X
It’s morning. The first glimmer of sunlight enters my apartment back in Wünsdorf. I’m laying on my bed. I haven’t been able to sleep. Something has been bouncing frantically inside my head all night. I can barely think anymore. I stare at the moldy ceiling.
I think I know the answer to Dr. Vodnik’s offer, but I am too afraid to say it out loud. What am I so afraid of? Why am I hesitating? What else do I have? It then hits me! I haven’t heard from work at all. Am I fired? What happened? Will I still be able to return to work tomorrow? I mean, today. I must have been so distracted that I completely forgot. Do I even care? Maybe that’s why I haven’t thought about it until now. Maybe it’s not important anymore. Maybe that’s a sign. A sign… how ridiculous. I don’t believe in god, why would I believe in signs?
Why am I so scared of change? Change is what my whole life has been about. Why am I still scared of it?
I can’t lay down any more. I get up. It’s cold. My apartment is always cold. I go to the tiny kitchenette and look around. Not much to eat. I grab a slice of bread. I eat it without tasting it. There’s some coffee already made. When did I make it? How old is it? I don’t care enough. I heat it up on the stove and drink it. No milk. I don’t have milk. I should do some shopping. Wait. Why am I thinking about groceries? I’m trying to distract myself to avoid making a decision.
Do it. That’s it. Done. Do it. Let’s go.
I exit the apartment. My body feels soft and tingly. I haven’t slept, and I am still skittish. My legs are not in the mood to walk, but I force them. My whole body is begging to go back home, but I push myself forward.
I take the train back to Berlin. What time is it? Am I too early? It can never be too early. Not for something this big.
There are only bizarre people on the train at this hour. I try to avoid eye contact with them. I think some are staring at me. Why are they staring?
I take the tram and make my way to the cemetery. I see the crumbling church again. The heavy damage it has endured during the war has left it in desperate need of repair. The shattered ruins rise into the sky, looking down at the street. It looks a lot more commanding in this twilight than it did yesterday in plain daylight.
The doctor is having a smoke in front of the mausoleum, as if expecting me. Am I that predictable? He greets me good morning, throws away his cigarette and ends his conversation with a square-faced comrade. Before leaving, he courteously introduces us. He gratefully specifies that Dr. Khariton has offered invaluable consultation to the project I’m about to join.
Back in his office he confesses that the reason he knew I’d come back is that he is quite sure he has seen me before. I say it is possible. We live in the same city after all. He shakes his head. He says he saw me ten years ago. When I was a child? Where? In Kaliningrad? Why? No. Not in my hometown. Not when I was a child. He says I looked different, but I was the same age I am now. What? That’s ridiculous.
Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe this old man isn’t as coherent as I had hoped. Maybe I made a big mistake. It’s too late now. I gave my word. Let’s give this delusional scientist a chance.
He takes a deep breath, gets up from his chair and walks around his small office nervously. First time I see him nervous since we met. I stay seated, turning my head towards his direction and following every single minuscule movement, trying to figure him out.
It is taking the doctor a long time to explain what I am here for. He seems hesitant. Maybe he is probing me. Is he testing whether I am the right candidate after all? Is he regretting his choice? Should I be regretting it too?
He asks me if I like reading science fiction. The question catches me by surprise. What does that have to do with anything? He asks if I have read anything from René Barjavel. I haven’t. Never even heard of him. I don’t read a lot of fiction. I only read non-fiction. Facts. Maybe it wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. He is trying very hard to think of good questions, but he was obviously not born to be an interrogator.
I finally break the awkward conversation. I rarely break out in this manner, but this decision has kept me up all night. I don’t want to think it was the wrong move. It has I have enough doubts of my own. I don’t want him eroding my confidence on the project this early on.
What does he want to know? I ask him directly. I accidentally interrupt him in the middle of a sentence. He doesn’t seem to mind though. I acknowledge his concern for security and secrecy, but I assure him that the only way to make this work is to start building a trustworthy relationship. I accidentally sound a little arrogant, so I take a step back in my tone of voice. I explain that there are traitors everywhere, and some are professionally trained to deceive our intuitions. I tell him he will have to take that risk, no matter who he chooses to be part of his project. As a scientist he should be aware that he cannot be one hundred percent sure of anything. I am competent. That is all he needs to know. He now needs to take a leap of faith.
I sound like I am actually talking to myself. As if I were trying to convince myself of it.
He smiles patronizingly. He assures me he is certain that I am trustworthy. He is not doubting whether I’m the right candidate, he is only having trouble finding the words to explain what follows. His body relaxes back on the chair and he opens up to me. He calls me by my first name. It makes me feel like we’ve known each other for a very long time.
He begins.
He tells me that Hitler’s regime performed all sorts of extraordinary experiments before the end of the war. As the final battles were coming to an end, they attempted to erase every record of many of these scientific ventures. He says Berlin was host to one such major endeavor.
Clues regarding this project were found soon after the war by the soviet army, but were inconclusive. They kept all findings strictly confidential, away from the eyes of the allies. The place we are currently standing on was the first piece of this puzzle. Its purpose was unclear a priori. All documents had been burned. All personnel had evacuated and vanished. It took a long time to gather snippets of information and put together a glimpse of what all this was about.
I look around the room. The walls are made of concrete. All still in great condition. It’s like this underground fortress was never aware of the brutal war that had taken place just above the surface.
The doctor continues. They found two other bunkers, very similar to this one, in other remote corners of the city. One lays right in the heart of the West. The soviets found it before the city was split between the Allied Forces and they have kept it secret from local authorities to maintain control over the findings. I am reminded, of course, that this is strictly confidential information.
He takes my nodding as a pause. I force him to continue by asking what these bunkers were built for.
He warns me that it may sound a little… unbelievable at first - and in fact, it may indeed be inaccurate information, but he also points out that we won’t know for sure until I take part in the experiment.
He uses complex scientific terms to describe the purpose of the bunkers. I do not understand a single word. He knows, so he repeats it in plain words. They are nodes used for communication throughout space and time. I still don’t quite understand. Is it used to send messages? Like a telephone? He shakes his head. It’s to transport things, objects, even people. Like a subway system? No. it’s remote transportation. No tunnels or cables. Things are transported from one bunker to another through, what sounds like, pseudoscience.
To be honest, it sounds quite stupid. The Nazis were known to carry out impossible experiments. Hitler was a nut. He veneered dark magic and the paranormal. This place is simply the debris of a delusional mind.
The doctor adds something that makes it even more unbelievable. He says its purpose was to transport not only through space, but time as well.
Now I know for sure - this is a lost cause.
I play along, however, curious to find out how deep this rabbit hole goes. The doctor carries on speaking. His
vocabulary becomes more and more sophisticated and eventually my mind wanders. I begin feeling a faint sense of panic. Even if this is all just crazy talk, I am now part of it. I may not take it seriously, but these people obviously do. I wouldn’t dare defy their beliefs. I know how the system works. So now the question is, will my job be dangerous?
I interrupt the doctor and ask him about my role in this experiment. I would be assigned as a ‘Chrononaut’, he says. The term sounds ludicrous, as if taken from one of those sci-fi novels he so fondly mentioned. I try not to smirk as he says it. Instead I rephrase what he said - I would be a time traveller. The doctor nods and falls dead silent for the first time in our meeting.
I do not understand why I was eligible for the project, so I ask. He answers that, besides having a special blood type that is believed to be critical to the experiment’s success, I also have an excellent training as a cosmonaut. In essence, it sounds like I’m a well-bred guinea pig.
I continue extracting information about my specific tasks and responsibilities. He explains that it’d be very similar to that of a cosmonaut. I need to be in top physical condition, get acquainted with the equipment, study the technical specifications and above all, maintain a strong mental health. He also explains that, if the experiment were to be successful, I’d also need to quickly adapt when appearing in a different time in history. He is unaware of the specific time I’d travel to - which makes me feel uneasy. The more he talks, the more evident it becomes that they have no idea what they are playing with - but for some strange reason, I am aroused by the uncertainty.
He points out that my German and Russian are native, which allows me to fit in whenever I happen to arrive - in the past or future. However, this brings up the issue of running into dangerous situations, as we do not know who will be waiting for me on the other side. This, of course, is assuming that the travels will keep me within the Berlin metropolitan area. All these stipulations are based on vague evidence they found in old, crumpled, damp papers.
He complains that the project is dangerously underfunded.
Sounds like an uncoordinated mess.
It’s too late to back out now. I take a moment to digest everything we’ve talked about. I can feel him staring at me, worried about what I may be thinking right now.
After a minute of pure silence, he can’t help but ask me if I am still interested. To my own surprise, I compliantly nod my head. I ask him what the primary objective is.
He says they have a strong suspicion that the Nazis did get to send a human through time. There are numerous mentions of someone under the codename “The Bear”. We must find whether they were successful, and if so, track him down.
He adds that they have yet another disadvantage. In order to travel to a particular date, a custom code must be used. They call this code a “seed”. However, unlike the original German scientists, we have not fully cracked the codification system. Plus, the original creators rigorously destroyed all existing documentation. However, Dr. Vodnik has been successful at partially recreating some seeds. He explains that it’s been easier to decipher seeds of years that are rounded to the nearest decade. He points out the current year, 1960 as an example. Other seeds seem to be too complex to reverse engineer.
He gets up from his seat and puts his hand on my shoulder, inviting me to follow him.
I am transferred to a medical room where a woman waits for me. She’s the one I met on the very first day. For some strange reason, it seems like she’s trying to avoid me at all times. The very few times she makes direct eye contact her eyes wiggle around my face, as if I were a map and she was trying to find directions. I get the feeling that she sees something in my eyes that not even I am aware of.
She takes a blood sample carefully. I hate needles. She stares at the blood, as if she were able to see its particularities with the naked eye. I look at my own blood. Looks normal. Then again, a lot of unordinary things look normal at first sight.
We go through a few other physical tests. At no point do I get any hint of whether I am ticking the right boxes or not. She analytically takes notes on her wooden clipboard after every result, no matter how small it is.
We share no words except for the aseptic pre-scripted series of standardized questions and answers. I wish I could ask her more, but I fear she might repulse any amiable sign of warmth. Strangely, I feel an uncontrollable attraction by her presence. It may be her slick hair, or the way she holds everything with nothing more than her fingertips, making everything seem featherweight. Maybe it’s her hush voice and precise pronunciation.
I lift my arms up in the air and she stares at my chest as I breathe in and out, as she asked. Takes some more notes.
I finally gather enough courage to make a flirtatious remark about her eyes. She catches my intentions immediately. She dismisses my attempt by clarifying that she’s married and that I’m too young for her taste anyway. She’s into older men.
The rest of the hour continues in almost perfect silence, with furtive mumbles that help communicate where to sit, how to hold my arm and when to take a deep breath.
The following two weeks are going to be exhausting. For some reason they want to begin the experiments as soon as possible.
XI
I’ve pushed through three weeks of intensive training and, although we’re technically on schedule, this whole thing seems too rushed. Maybe the reason why I’m the only one who feels this way is because I’m the only one whose life is at stake. I’ve been hearing rumours of a previous experiment done with animals - a dog, to be precise. The poor thing never returned. The doctor tries to convince me that it means nothing. The animal completely dematerialized, meaning that the matter must be elsewhere; somewhere we cannot measure just yet. Knowing this still doesn’t soothe me though. The more I know, the worse I feel about it. I think I’ll stop asking questions of that kind.
It’s the night before the big day and he’s invited me for a drink in the lab. I call it our last drink, but he quickly shakes his head and assures me that it won’t be. I’m afraid to ask why he is so confident. I assume he has good reasons for feeling that way.
Although he may seem like a strange man at first glance, he has been very attentive with me. I have been given a new place to stay in Berlin. My sister was happy to hear that, but I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit her as often as she had expected. I couldn’t invite her over to my new apartment either, as Dr. Vodnik was very persistent about the secrecy of this location. He said the apartment would always be available for my own personal use, no matter when I travel. As in, he’ll make sure it’s vacant for as long as he can, but I must always keep its whereabouts confidential.
By the time I realized I hadn’t planned a goodbye meeting with her, it was too late. Well, to be honest, it wasn’t too late. That’s just what I told myself. I was simply too ashamed of having ignored her for so long. I instead wrote her a letter explaining that I will be away for a long time. I didn’t specify why, but I insinuated that it had something to do with the army. Why did I write that? She’s probably worried sick. It’s too late now.
The doctor hasn’t asked many questions about my personal life since our first interview, but he seems to know a lot about me. The KGB must have done a good job.
Early next morning, I find myself naked in the room. I’d feel embarrassed if it wasn’t for the fact that the doctor and the blond woman (whose name I still haven’t dared to ask) have made themselves very familiar with every corner of my body. I have nothing to hide - anatomically at least.
I am guided inside a metallic cabin, very reminiscent of Berlin’s iconic phone booths. For a moment I wonder if they have scraped off the yellow paint and repurposed it. My suspicion is quickly debunked as I walk inside of it. This is much smaller than a regular phone booth.
I turn inside the small cubicle and the doctor closes the door in front of me. It is dark inside. There is only a small, round porthole at eye level through which I can see the doctor, mou
thing something I can’t hear. It is completely sealed-off and sound-proof in here. He smiles and flicks his neck. I guess he owes me a drink when I get back.
His face disappears from the porthole. The soles of my feet are cold against the slick metal. I keep my arms close to the sides of my body. Although I try to lie to myself, I cannot hide it - I’m nervous. No. Worse. I’m scared. I know I’m scared. I say I’m only nervous to help calm my nerves. I distract myself and remember something about Berlin being home of the first phone booth in history. Somehow I feel like we may write history today too, also in a phone booth - or at least something that looks like it. What a stupid thought. I should be thinking of all the things the doctor asked me to remember. I should go through the list in my head and make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Eat salt, he said. Eat salt as soon as you arrive. That’s the most important thing. The machine has trouble with sodium, for a reason I care not to learn. Find the seeds. That’s the second most important thing. Each seed is essentially a key to a new date in which we can travel too. They are extremely complex to generate from scratch, so it is vital I gather as many as I can. That’s if I ever stumble upon any, of course. Nevertheless, without the right seeds I will not be able to make my way back home. The seeds. The seeds. The seeds. Most of them were destroyed by the nazis - although some may have survived. Perhaps I can even find them before they are destroyed. It sounds like such an abstract idea in my head. The third is… the third is… what was the third thing?
In the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of the blond woman staring at me through the porthole. She has no expression on her face. I stare back, not knowing how to react. Did she say something? A second later she dramatizes a big breath. Hold your breath! I take three short breaths and a final big one, holding the oxygen inside my lungs.
I feel the pressure inside the booth begin to decrease. My ears pop. I discover a new type of silence. I can’t even hear my own heartbeat. My vision goes blurry. I desperately try to regain my sight by blinking and shuffling my eyes around, trying to focus on the porthole where a smudged image of a beautiful woman stares back at me. I feel ants crawling inside my skin. My spine is struck by lightning and I fall to the ground.
The Berlin Paradox Page 3
