Heidelberg Effect

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  The bed linen—a far cry from the three hundred thread count sheets she had at home—was clean, soft and comfortable. Seconds after her head hit the pillow that night and just before she fell asleep, it occurred to Ella that for the first time in a very long time, she felt content and safe.

  The next day, Ella spent the first full day of her life in 1620 Heidelberg following Greta around the convent. She was reminded that this mysterious woman who had rescued her from the storm was the Mother Superior. It was not clear how that happened, since Greta readily admitted she had no formal religious training to be even a religious novice, let alone a nun, she still had not revealed to Ella and didn’t appear in any hurry to do so.

  For great parts of that first day—despite much evidence to the contrary—and into the second, Ella didn’t completely believe that she was living in a different time. She found it difficult to grasp the possibility, much less the reality, of it all. But by the end of her second day of life in 1620, she would never again have the security of that doubt.

  Chapter Seven

  “You are English, yes?”

  “American.”

  “Ah, yes. The Allies.”

  Ella and Greta were setting out dishes for a simple meal of soup and fresh bread in Greta’s private chamber. Ella was impressed with the fact that, here, everybody worked, even the Mother Superior, who seemed to work harder than everyone else. The other nuns moved silently about the small convent performing their chores of cleaning, scrubbing, cooking, and tending the little garden. Ella often saw their lips moving in silent prayer. She had made eye contact only once with a fourteen year old girl, who smiled shyly at Ella and then looked away.

  “Mother Superior?” Ella said. “I understand that history stopped for you right after the war but I need you not to see me that way.”

  “As the victor, you mean?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Germany and America are friends now. Good friends.”

  “I cannot believe that is possible.”

  “Well, it’s true. Heck, we’re pals with Japan, too. I did part of my sophomore year at the University of Freiburg and half my friends have travelled the length and breadth of Germany.”

  “There…there were no reprisals?”

  “There was a trial…”

  “The Nuremberg Trials. I know.”

  “Then you know a lot of the head honcho SS guys were executed.”

  “But Germany was not punished?”

  “In a way they were, I guess, but not by us. My Dad used to say that history is its own punishment.”

  The woman frowned at Ella as if unsatisfied with that answer.

  “Well,” Ella said, seating herself at the rough wooden table in Greta’s room. “As part of the surrender agreement, the Allies forbade your country from having an army of any size. Which meant that during the next fifty years,” Ella continued, “without the expense of an army draining all their resources, Germany became an economic powerhouse. With the help of the Allies—Britain included—they rebuilt their country in a decade of the war while France was still planting daylilies in their bunkers. They lead the world in technology and engineering and their cities and infrastructure reflect that.”

  Greta shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “England helped?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And we are not hated for what happened?”

  “Not hated,” Ella said. “But…”

  “But?”

  “But not forgotten, either. Not feared, like Hitler wanted, but respected.” Ella said with emphasis. “Germany, today, is considered the only stable financial base in the European Union.”

  “The European Union?”

  “You know? That part’s kind of complicated. Can we leave it until after lunch? Suffice to say, there have been a lot of changes in the past sixty odd years.”

  “Forgive me, Ella.” Greta reached over and placed her hand over Ella’s. “You have been very patient. It is good to hear how the story ended.”

  “I can imagine,” Ella said. “But what about your situation here? You said something earlier about some warlord raiding all the convents in Heidelberg? Man, I’d give anything for just five minutes access to Wikkipedia to get a little overview.”

  “Wikki—?” The Mother Superior uncovered a plate of cheese and set it on the table between them. She reached for a carafe of red wine.

  “Never mind,” Ella said. “Can you tell me while we eat? Time travel is surprisingly strenuous work. If I didn’t think I’d end up in a psych ward somewhere I’d consider doing a blog on why that is.”

  Greta crossed herself and took Ella’s hand. She bowed her head and thanked God for the food they were about to eat.

  “Amen,” Ella said, watching hungrily as the Mother Superior ladled soup into a stoneware bowl and set it down in front of her. Ella picked up a large spoon and prompted her hostess: “Okay. So, what’s the story?”

  Greta served herself in silence and then began.

  “The family of Krüger has informally ruled this part of Germany for nearly a hundred years,” she said. “Before Krüger the Terrible, who rules now, there was the father, Krüger the Wicked. If possible, he was even more treacherous and cruel than the present Krüger. While it’s true the city has a government and working laws, it operates in tandem with Krüger, who has military and civil control over Heidelberg. Krüger’s army, although not large, is loyal to him and not to any central authority. Germany’s ruler, Prince Karl III Philip, accepts this because there is peace in this area. It is at the cost of hundreds of innocent lives and constant terror among the people but such things are rarely of interest to our politicians.

  “Krüger has two sons. Axel, the eldest, is a murdering fiend. He and his men have raided all the nunneries and monasteries in this part of Germany. It is said that he sleeps on a bed of skulls from the Catholic holy men of Germany. From the nunneries—of which ours is the very last—he has murdered the old women and taken the novices and young nuns as concubines. The ones who do not remain at the castle, for whatever reason, are either murdered or sold to the traders as they make their way to the Middle East.”

  Ella noticed that Greta’s voice shook as she spoke.

  “The other son, Christof, is not like his brother. There is even a rumor that he is Catholic. Unfortunately, he is also weak and passive. It is said that the brothers hate each other.

  “Just two days ago, one of my novices was taken by Axel’s men. He informed me then that he will return to destroy our convent and all in it before the new moon.”

  “Informed you?” Ella could only whisper. It was unimaginable to Ella that such monsters were allowed to roam unchecked.

  The Mother Superior pulled back the long draping sleeves of her habit to reveal the fresh wound carved into her pale flesh. It looked like a crescent moon. “He has a wit, no? This monster.”

  “He…he did this to you?”

  Greta stared at Ella, her eyes filled with tears. “I wish you could have known this precious girl,” she said. “I raised her since she was a child.”

  “Oh, Greta, I’m so sorry.” Ella touched the nun’s sleeve. “Wow,” she said, shaking her head. “This is bad. You have officially scared the shit out of me.”

  “Ella, we don’t speak like that here—”

  “God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “Or use the name of the Lord—”

  “—in vain, yes, sorry about that, too. It’s just that, wow. This is a seriously scary dude you are dealing with.”

  “I know. I fear for us all.”

  “Yeah, me, too, I fear for us all. Wow. He sounds relentless.”

  “He is.”

  “But that’s good in a way.”

  “Good?”

  “Yeah.” Ella pushed her wine cup aside and leaned back into her wooden chair. “You see, when it comes to solving problems, I think it’s always good when you know ahead of time about any dead ends. Knowing that helps you avoid w
asting time trying to fix them. So knowing that about him, that he doesn’t give up and that any kind of parlay or negotiation is useless, is actually helpful.”

  “Do you…is there some way you think you can help us?”

  “Trust me, Greta. I’m not sure what it is yet but we’re going to do something.”

  “You are like every American I ever heard of.”

  Ella laughed. “In the movies, right? But, seriously, this kind of injustice goes beyond nationality. Me, I call it problem solving 101: know thy enemy.”

  “I don’t believe that’s in the Bible,” Greta said.

  “It’s in my Bible,” Ella said, firmly.

  Rowan stepped out on the balcony of his apartment and stared out over the little manmade lake. He watched a duck land on the lake and settle into a serene coast across the surface.

  The conversation with Ella’s father had been vastly instructive, if mildly unpleasant. The man had obviously been teetering on the edge of panic before Rowan called him about not hearing back from his daughter. More than once, Rowan wondered whether retired spies were usually this neurotic. Being this excitable, how had the man ever kept a cover in the CIA?

  “She told you she was in trouble?” her father almost shouted.

  “Something to that effect,” Rowan said. “Thought you might know something about it.”

  “She doesn’t really tell me much about her life,” her father said with clear agitation in his voice—as if Rowan were somehow responsible. “She never mentioned you, for instance. Have you talked to her office?”

  “Thought I’d talk with you first,” he said.

  “Well, I know she got some bad news recently,” Bill Stevens said.

  “What kind of bad news?”

  “The private kind.”

  “I see. So you spoke to her?”

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  “She left me a voicemail last night saying she was in some kind of trouble and needed help.”

  “Sorry, son,” her father said. “That’s not believable. My daughter is very independent. In fact, she has never asked for help in her life. I’m afraid I must assume that you are not who you say you are.”

  Did retired spies just lose every bit of sense they ever had when they were active or was the man senile?

  Before Rowan could insist to the man that he was, indeed, a friend of Ella’s, the line disconnected.

  Son of a bitch! Rowan thought as he looked at the phone. Was the man demented? What news did Ella discover that had her calling him asking for help? He swallowed his frustration and his temptation to drive to Tampa where Ella’s father lived and throttle the information out of him.

  Instead, he punched in the number of Ella’s branch office in Heidelberg.

  On the second day of her life at the convent, Ella dressed in the rough, itchy and very heavy habit of a novice nun. She wore her own freshly laundered panties since, as she was distressed to learn, undergarments in the 1600s were even more uncomfortable and ill fitting than outer garments. After an unsatisfying breakfast of stale bread and sour wine which only succeeded in half filling the hole of hunger in her stomach and left her ready to murder for an egg and bacon biscuit, Ella left the convent with Greta and Sister Beatrix. Ella knew that if it were up to Greta, Ella would stay hidden in the convent forever, but Ella insisted on seeing the town. In reality, the trip was more than anything else to convince herself that she really was when she was.

  After ten minutes, she was convinced.

  In spades.

  The convent sat on the Nekker River less than a mile from the famous Heidelberg Castle. Surrounded trees and rough hewn boulders, Ella wondered if the convent had been placed there by design to hide it. In any event, as soon as they left the narrow lane that led from the nunnery, there was little doubt that she had landed in 1620 Heidelberg.

  A sea of dirty, ragged peasants streamed along the main thoroughfare that led toward the town’s center and marketing hub. When she caught her first glimpse of the castle high above the town, the view took her breath away. No longer the majestic ruin she had seen every day in 2012, this castle was complete, undamaged and imposing.

  She could not stop staring up at it as she walked.

  “You are gawking, Ella,” Greta said.

  “I can’t get over everything,” Ella said. “Is the pedestrian bridge a toll bridge? Has the gateway not been built yet?”

  “It is best if you do not speak, I think, yes?”

  Ella tore her eyes from the towering castle walls to see the curious glances she was getting from people around her.

  Guess I’m not fitting in too well in 1620 Heidelberg, she thought. She dropped her eyes to the road in front of her but was soon staring all about her again. There was so much to see, so much to take in. It was impossible not to look. She tried not to gape in astonishment. In some ways, the bustling streets of medieval Heidelberg reminded her of a movie set. She half expected some irritated director to jump out from behind a bush and redirect all the extras to the canteen until a few more telephone wires could be removed in order to get the period piece just right. Except there were no telephone wires to remove. Or anything else that might indicate that she was anywhere but in the early seventeenth century.

  She looked at Greta, forging purposefully ahead toward the town market, her back straight and determined, the rows of scowling peasants trudging along on either side of her.

  I’m really here. I’m really fucking here.

  There was little similarity to the Altstadt familiar to her. The street was rank with the stench of garbage and raw sewage. As in 2012, the market sat behind the Church of the Holy Spirit. Ella couldn’t get over how filth and fresh produce were so close to each other and nobody seemed to care. She tried to remember when exactly bacteria were discovered. No wonder these people didn’t live to forty! She walked closely behind Greta, who nearly trotted in her blatant urgency to silently yet quickly accomplish the convent’s shopping.

  The narrow cobblestone walkway, so crowded now with animals and people, was lined in 2012 with a mile of quaint shops and homes with Baroque and Renaissance facades. It was a bustling street of tourists and shopping, bratwurst and pretzel stands, panhandlers, musicians and artful street cafés. As she hurried after Greta, Ella couldn’t help but notice a particularly slovenly fishmonger’s table set up precisely where she was sure she had enjoyed a leisurely latté not two weeks earlier. The fishmonger looked up and made a sign as if warding off evil spirits. Ella resolved to try harder not to stare.

  Just ahead, she could see the street opened into the cobblestone courtyard around the Church of the Holy Spirit. Jammed up against the church was row after row of produce and fish stands beside crates of live chickens and pigs. The noise and the smells were almost overpowering.

  Ella nearly ran into Greta when she stopped abruptly. She took the opportunity to look around and found herself mesmerized by the swirling cacophony of color and motion all around her.

  “Don’t look!” The order from Greta was fierce and whispered in German. Unfortunately, this just made Ella snap her head up to see what she should not—to see what she would never be able to blot out of her memory or her mind’s eye for the rest of her days.

  A large wooden stage was set in the middle of the bustling marketplace, raised up and visible to all so that they might witness the executions as they shopped. Ella saw a young man and a boy cowering on the stage while a large, beefy man in a black hood strutted and shouted to the crowd. In his hand was a terrible axe. As the man spoke, he stripped to the waist to show his massive chest gleaming with sweat and blood, Ella could see there were women crying and waiting with raised hands at the base of the stage.

  “Oh, dear Mother of God,” Ella said. “Please tell me this is not what I think it is.”

  “Silence!” Greta whispered hoarsely to her. “You can change nothing of what you see here.”

  Ella pushed past Greta to the stage. She was drawn to the horror
and to the agony of the pleading women. Greta’s fingers bit into Ella’s arm as she grabbed her. “Ella, no!” she said. “You can do nothing but endanger us all!”

  One of the women screamed and Ella turned her head from Greta to the woman and then back to the stage. It all happened so fast. The bare-chested monster stood in the center of the stage as if congratulating himself on having won some special honor. The axe lay on the stage beside him. He held in his hand something horrible. He lifted it higher and higher and as he did the crowd roared its approval.

  Between the hysteria of the screaming women and the thunderous, raucous laughter and applause from the gathered crowd, Ella saw the boy fall to his knees in terror. He could not be ten years old, she thought in amazement. As the executioner threw the decapitated head of the young man into a nearby trough on the stage and began his turn toward the child, Ella shook off Greta’s grip and pushed to where the women were standing at the base of the stage.

  Chapter Eight

  “Ella, stop!” Greta said. She looked around in desperation, fearful they were attracting attention. The mob, however, was focused on the upcoming execution of the child—a rarity even in the Middle Ages. They cheered the executioner as he hefted his axe and playfully swung it into the air. Ella was close enough now to see that one of the women at the foot of the stage was young enough—and hysterical enough—to be the boy’s mother. Her screams were drowned out by the crowd, her face a contortion of indescribable agony as her worst nightmare was being enacted before her in living, brutal color.

  Greta reached her seconds before Ella pulled her shotgun Taser out of the pocket of her habit.

  “Hide it in your sleeve,” Greta said hoarsely, not missing a beat. She ripped the rosary from her own throat, her eyes darting to the people who surrounded them, and held it in both hands as if it were a weapon. All eyes were on the two figures on stage. No one was interested in the actions of a couple of nuns in the crowd.

  Ella lifted her arm toward the headsman. The long sleeve of her habit hid the Taser as she pointed it at him. Her finger twitched on the trigger as she watched him grab the boy by the scruff of the neck and throw him down at the front of the stage. She waited, blocking out the noise from the crowd, the bleating misery of the child’s mother beside her and the pounding of her own heart. Sweat crept down her back. At the very moment that the man grabbed his axe with both hands and prepared to swing it over his head, she pulled the trigger and unleashed the untethered cartridge probe, zapping the executioner square in the chest with 30,000 volts in one powerful, bowel-watering charge of electricity. Before the man dropped his axe, before he hit the deck face-first, his limbs jerking with his seizure, the Taser was jammed back in her pocket, and Greta was pushing the rosary into her hands. She grabbed Ella’s hands with her own.