelope and unfolded the enclosed orders. His eyebrows rose as he read Himmler’s message, and then he asked, "Is this serious, Herr Professor? Is this true?"

  "I have seen the film with my own eyes, Herr Doctor," Festhaller answered. "There is no doubt about the truth of Colonel Schlacht’s report."

  Mengele emitted a low whistle. "I’d give a year’s pay to get my hands on this man."

  "No doubt, no doubt," Festhaller said, "but the Reichsführer doesn’t want to commit too much of our research resources to this until he is certain that it is worth pursuing. Schlacht will be in charge of the project, and I will act as expert consultant for the time being. I’m quite certain that if we see results quickly, the entire matter will be transferred to you in due time. At the moment, however, all we require from you is a chemist to assist the colonel’s cousin."

  Mengele dropped the orders down on the desk and began to pace up and down. "I’m not sure which of my people is best qualified for this sort of research," he muttered. "Belser, perhaps. He studied genetics in London during the thirties. He might be what Colonel Schlacht needs..."

  As Mengele contemplated which of his assistants he could spare for the next few months. Petra Loewenstein surrendered to her curiosity and looked down at the orders. She strained her eyes in a attempt to read them without being too obvious about it, and then her face blanched when she saw the word ‘werewolf’, and she picked the papers up eagerly. Her hands trembled as she studied them intently. Festhaller grabbed the pages from her and said with undisguised annoyance, "That is classified material, Fräulein!"

  She did not respond to his words. Instead she looked at Mengele and said earnestly, "Herr Doctor, you must transfer me to this project, you simply must!"

  "Now, Petra," Mengele began, "this requires someone with particular expertise in the..."

  "Please, Herr Doctor, read my personal dossier," she interrupted. "You will see that I have had some experience with genetics." She paused. "You will also see that I have personal reasons for wishing to become involved in this research."

  "Petra, I cannot spare you here," Mengele said firmly. "Our work with the Sorbs..."

  "Can be continued by any one of a number of chemists," she finished for him. "Please, Herr Doctor, take a moment to read my dossier. Please!"

  Mengele hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Very well. If you will excuse me, Herr Professor?"

  Festhaller shrugged. "As you wish." He watched as Mengele left the room to go to his office, and then he turned to Petra. "Fräulein Loewenstein, I must say that I am not pleased with the manner in which you speak to your superiors!"

  She lowered her eyes. "I meant no offense, Herr Professor, honestly I didn’t. But I simply must work on this project, I simply must!"

  He appraised her, noting with lascivious interest her flawless skin and trim, athletic figure. Festhaller walked over to her and said, "The final decision will be mine, of course."

  "I understand, Herr Professor," she said. "I would be forever grateful to you if this opportunity did not pass me by. I have made genetics my special area of study, you see."

  He nodded understandingly and then, without any needless preliminaries, he placed his right hand upon her rump and began to move it back and forth across her buttocks. "Yes, I see," he said. "I am certain you would be grateful for the transfer." He moved his left hand to her breasts and explored them roughly.

  Petra suppressed the urge to spit in his face, and forced herself to smile. "Yes, very grateful, Herr Professor." She shut her eyes tightly and did her best to feign enthusiasm as Festhalle
r pulled her body tightly to his and pressed his fat, sweaty lips upon her mouth. His tongue forced its way between her teeth and his breath smelled of old sausages and stale beer. Petra tensed herself, ordering herself not to retch.

  The door opened and Mengele walked in, intently reading the contents of a file folder. Festhaller released the young woman immediately and stepped back, so that when Mengele looked up he saw nothing out of the ordinary. "Ithink that Fräulein Loewenstein will do," Festhaller said.

  "Yes, yes, Itend to agree," Mengele said, nodding. "If you would wait in my office, Herr Professor? Ihave a bottle of aquavit which I’ve been saving to share with you."

  "Certainly, certainly," Festhaller agreed, waddling out of the room. "Ilook forward to working with you, Fräulein," he said innocently as he exited. The door closed behind him.

  Mengele did not attach any significance to the fact that Petra was vigorously wiping her mouth as he said, "I had read your dossier when you first came to work here, of course, but I had never given any thought to these facts." He looked at her, saying in a sad and sympathetic tone, "Both parents."

  "Yes, Herr Doctor," she said quietly. "Mother and father both."

  He shook his head. "A horrible way to die."

  "Yes, Herr Doctor." Her face was an impassive, stoic mask.

  He paused again and then said, "Petra, it isn’t likely that there is any connection, you know. And the testimony of a terrified traumatized child..."

  "My memory is quite clear, Herr Doctor. And I must work on this project, whether a connection exists or not."

  He nodded. "I understand completely. But I hope you understand that personal considerations must never interfere with scientific objectivity or devotion to duty."

  "Of course I understand that, Herr Doctor," she said, bristling slightly. "I am a scientist, after all!"

  "Yes, yes, of course you are," he said kindly. He closed the file folder. "Well, I shall issue transfer orders for you at once. Make certain that this room is cleaned up, will you? I must go now and keep the Professor company for a while."

  "Yes, Herr Doctor," she said as she walked toward the door. "I’ll be back in a moment to attend to it." She left the operating room and went to the lavatory, where she spent the next few minutes vigorously rinsing her mouth, determined to eliminate the residual taste of Festhaller’s kiss. "Fat pig," she muttered, and then spit into the sink.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The walls of the nether reaches of the Ragoczy dungeons had rarely echoed the sounds of laughter in the centuries since they were built, but the family comedy which Louisa von Weyrauch was relating to Blasko was causing the old man to chuckle loudly. Schlacht had returned to Budapest and had given Gottfried von Weyrauch details of his conversation with Himmler and the consequent experiment authorization, with the clear order that he was to confide the information to no one. Weyrauch had agreed and had immediately thereafter confided it to his wife, who proceeded to burst into her cousin’s office unannounced to tell him precisely what she thought of him, his plans, and his boss. Schlacht had then summoned Weyrauch and had turned the full blast of his anger on him. Blasko found himself laughing at the young woman’s description of the confrontation and at the picture of the combination of Weyrauch’s embarrassed discomfort, Louisa’s furious disapproval and Schlacht’s withering sarcasm.

  Blasko was sitting on the stool in his damp dungeon cell, eating a bowl of stew and a thick hunk of black bread. Those unfortunates who fell into the hands of the S.S. rarely ate well, if they ate at all, but Blasko’s continued, if temporary survival was a component in the experiment which Schlacht hoped to begin within a few days, and so the old Gypsy was grudgingly afforded some hog’s head stew and some stale black bread. To someone like Blasko, accustomed to eating whatever sustenance came his way, the food was welcome and nourishing.

  Louisa finished her anecdote, remarking to herself that she and Blasko were having less and less difficulty communicating with each other in their Romansch/Italian conversations, and watched as the Gypsy wiped the bowl dry with the bread that he then popped into his mouth. "Grashia, Donna," Blasko said. "My people spend much time telling tales around the fire at night, so I know a good story teller when I meet one." He smiled warmly. "You should have been born a Gypsy."

  Louisa accepted the intended compliment by returning his smile and nodding her head slightly, and then she asked, "How can you still laugh, Herr Blasko? After all that has happened and after I’ve told you what they’re planning to do, how can you still laugh?"

  "Donna, I am alive, I am sheltered, and I am eating. I had expected to be dead weeks ago, and yet here I am, alive, sheltered, eating. So when you tell me a funny tale, why shouldn’t I laugh?" Then, as an afterthought, "And please, Donna, I am not Herr Blasko. I am Blasko, simply Blasko."

  She smiled at him once again. "Very well. You can be Blasko if I can be Louisa."

  The old man shook his head. "No, Donna, no. It would not be proper for me to address you as an equal."

  Louisa’s nostrils flared suddenly. "Blasko, if you have come to know me at all over these past few weeks, you must know that I do not believe the blasphemous nonsense the Nazis teach us about Nordic Supremacy!"

  "Donna..." Blasko began, taken slightly aback by her vehemence.

  "You are my equal, Blasko! All of God’s children are brothers and sisters! ‘In Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither male nor female, neither slave nor free, but all are one in Christ,’" she concluded, quoting the New Testament.

  "Pairei faviori, ma Donna!" Blasko laughed. "I wasn’t talking about Germans and Gypsies! You are a fine lady, the wife of a holy man. I know that when Germans have ‘von’ in their names, it means that they are nobles, so you are a Donna in truth. And I am just a poor wanderer. It would be unthinkable for me to address you by your given name."

  Louisa blushed slightly. "I’m sorry, Blasko. I’m just so accustomed to hearing people talk about... well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. And by the way, my husband is far from holy and his family is far from noble. There are millions of people whose families acquired a ‘von’ somewhere along the line."

  "Still, Donna," Blasko said, "you have been kind to me, and you have taken the time to talk with me and visit with me. You have tried to calm my fears and soothe my worries, so to me you are a donna, and a donna you will stay." Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he leaned forward and kissed her hand.

  The gesture was too dramatic to be intended seriously, and Louisa tried for a few moments to repress the laughter which then erupted uncontrollably. Blasko joined in the laughter, and an S.S. guard came to the door of the cell and looked in, annoyed by the mirth. He watched them for a few moments and then, shaking his head angrily, resumed his patrol. I must speak to the Colonel about this, he thought to himself. An Aryan woman and a Gypsy together in close proximity! It is highly improper!

  Neither Blasko nor Louisa had noticed the guard’s brief observation, and their conversation continued as Blasko said, "You are perhaps too harsh in judging your husband, Donna. I do not envy him his position."

  "I’m sure that he doesn’t envy you yours either," she replied. "That’s the problem."

  "No, Donna, it is the point. He does not wish to exchange places with me. Do you blame him? I bear him no ill will, and my people are the ones who suffer from your..." He paused, aware that this poor woman felt responsible for things which she could not control. "...from the cruelty of the Nazis. If I can understand and forgive, certainly you can."

  She shook her head. "Perhaps I am unfair, Blasko, but I just can’t. My cousin at least has the excuse of ignorant fanaticism. My husband has no excuse."

  "Is the desire to live so petty a reason for remaining silent, Donna?"

  She was growing heated again. "Is life so sweet that one should trade one’s soul for it?"

  Blasko shook his head, grinning at her. "No, Donna, no. You are right. There are times when life is not sweet at all. There are people for whom lif
e is a burden and death an unattainable goal."

  She knew, of course, to whom he was referring. "People such as Kaldy."

  "Yes," he nodded. "Such as poor Janos."

  Louisa thought for a few moments before speaking. "Blasko, what is wrong with him? What really is wrong with him?"

  "He is a werewolf," Blasko replied simply.

  "No, no, I mean... I mean, what is the... oh, I don’t know...what is the cause of his...of his disease..."

  "He is not diseased, Donna," Blasko said. "He is cursed. He is plagued."

  "My cousin and my husband are correct this far," she objected. "There must be some sort of chemical problem involved, something measurable and understandable. This is the twentieth century, after all. We’ve become civilized enough and educated enough to realize that the old superstitions are...are just superstitions."

  Blasko looked at her for a few moments before saying, "And how civilized has mankind become, Donna? I am just an ignorant man, but even I know that mankind has become more ignorant than I and more cruel than Janos."

  She lowered her eyes. "I know. I know. But just because a few barbarians have managed to gain control of a few countries doesn’t mean that we all have to retreat a thousand years and start believing in curses and devils."

  "But you saw…"

  "I know what I saw, Blasko, but I don’t understand what I saw." She smiled at him. "Come now. You don’t really believe in supernatural creatures, do you? Honestly? Don’t you honestly believe that a rational explanation, a scientific explanation...?"

  "Donna," he interrupted, "Janos has not changed, has not aged, in all the time I have know him, and I have known Janos for twenty-five years."

  "Twenty-five years!" she exclaimed. "But that’s impossible! He can’t be more than twenty-five years old right now."

  "I do not know how old Janos is, Donna. Fifty years, a hundred years, two hundred years...I have no idea. All I know is that for the past twenty-five years he has not aged, and that for the past twenty-five years I have been his keeper."