The Colossus

by Ranjini Iyer

  Max glanced at the diary. “When Opa started making entries here, many of his colleagues were also on hunts for obscure cures and medicines in Africa and Asia. The idea was to try and translate them into modern drugs.”

  Julian nodded.

  “My grandfather’s good friend Bernard Baston was in India at the Indus Valley. He was an archeologist. My grandfather was in Bombay visiting a former colleague at the same time, so Baston invited him to visit the dig site. Clear so far?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Julian said.

  Max turned the page and began reading aloud.

  CHAPTER NINE

  From Samuel Rosen’s diary

  Mohenjo-daro—“Mound of the Dead”

  Site of the 5,000-year-old Indus Valley civilization

  January 6, 1935

  2:00 p.m.

  Arrived a few hours ago. Hot as hell. Red dust everywhere.

  3:00 p.m.

  At the Colossus’s grave site.

  Abdul, the almost hundred-year-old chief of the Chapar tribe, was our guide. The Chapars have lived in the nearby village of Hakkra for centuries. Abdul was putting me to shame, standing bent but energetic, unaffected by the sun, his piercing dark eyes tucked away in a face that was a mass of leathery wrinkles.

  Our group today comprised my friend Bernard Baston (head of a team of archeologists from the Dresden Museum), Abdul Chapar (our guide), Abdul’s great grandson Fardoon (our interpreter). And me.

  In the distance stood the remnants of the homes of the Indus Valley peoples. Immaculate brick structures surrounded a citadel, which may have been used as a granary. The bricks were all even, identical, and surprisingly, largely intact.

  I followed Bernard to a small hill. There was a doorway in its side. We made our way down mud steps that ended suddenly, opening into a grave about 20 feet by 14 feet and about 6 and a half feet high. Bernard said 11 skeletons were found in the grave.

  I walked around, feeling the rough walls under my fingertips, when I spotted some writing. Rows upon rows of beautiful symbols. I asked Bernard what the writings said. He said no Rosetta stone had been found yet. So an accurate translation isn’t possible. But, Abdul could read some of it.

  I must have looked skeptical, so Bernard explained. Apparently, Abdul has managed to find quite a few treasures based on other written material. Before he was shown this tomb, Bernard said, Abdul had talked about what they might find in it. And he had been right.

  Bernard signaled to Abdul. Abdul began to speak in Brahui, a local dialect. Young Fardoon translated. The underground tomb was built for Abdul’s ancestor Soodhanta—the Colossus of Mohenjo-daro. He was powerful, both in physical stature and status.

  I spotted a large collection of urns stacked against the east-facing wall. I asked Bernard what they were. He said they were the reason I was there and handed me a few flat, round green discs, about two centimeters across. Their tribe has long life spans, even to this day, because of that pill, Abdul said.

  The Indus people lived thirty to forty years at most. This I knew. So a life span increase even of ten years was a huge leap. It must have seemed as close to immortality as they were going to get. The pill must have worked like some sort of multivitamin, a combination of potent herbs that helped organs thrive longer.

  The Chapars were appointed to guard the Colossus’s grave when it was first created. They were given the authority to kill anyone who tried to desecrate it. Bernard told me that Abdul’s family probably saw the futility of holding on to age old, irrelevant secrets. And they saw the power of money. Bernard’s people had offered quite a lot.

  Bernard said they probably agreed to give them access after all this time because of a supposed curse. For years the Chapars had argued over whether or not to reveal the Colossus’s grave. These days, excavations here have trickled down. Seems Abdul’s people decided to accept the offer on the table before all interest in this place wanes away.

  9:00 p.m.

  Had fantastic roast lamb for dinner. Must ask for recipe.

  It was a cool evening. I leaned back in my chair, and over a glass of red wine, I asked Bernard to tell me about the curse of the pill. The pill was a blessing to some, Bernard said. The blessing has kept Abdul’s tribe well and living long, but the curse is why the other tribes, perhaps the entire civilization, died. But the experts still have no idea why the civilization ended. Drought, flood maybe. Anemia, some experts have said.

  I asked him where the Colossus got the pill from. Ikaria, the Greek island, most likely, Bernard said. (N.B: Research the fact that people still live exceedingly long lives in Ikaria. Possible connection to pill since it was acquired there.)

  Bernard said the story was that the Ikarian people had refused to sell Soodhanta the pills. He was told that the pill had been beneficial to the Ikarians but had proved fatal outside their land in the past. Soodhanta ignored the warning and stole several urns of them. The curse must be superstition. Why else did Abdul’s tribe live such long lives?

  Perhaps it’s like the curse of Tutankhamun’s tomb, Bernard said.

  If someone reading this (when I’m dead perhaps!) doesn’t know about the curse of King Tut’s tomb, here’s a short history lesson. In 1922, Howard Carter discovered King Tut’s tomb. Seven weeks later, his sponsor Lord Carnarvon died suddenly. Some say his dog died, too. The writers of the time had a field day with it. Arthur Conan Doyle called it the Pharaoh’s curse. A few years later, others related to Howard Carter’s work also died.

  Coincidence is what I would say.

  Bernard then said that the Colossus’s grave had other mysteries, too. The first being that one of the people in that grave had been killed. Beheaded. And the second being that tombs in the Indus Valley usually have families buried together—husband, wife, children added to the tombs later. This tomb had eight men and three women, more or less of the same age and, according to the personal objects left there, of different social standing. Siblings, was the presumption. One of them was the Colossus, I supposed. Bernard agreed.

  He said the grave is also unusual because of the writings and drawings on the walls. Seemingly only about the Colossus. Other mass graves in the valley found so far have shown no elaborate writings or drawings. This grave showed no signs of a massacre either, which is one reason for a mass grave with unrelated people. So perhaps a mass grave such as this one means they all died of a boring disease.

  I asked Bernard what happened when the Colossus returned to India with the pills. To test his claim, he was asked to eat the pills himself and give some to a handful of people who were about forty years of age, ones who weren’t terminally ill but were nearing the end of their natural lives.

  Some years passed. Suddenly, Soodhanta disappeared. In time, the elders announced that he had died and decreed it illegal to mention the pills or Soodhanta’s name. Banishment or beheading awaited those who disobeyed.

  So what happened to the Colossus?

  The story and pictures on the wall seem to indicate that the elders kept him prisoner in his home. But no one knows why, Bernard said. I asked if we know what happened to the others who ate the pill. Sent into the jungles or put to death, Bernard suggested. Most likely because of the curse. The Indus people, likely ancestors of early Hindus, were a superstitious people.

  Bernard has given me a copy of the Colossus’s seal and another for my assistant, Lars. It will remain a cherished possession.

  Bernard of course had to turn the discussion to Hitler and German politics, much to my irritation. Many Jews have left Germany, he said pointedly. I told him I’m not an everyday Jew, even in the present Germany.

  I don’t want to appear arrogant, but I run Berliner’s labs. I am respected. And I’d like to believe that there are some decent Nazis, too. And in case anyone thinks I am naïve, I do also realize that what keeps me safe is the fact I make Berliner a lot of money.

  None of that matters, for I am now starting to feel a familiar tingle of excitement. The Indus pill is a sign. Scien
tist I may be, but I believe in signs. Let the Nazis do what they want. This little pill might, just might have the power to keep my beloved Martha and me safe. Even in Nazi Germany.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Max stopped reading.

  She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s writing and caressed the embossment of his seal, wondering what it might have been like on that hot day in India, all those years ago. Her eyes stung as she thought about her young and ambitious, blind and foolish Opa.

  She turned the pages. “The next few pages are torn,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She turned some more pages. “There’s some writing about his work on the pills. Maybe there’s something about the time he was sent to the concentration camp—”

  She set the diary down and looked away.

  “Lets stop here while I have some time,” Julian said, “and see what I can find about that dig, perhaps.”

  He pushed back his chair and began looking through the books piled in disarray on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. He plucked out a few from the floor, one or two from under his desk. He shoved aside a large pile of exam papers to make room for them. He opened one book and put it away. He opened another and, with an irritated grunt, tossed it aside. He picked up a third. A leather-bound book titled Ancient Civilizations: Archeological Dig Data. “This is a chronicle of who did what and where,” Julian said. A cloud of dust rose from the book as he set it on the desk. With his palm, he wiped the book clean and sat down with a contented sigh.

  Julian laid the book flat on the table. “In ‘35 to ‘38 there were five recorded expeditions. Lets see. Dr. Bernard Baston’s group is listed here.” He read some more. “Nothing else.” Julian scowled and muttered something Max didn’t catch. Suddenly his face brightened and he dashed out.

  “Wha—?” Max began. But he was gone. She got up and stood at the door for a few minutes. Should she go look for him?

  She went back into his office. Such a cozy space—filled to the brim with musty books, the aroma of fresh coffee still in the air. Through an open window, she could hear the pleasant murmur of passing students on the street a couple floors below. With a sigh, Max returned to her chair. The headrest popped up. Perfect. She let her head fall back.

  “Maxine Rosen,” a voice called.

  She jumped up, disoriented for a second or two. She had fallen asleep! How awful. She turned. Julian was at the door, holding the doorway with his hands, leaning in. A rascally grin played on his lips.

  Max felt moistness on her chin. Drool! She turned away and wiped her mouth with the back of her palm. She should tell him how she had been up curled up in a ball all night trying to be brave. She should tell him everything she had been through the night before. She wanted desperately to prove to him that she wasn’t the sleepy oaf she appeared to be.

  She turned back to face him with a forced smile and was about to pick up her bag when Julian took her hand in a firm grip. “I think I may have found something,” he whispered.

  They went back to the library area. Julian opened the door to a room at the back of the library with a brass plaque labeled Microfilm Area. It was air-conditioned as cold as a winter day in Greenland, Max thought.

  “There’s a book,” Julian said. “People laughed at it when it was released. It has been out of print for years. We had one copy but it’s long lost.” He pulled out a chair in front of a microfilm viewer. “Luckily, it’s here. Look at the screen.”

  Magnified on the screen in front of her was a yellowing sheet of paper. Indus Valley. Sub heading: Societies and Clubs. Max’s heart began to race. She glanced at Julian.

  “Read,” he commanded.

  She read aloud.

  “No fewer than six known groups, perhaps many more, were formed by people who had visited the Indus Valley, an advanced civilization. Blah blah. How do I turn the page…okay, got it.” Max pressed the turn button.

  “Go on, go on,” Julian urged. He began to pace.

  “I’m trying,” she said. “Okay, Indus Religions, as the name suggests, was a club whose focus was religion as pertained to the—”

  “Not that one. Go to the end of the page,” Julian said, still pacing.

  “Okay,” Max said, exasperated. “A group called Umrit was in all probability formed following an expedition in 1935 headed by Dr. Bernard Baston. This author speculates that the club might have been formed to celebrate or record something special they found at the valley.

  “The term Umrit means ‘the nectar of immortality’ in Hindoo mythology. It is a tantalizing idea that what they may have found may have inspired the intriguing name given to the club. Inevitably, the club became legend and stories about an Indus pill of immortality began appearing in newspapers. Baston used the limelight to direct attention to his more important work on the dig. He was eventually awarded a Chancellor’s medal for his work.

  Names of members: founding member Bernard Baston, Andre Georges, Ulrike Johannsen…” Max went down the list. “Honorary members: Abdul Chapar, Fardoon Chapar, and Dr. Samuel Rosen.” Max swallowed hard and looked up at Julian.

  He was looking at her with palms turned upwards, as if expecting her to cry “Eureka” or something.

  “Any current members?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I checked these names. They’re archeologists and all dead. The two Chapars are the guides mentioned in the diary,” Julian said. “Look at the very end.”

  At the bottom of the page was the symbol of the seal from her grandfather’s diary. Below it was a Swastika—Opa’s lucky symbol had been this group’s symbol, too.

  “This doesn’t tell us anything new,” Max said glumly.

  Julian looked askance at her.

  Max didn’t want to appear like a complete idiot to this crazy cute, brilliant professor. “How about descendants?” she said, working up some enthusiasm. “Like me.”

  Julian looked unimpressed. “They key takeaway here is that since Bernard Baston was awarded the Chancellor’s medal, there might still be papers relevant to the dig.”

  Max looked puzzled.

  “He was German,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice.

  “So?”

  Julian looked positively irritated. “Ai, yi yi, Ms. Rosen, Germans those days were obsessed with preserving records. Probably still are. And if he won a medal, I bet his records are archived somewhere. A good place to start might be the Archeological Society at the DANK Haus—German American Cultural Center. The chaps there might know something. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Back at Julian’s office, Max felt drained. This wasn’t what she did well. Legwork. And research! She had detested doing it for her job at Granger Foods.

  If there had been doubts before, there were absolutely none now: she was a cook and nothing but a cook—heart and soul, every sinew, every cell of her being. She felt a gush of warmth and possessive love for her fumbling little catering company, her demanding clients, her elaborate, labored-over menus, her barely affordable employees.

  Julian got busy investigating the DANK Haus website.

  The reality of her situation suddenly struck Max. Memories of the state of her apartment from the night before flashed in front of her eyes. Followed by an image of Lars being shot.

  This was a huge mistake. She was not qualified to do any of this. Max touched the arms of her chair and got up. It was time to put an end to this madness. She was faced with the very real possibility that Papa had been killed. This was a job for the police. Certainly not for catering company owners with anxiety issues. She should go to the cops. She would explain everything and they…they…

  They would sit back and laugh.

  She shivered and collapsed back into the chair. Truth was, the people who had caused her father’s death were out there somewhere. And they were possibly watching her.

  “Someone from DANK Haus emailed me right away!” Julian almost did a little jig in his office chair. “He has found information about Baston’s club. He’s goin
g to make some calls. There’s a place in Hamburg that houses archeological records. He bets they will have Baston’s dig records. He’ll fax them over to me once he gets them faxed from Germany. Because of Baston’s medal, they preserved almost every single sheet of paper they could find on the guy. Max? Ms. Rosen?”

  “Huh?” Max looked at Julian. He was eager to help and so interested. And he was smart and resourceful. Of course it didn’t help that her entire being ached just to look at him.

  A phone rang. Julian answered it. “Yes Dr. Jackson, I got the email. Now? Well, all right. Be there in a bit.” He hung up and made a face. “I’m sorry. I would have loved to read the rest of the diary with you, but I have to see someone right away.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m really sorry.” He picked up a smart-looking tan briefcase and moved to the door.

  He looked at her with an expression of…was it regret? Max squared her shoulders. If she left now, she would not see him again. She held on to that thought for strength. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” she asked, her voice turning hoarse.

  Julian seemed taken aback.

  “As, as a thank you,” Max spluttered. “I’m an excellent cook—and maybe we can read the rest of the diary, too. If you like. Not like a date or anything…” She gave a weak laugh and trailed off.

  A second later he broke her heart. “That’s sweet of you. But Raq…” He hesitated for several seconds, his eyes searching her face. “I have, uh, to work,” he stammered. He looked flustered. His cheeks had turned pink.

  Max managed to keep a straight face. All she wanted to do was turn around and run. She steeled herself. There was a lot more she wanted from this nice guy than a fun evening out. He probably had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife. And four adorable kids. But she wanted to see him again. How was that for conflicting feelings?