by Ranjini Iyer
She needed to make her offer enticing enough. She tried to be breezy. “It’s just that I realize you are far more capable of doing this than I can ever be. If you’re willing, this could be an extremely interesting historical problem.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips. This was urgent, important, and she didn’t have many choices. “Not to mention it involves a suspicious death,” she said. “But you’re busy. Never mind. Thank you so much for your time.”
Julian, it seemed, had finally been stunned into silence. His jaw went slack. He started to say something, but his phone began to ring again.
Max picked up her bag as nonchalantly as she could. Julian stood speechless, his phone still ringing. Max worried that she had frightened him. Oh well, it was too late now to change tactics and not look stupid. She had started the drama. She had to finish it.
She took a few baby steps toward the door, hoping he’d stop her. But he didn’t. She turned. Julian had picked up the phone and was speaking in urgent whispers. He raised his arm and waved. Tentatively she waved back. His back was turned to her now.
Inspiration struck. She took out one of her business cards, scribbled her home address and phone number on it, and placed it on his desk in a spot where she knew he wouldn’t miss it. She watched him for a while more.
Then she left.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Max hung up her cell phone and pinched herself. She wasn’t dreaming. He was coming. Here, to her apartment. To drop off the papers the DANK Haus people had faxed over. But he was coming and that’s what mattered. And he wasn’t opposed to eating, but only if she was going to cook anyway.
Max rushed to the kitchen. She was going to cook a simple meal. The urge to go overboard was strong, but she would resist it. The last time she had cooked for a date had been over six months ago. Not that this was a date, but still.
The last time a truly attractive man had stopped by for dinner had been well over a year ago. A blind date set up by Uncle Ernst with a nice Jewish boy, a gentle soul whom Max had really liked. But at the end of a wonderful dinner he had blurted that he was gay and cried for an hour on her shoulder.
Kyle, Max’s boyfriend of three years, had left her eighteen months earlier. She was getting heavy, he had said. And he was no Cary Grant to start with. Still, it wasn’t as though the relationship had ever been wonderful. Even on the best days it had been just about adequate—the affection, the sex, the conversation.
Max had begun to suspect that after the first year, Kyle had stayed on because she had cooked him delicious breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Every single day. His leaving had been a bit of a relief, for she had tired of playing cook, mechanical lover, and cleaner. And so when Kyle hemmed and hawed about her weight, she felt a release of tension she hadn’t known she had been harboring for so long. She let him leave, much to his surprise. And after, she had a nice cry, took a shower, put on her best dress, and went out.
Anyway, this was not a date and Julian wasn’t Kyle.
She made pasta primavera, with veggies slightly crunchy and the pasta—farfalle—just a little al dente. She baked a few mini loaves of crusty garlic bread. To go with those, she made a spicy, tomato-based dipping sauce seasoned with mint and a dash of chipotle peppers for smoky heat. For dessert, she made a butternut squash flan. It was a simple recipe that came out looking like a much labored upon dish.
She set the oven to warm and kept the food inside. The table was set with her grandmother Martha’s German crockery. No wine. Wine would give the wrong impression. But she was serving Italian food. Damn.
There was a knock on the door a few minutes before seven. Gorgeous and punctual. I like, she thought. She pulled up her obscenely expensive Spanx underpants, sucked in her belly, went to the door, and opened it with a bright smile.
There stood Uncle Ernst with a small bowl. Matzo ball soup. His weeknight special. “Expecting me?” He smiled.
Max put her head out the door for an instant. The corridor was empty.
“Hmm.” He entered the kitchen and sniffed the air.
Max looked horrified.
Uncle Ernst patted her cheek. “I’m not staying. Take this. I made it from scratch!”
“Thank you.” She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.
“Someone special coming, eh?” He leaned towards her.
The explanation was too long for her to get into now.
“Yes,” she said with a shrug, which was true. Ernst shook a finger at her. “Don’t do anything I would.” He laughed, probably thinking about his own days of wining and dining young girls. He had told her many stories. “Have you lost weight child, you look positively skinny!”
Max grimaced.
“I’m going…going, I’m gone.”
Max watched Uncle Ernst amble toward the elevator.
It was 7:15. No Julian.
At 8:00p.m. there was a knock on the door.
“I’m so sorry, so very sorry.” Julian handed her a small bouquet of tired-looking white lilies. Funereal flowers.
Max took the flowers with a gracious smile. Julian set a large manila envelope on the coffee table and turned to face her, his hands clasped in front of him in apology. “I was held up.” He sounded out of breath and sincere.
Max held the flowers away from her. She was trying to say they looked lovely, but that would be a lie. They looked half dead and were scaring her. “Thanks for these,” she managed.
Julian glanced at them. “They look more horrific than I thought.” He let out a nervous guffaw.
He looked like a sad puppy. Max wanted to hug him.
“But I have this to make up for the flowers,” he said brightly. “It’s only sold at a small French bistro in London that I like.” He handed her a bottle of wine.
Max took it from him. “Thank you and relax, its okay.” She started to take the food out of the oven. “Hope you’re hungry,” she said.
Julian walked toward the large windows facing the lake. The sun had set, but a pink glow of light remained. “Oh yes, I only had a light supper ages ago,” he said. “What a view!”
Max checked the flan. It was a deep burnt orange color with a light brown layer of caramelized sugar on top. Perfect. She put the pasta and garlic bread on her grandmother’s serving dishes. “Dinner is served,” she said gaily.
Julian looked at the dining table. “You made all this?”
Max looked at the food. “I left it all in the oven and forgot I had put on a timer so it wouldn’t dry out. Now I don’t think it’s very warm.” She wrung her hands. How did people give effortless dinners? How did food stay hot for guests who arrived late?
Julian walked into the kitchen, opened a few drawers, and found a corkscrew. Max pulled out two dusty wine glasses and gave them a good wipe down while Julian uncorked. He poured the wine and handed Max a glass. “Sláinte!” He raised his glass, checked the bouquet, and sighed with pleasure. He took a sip.
Max did the same. The wine smelled of the French countryside—she had never been there, but she was sure this was what it would smell like. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw Julian and herself cavorting on lush green fields in some vineyard in the Mediterranean somewhere, on an isolated island perhaps, with indulgent workers looking on and giggling.
Julian touched her arm. She snapped back to the present. They began eating.
“Delicious,” Julian said.
“Thank you. Uh…I’ve been meaning to ask,” Max said, “hope it’s not rude. Your accent is so, uh,” she could not say delicious or sexy. “Interesting.”
Julian threw his head back and laughed. “I grew up in Northumberland County. In Berwick upon Tweed. It borders Scotland. Father Scottish, mother English. Bit mongrel now, my accent, with English and American influences.”
“Long way from East Asia,” Max said with a smile.
“I loved Asian mythology growing up. Mum was a bit crazy about pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup, while pregnant with me. The interest must have been passed on that way!
”
Max laughed. They talked a little about his family and the beauty of Northumberland. Finally Julian put down his fork. He studied his plate for a second and turned to Max with a satisfied smile. “Thank you,” he said. “That was excellent.”
Max felt her heart swell with pleasure.
“Dessert?” she offered.
“Sure,” he said.
She got up, brought out the flan, and served him a slice.
He took a bite and considered it. “So,” he said, “I have the papers from DANK Haus.”
Max sighed. It was as though Julian had just put out the romantic candles she had lit in her mind with one single blow, and turned on a harsh florescent light.
Julian pushed back his chair and picked up his wine. “Did you read any more of the diary?”
“No. I was hoping maybe you might have some time, but if you don’t, it’s fine.”
Julian didn’t speak. Max sat on her couch. Julian seemed to hesitate, but sat down, too. The diary was on the coffee table. He gestured for her to open it.
Max started reading.
There was one entry on the work Opa had done upon returning from India. Dull stuff. Drugs he had worked on, accolades he had received. Then there were some pages about sending his wife Martha to Geneva.
Opa had also written at length about realizing the harsh truth of being a Jew—even a privileged one—in Nazi Germany. The realization had finally hit, it seemed, after Kristallnacht—Crystal Night—happened. It was a horrific anti-Jewish directive Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels had called for. Numerous synagogues were set on fire and Jewish businesses and homes looted. Thousands were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and all Jewish pupils were expelled from public schools. It had finally dawned on Opa that Germany had become hell for his people and that it was too late for him to leave. But he had held on to the hope that at Berliner he was still safe.
All of this was written without sentiment, but Max could almost feel the searing pain of her poor grandfather’s comprehension that he had been a fool to consider himself immune.
As for the Indus pills, he had worked on them, run numerous tests. Nothing but vegetable matter content, the tests had shown over and over. No unusual ingredients, nothing of note.
“Not much of use here.” Max got up. “Would you like some coffee?”
Julian nodded. “So does a pretty lady like you have a boyfriend?” he said out of nowhere. “Many boyfriends?” he added with a wink.
Max shook her head, wanting to sink down to the floor. Was he making fun of her?
“I cannot believe it,” Julian said.
Max frowned. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He actually seemed puzzled that she didn’t have a string of boyfriends. Boy, he was so darling.
“Well, if you want the ugly truth, my last one left because he thought I was getting heavy. I was with him for too long. He left me with a rather distorted sense of self.” She wished she could rid herself of his disapproving glances. His barely hidden grimace every time he saw her naked. Holding her breath and sucking in her belly until she was blue in the face in order to look more attractive to him.
She closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have opened herself up like this to a stranger.
“A dreadful man,” Julian said sharply. “Been hit by a bus since, I hope.”
Max focused on getting coffee.
Julian was silent for a while. “I read an interesting research paper not long ago about beauty standards over the centuries and in different cultures,” he said slowly. “You know if you had lived one century ago, you’d be the belle of the town.”
Max returned to the couch with two steaming cups.
Julian took a sip. He looked deep into her eyes. “Magazines, the media have conditioned us to think the way we do. So think of it this way. In those days Twiggy or whoever the latest supermodel is would be considered not beautiful at all. Too boyish. Not feminine enough. Too many angles, not enough curves.”
“Twiggy, huh?” Max tried not to laugh. “You are a historian, aren’t you? But point taken.”
Julian put down his cup and leaned toward Max. His hand was close to hers. She could feel warmth emanating from his fingertips, willing hers to move closer. “In the Kayan Lahwi tribe in Myanmar, women lengthen their necks by putting on these rings. It’s very painful. In China they used to tie women’s feet to make them smaller. The ideal foot had to fit into a four inch shoe.”
Max winced.
“The bindings were so tight, they could lead to gangrene and blood poisoning. Women couldn’t walk because they’d keel over and fall. The practice lasted a century. Today, women subject themselves to liposuction, breast enhancements. My point is—”
Max looked at her hands and inched them closer to his. Their fingertips were touching now.
“You are beautiful if you think so. Why does Vogue or whatever airbrushed magazine get to decide? You decide.” Julian turned his attention back to his coffee.
Max looked at Julian wanting to ask, and what have you decided? But she couldn’t. And she shouldn’t.
Julian glanced at her, a sweet expression filling his eyes. “Yer mair bonny than ye wull ever ken,” he whispered.
“What did you say?” Max asked, her heartbeat quickening.
“Nothing.” He turned away quickly. He looked angry.
“Perhaps we should read on,” Max said, swallowing hard. She picked up the diary and turned to the next entry.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From Samuel Rosen’s diary
Berlin, Germany
January 1938
Lars asks me over and over again if I have found a way to leave Germany. And I snap, as I seem to do a lot these days. With a resounding no. Martha I managed to send to Geneva. No one was going to take the risk of helping me leave Germany. Not now. I am too visible, even well known in Nazi circles.
Peter Schultz came to the lab today. Tall, lanky, egotistical Peter. Head of operations, son of current chairman Leopold Schultz. Lars leapt to his feet. The idiot. Peter sat at the edge of my desk and asked if I had an answer for him. He was being so tedious. So grown-up.
Peter had been a mere teenager when I first met his father at a conference. Leopold had convinced me to work for him instead of Bayer. Peter started spending a great deal of time with me at my lab, asking questions, assisting me whenever he wasn’t at school. We had become friends, despite the fact that I was more than a decade older.
I waved Lars back to his chair and told him not to be so intimidated by Peter. He is non-lethal, like the crowd control gases you’re concocting for the Nazis, I said. My first joke in weeks. Schultz let out a booming laugh.
Just to torture Peter Schultz, I asked Lars to recapitulate our work on the Indus pills.
Here are the details of our experiment so far in layman’s terms.
Three years ago, we first got the pills and started preliminary tests from which we were able to determine its vegetable content.
We commenced animal testing with monkeys. We had two groups of monkeys. All were offered normal nutrition. One set, the test group, was given the pill. The other set, the control group, was not. The monkeys on the pill ate less and less over time. Tests showed decreased thyroid activity in these monkeys.
Note 1: Something in the pill lowered the monkeys’ thyroid levels, giving them lower metabolic rates. A few studies have shown that lowered metabolic rates indicate higher life expectancy.
We also found a protein element in the pill. However, incubation of the pill didn’t result in any development of microbes. We concluded that the protein element was probably vegetable or animal protein.
A big mistake.
One month into testing, the test group—the monkeys on the pill—developed fevers. The ones in the control group showed no symptoms. We ran blood cultures of the affected monkeys’ blood and found a fully formed bacterium, of the sporohalobacter genus. This bacterium was similar in composition to the protein element that we had found ea
rlier in the pills.
Now for a fantastic find. The protein element in the pill was an endospore—which is a dormant bacterium that can survive for even millions of years in dormancy. Mummies, fossils, etc., can harbor endospores that can revert to their active state when conditions are perfect for them.
Note 2: This endospore probably used components in the monkey’s cells to convert to its active state.
Conclusion 1 and 2: Since the fevers disappeared, we concluded that the bacteria had caused the fevers in the test group monkeys.
The bacterium is likely the reason for the decreased thyroid activity and metabolic rate reduction.
Now for the odd bit. The control group, the monkeys who had not had the pills, got the fevers, too, but two months after testing began. And as Lars likes to point out—so did we. We thought we caught it from the test monkeys. However, the control group had been isolated, so why did they develop the fevers? And also, why after all that time?
Conclusion 3: The bacterium is possibly contagious and takes about two months to synthesize in a mammal and release toxic enzymes, which causes the fevers.
Interestingly, six to ten months after testing began, the control group of monkeys started to show elevated blood pressure. In humans, high BP is a primary condition, but when an animal shows it, there is almost always another underlying reason for it. In the monkeys, routine blood tests continued to be normal. We were unable to identify the reason for the rise in BP. The question was, why was the test group not showing elevated BP? After all, the control group had not even taken the pill.
Conclusion 4: Since the control group had not ingested the pill, the increased BP was most likely random and unrelated to the pill.
We spent a year running the same tests on a second group of monkeys. It was a repetition of the first time.
Conclusion 5: Since our findings have been observed twice, we decided that the elevated blood pressure had something to do with the pill, most likely with the bacteria in it. But we have no idea how or why.
