Pandora's Closet

by Martin Harry Greenberg

  “Where do we go from here, sir?” Jackson asked, a glint of suspicion in her eyes.

  Vance leaned back in his chair, the opulent dining room suddenly coming back into focus and diminishing the cap’s presence in his mind. He turned to Lieutenant Jackson with a charming smile. “Why don’t you contact our British cousins and track down this Sewell fellow. Kelly was with the First Infantry Division stationed near Poole on the southern coast of England. Follow his deployment to determine when it came in contact with any British units. Probably some element of that British army division stationed around Southampton. I want to know exactly when and where Sewell found that cap.”

  “Should I forward any recommendations to Colonel Donovan?” she asked.

  Vance peered back at the cap. “Not at this time,” he replied. “This situation calls for a bit more investigation on our part before we make any concrete recommendations.”

  “General Eisenhower can’t wait,” Jackson noted. “They’re deliberating even now whether to launch Overlord in the next few days.”

  Simple strategy for invading the continent dictated an amphibious landing with the shortest crossing from England to France at Calais, not a longer, riskier crossing to Normandy. All intelligence from agents behind the lines pointed to Hitler expecting an invasion at Calais given the deployment of his armies. German army wireless traffic intercepted and deciphered by the British code breakers at Station X confirmed the field reports. But even they could only provide a small view of the overall picture.

  “They have more intelligence to corroborate than we can provide,” Vance countered. “At this point, with British and American forces poised to strike after months of planning, Hitler’s armies deployed somewhere along the Atlantic wall, and Eisenhower watching the weather reports, Eisenhower’s taking as low a risk as he can get.”

  “I don’t think SHAEF would quite see it that way,” Jackson countered.

  “Well, we have nothing conclusive to give them until we uncover more about that cap.” Vance walked over to stare out the window over the carefully manicured English gardens outside.

  Jackson closed her notebook and collected Kelly’s file. “Do you want me to lock that up in the vault?” she asked, nodding at the cap.

  Vance didn’t interrupt his examination of the light rain falling on the gardens and a few visible portions of the great old manor house. “Just leave it there,” Vance said. “I’ll take a closer look at it in a few moments, thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Jackson sauntered out of the dining room, her heels clicking severely on the ornately patterned parquet floor. Vance stole a glance at her as she slipped out the tall double doors and closed them behind her.

  Vance stood at the windows a few more minutes taking in the scenery outside. He found such peaceful contemplation of the natural world or mundane matters necessary in steeling himself for encountering the unnatural. He inhaled the lingering scent of candle wax and perfume that haunted the room, heard the patter of raindrops against the windowpane merge with clattering typists in a nearby room, felt the muggy air close about him in his woolen uniform.

  Vance casually walked to the table and picked up the cap. It electrified the goose bumps on his arm and sent shivers up his spine. Though he slicked back his wavy hair, it seemed to stand up on end and tingle as if covered with excited bees. His ability to detect items or people with otherworldly qualities had brought him to the attention of the OSS, which appointed him head of its Bureau of Special Investigations (derisively named “BS Investigations” by those ignorant of its true purposes). By now Vance knew Kelly wasn’t a German spy; he was more interested in the cap, what it did to those who wore it, and what it might do to help the Allies win the war.

  Vance ran his fingers over the cap, ran his thumb over the Nazi eagle patch on the front. He felt granules of warm sand, leather-padded headband and earphones, sticky sweet blood. Vance inhaled its scents: dust, sweat, cordite, and fear. Then he put the cap on his head.

  Information, sensations, and emotions flooded every corner of Vance’s mind. He reached out to steady himself against the dining table. His vision narrowed into distant tunnels; he breathed more rapidly to delay the unconsciousness racing up to meet him. He fought to focus on the ancient family portraits and ornate candle sconces on the far wall to keep his eyes from rolling up into the back of his head.

  The burst of paranormal energy dropped him to the floor. A maelstrom of dots and dashes, clicking, blinking, typing, spinning metal rotors, clumps of four-letter groups, and finally cohesive German words rushed through his mind, a tempest of sensations not simply of the man who had fought and died wearing that Afrika Korps cap, but of all those past and present involved in the wireless telegraphy, codes, and ciphers the Nazis used to coordinate their vast war machine. For a fleeting second Vance realized no ordinary soldier like Private Kelly could possibly comprehend, let alone maintain mental and emotional control over this overwhelming storm of information. But Vance fought, shaking his head and body in apoplectic convulsions in an effort to physically and mentally discern the sensations flooding his mind.

  Once he managed to isolate and understand streams of seemingly dissonant information, Vance tried arranging them in a logical order, much like conducting an interrogation or sifting through a file, starting with the basic information and working deeper. The originating signals pounded through his head, overlapping drumbeats of dots and dashes of multiple transmitters broadcasting messages in Morse code. These rapidly passed through stages of clicking typewriter keys, smooth electrical current passing through advancing metal rotors, and finally blinking letter lights. The letters gathered into groups of four, then transformed into comprehensible abbreviations and even entire words.

  Vance realized this cap somehow channeled and deciphered all German radio communication within Western Europe through its wearer.

  He doubted anyone intentionally designed the cap that way-the Nazis would be fools to allow such a fantastic weapon to fall into Allied hands-but surmised the emotional heat of combat and anguish of death imbued it with the knowledge and expertise of its wearer, who must have served with a wireless communications company in North Africa.

  Vance’s body twitched as he focused on the nearest messages, those most clear that translated into lucid intelligence about Nazi units guarding northern France. Orders to march, divisions held in reserve, units reforming after combat elsewhere. He started forming a vast strategic picture of towns and units between Normandy and Calais. One static and one active attack infantry division sat directly along the coast where the Allied amphibious forces hoped to establish a beachhead. Three smaller infantry groups stood in reserve south of the operational theater. Rommel had deployed his much-feared German panzer divisions far from the invasion point, with the 21st Panzers moved ten miles southeast of Caen and the infamous 12th SS Panzer Division more than fifty miles away, just west of Dreux, and the messages coming through the cap indicated they were stationed in the rear for rest and recuperation. Vance knew Eisenhower would like to know exactly what kind of opposition he was facing once American, British, and Canadian troops took the beaches of Normandy.

  But the way he deployed his divisions confirmed that Hitler fully expected an Allied assault at Calais. Although a handful of divisions stood ready to repel any invaders at Normandy, Hitler had ordered at least nine infantry and four panzer divisions into the vicinity of Calais. The Lehr Panzer Division sat in reserve just west of Chartres to counter any Allied attack on either target. Clearly the Nazis expected an attack at Calais.

  Vance could not comprehend how long he’d been unconscious exploring the mysteries of the cap. He heard the dining room door swing open and Lieutenant Jackson’s shoes clicking evenly on the parquet floor, then halt abruptly.

  “Call a medic!” Jackson screamed.

  Vance opened his eyes wide, shook the cap off his head, composed his expression, and smiled calmly at Jackson. “No, everything’s all right,” he said, trying to
sound confident despite the enduring tremors coursing through his body. He pulled himself up to his elbows, used the table to help him rise unsteadily to his feet, and then found coordination enough to make a show of dusting off his uniform jacket sleeves. Vance addressed the cautious yet curious crowd of sentries and typists who had gathered at the gaping double doors. “No need for alarm,” he said. “I’m fine.” The others reluctantly dispersed.

  Vance leaned down to retrieve the cap from the floor and faltered; Jackson reached for it, but Vance grasped her arm. “I’d advise against touching that, my dear,” he said. He saw her eyes go wide in response to his menacing look. Jackson quickly regained her composure and stood up, stony faced. After taking a few deep breaths, Vance bent down to pick up the cap himself and casually tossed it onto the table near his seat. Jackson knew it was an act and pulled his chair out so he could sit down.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant, what you discovered about our friends Kelly and Sewell and how they acquired this cap.” Vance’s lithe fingers crept along the table and began absently fingering the dusty fabric, hoping simple contact might endow him with some of the cap’s supernatural insights.

  Lieutenant Jackson drew up a chair, crossed her legs, and flipped open her notebook. “I tracked down Sewell encamped near Southampton as you thought,” she began. “Sewell traded the hat to Kelly for an amazing amount of booze and cigarettes for his unit. It’s a long and twisted trail of trades, but I tracked the cap’s original owner to Rommel’s Afrika Korps at Gazala. During a counterattack, General Montgomery’s forces overran Rommel’s communications detachment, 3rd Company, 56th Signals Battalion, what the Germans call a Fernemeldeaufklärung Kompanie or Horchkompanie.”

  “A long-range radio intercept unit,” Vance interjected. “Probably handled all of Rommel’s headquarters-level code and cipher work, with broadcasts heading into the field and back to Berlin. It probably also carried out interception work targeted against Montgomery ’s wireless traffic.”

  “Exactly, sir. I pored over the operational reports, both for the army and intelligence, and determined this Horchkompanie helped Rommel stay one step ahead of Montgomery ’s forces… at least until Gazala, when things started falling apart.”

  “Yes, because he was woefully disorganized at el Alamein and certainly while retreating afterwards.” Vance’s other hand began smoothing out his pencil-thin mustache as his brows furrowed in thought. “Lose your ability to intercept and decrypt enemy wireless messages and you lose your advantage.”

  “Sewell’s buddies destroyed the unit and took souvenirs. He claimed the cap came from the Horchkompanie commander, Captain Alfred Seebohm. Apparently he was a genius regarding anything to do with codes, ciphers, and radio work.”

  “That would explain this,” Vance said, patting the cap and withdrawing his hand. “Seebohm was undoubtedly wearing it when they killed him. The trauma of death might have imbued it with his expertise and, well, quite a bit more about the workings of the German cryptographic system. On par with Station X at Bletchley Park, only through a different medium.” Vance flashed a playful smile.

  The two remained silent for a moment, respectfully contemplating the cap. “Where do we go from here?” Jackson asked.

  Vance’s lips curled in a sinister smile. “We put Seebohm’s expertise to our own use. Sergeant!” he called. The fellow posted just outside peered around the door. “Would you kindly fetch me an operational map of northern France and a handful of pencils?”

  “What should I tell Colonel Donovan?”

  “Assure him that Operation Overlord can go ahead on whatever schedule Eisenhower chooses,” Vance stated confidently. “The impressions from this cap confirm that Hitler’s fully expecting an assault at Calais and give us a good view of those forces waiting for us in Normandy.”

  The sergeant returned with a large, rolled-up map under his arm and a handful of pencils. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Vance said with a disarming smile. While the sergeant returned to his post outside the door, Vance unrolled the map and began marking German unit placements with a pencil.

  “They won’t believe it,” Jackson said. “It’s absurd. A German wireless operator’s cap imbued with all his knowledge, all the workings of the codes and ciphers, even intercepting radio waves.”

  “It’s as reliable as any intelligence Colonel Donovan is ever going to get out of our bureau,” Vance countered. “Ike may not believe it-heck, if Donovan’s his usual cagey self, he’ll obscure the source of this seemingly dubious intelligence-but the Colonel himself wouldn’t have authorized our bureau if he thought our investigations didn’t have merit.”

  “Say what you want about the cap, there’s no way you can know all that,” Jackson said, pointing to the map on which Vance continued jotting notes.

  “True,” Vance conceded. “Though operatives in France might confirm it, probably too late or after the fact. I doubt anyone would believe the veracity of the unit deployment I’ll sketch for reference. I guess in retrospect it will seem uncanny, if not downright suspicious.”

  The cap sat next to Vance and the map, no longer an object of horror or curiosity, but another weapon to use in defeating Hitler’s Nazis.

  “Trust me, Lieutenant, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of such strange occurrences during this war.”

  CAKE AND CANDY by Kelly Swails

  Ask most people what death smells like and they’ll say earth mixed with decaying leaves, or formaldehyde and old makeup, or maybe unwashed skin overlaid with disinfectant. For me, death will always smell like licorice and wedding cake.

  I’m standing beside a casket in a funeral parlor, alone in a room full of people. Staring at the body, I wonder what it is like to be dead. He knows the answer to the question in the back of everyone’s mind. My existential angst and morbid curiosity mix to a form of jealousy, and I wonder what is wrong with me.

  Almost everyone is dressed in black, their murmurs audible over the soothing music coming from the walls. One brave soul, a formidable-looking woman wearing a steel-gray dress, approaches the casket and slips a gift to the deceased. The ice broken, the other mourners form a line behind her.

  I know what’s coming. I correct my posture and will myself not to cry.

  “Gladys, I’m so sorry. Tad was too young.”

  My mother-in-law accepts the woman’s embrace and says, “Thank you for coming, Judy.” Tad’s mother is the picture of refined sorrow. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, her eyes have the merest hint of red, and she dabs her nose with a pressed hankie. I hate her perfection as much as Tad does. Did.

  “And who is this, Gladys?” Judy turns her gaze to me, and I shrink. She is wearing expensive cologne, probably something French, and for some odd reason I wonder if this is what hell smells like.

  “Tad’s wife.”

  I force a smile. I will be polite if it kills me. “Nice to meet you. I’m Anne.”

  Judy does not blink, nor does she take her eyes from mine. “I didn’t know Tad was married.”

  “About six months ago. Eloped.” Gladys says. My jaw clenches.

  At that, Judy’s eyes slide to my stomach before moving over the rest of me. I can see her taking inventory and placing tick marks on a list in her mind. Flat tummy: check. Pantsuit: check. Blotchy face: check. I watch as she places me under the “Unacceptable” column.

  “I see why you didn’t tell anyone, Gladys,” Judy says, her gaze returning to mine. Her gray eyes tell me it’s my fault that Tad is dead before she moves down the line to offer condolences to Tad’s brother.

  I cannot hate her, because I agree.

  I am curled up in bed. I have tacked blankets over the windows, unplugged the alarm clock, and turned off the phone. I do not know if the world exists outside, and I do not care.

  A knock sounds on the door. “Anne, are you in there? Are you okay?”

  I grimace. My grandmother. “Yes, I’m in here, and what do you think?” I call. Keys jangle in the lock and I groan. Tad never fixed th
e chain on the door, and so there is no way to keep her out. I curse him in my mind and instantly feel ashamed.

  Grandmother sweeps into our-my-bedroom and stops short. “Holy Mary Mother of God,” she says. “How long have you been holed up?”

  “I dunno. What day is it?”

  She gives me a considering look. “Tuesday.”

  “A week, then.”

  “It smells like it,” she says as she pulls a blanket off a window, pushes open the curtains, and raises the sash. Blinding light fills the room as a warm breeze brings in the city sounds from below. I try to burrow deeper under the blankets, but Grandmother yanks them off me before I can resist. “Up you go. Get showered and dressed. I’m taking you out for lunch.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I say.

  “I don’t remember asking if you were. Up.”

  I know it is pointless to argue. Sighing, I roll off the bed and walk to the bathroom. Before I start the water to brush my teeth, I hear her rummage through my closet. I stop myself from telling her I am capable of dressing myself. This way I don’t have to see Tad’s clothes hanging useless next to mine.

  After Grandmother approves of my appearance, we walk two blocks to the Korner Kafe. We sit outside, and she orders daiquiris and salads for us both. I find that I don’t mind being told what to eat and drink, and I wonder what is wrong with me. I never would have let Tad order my food.

  “Tad hates this place,” I say after the drinks are delivered.

  Grandmother takes a sip from hers, nods in approval, and says, “Why is that?”

  “Pretentious. He thinks it’s someplace his mother would like.” I cry when I realize what I’ve said. “He thought that, anyway. Tad hated this place.”

  “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Anne, but you will survive this.” Her normally brisk voice is soft.