Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (20 page)

The man, who was sitting behind a carved, ornate desk too heavy for the room, sniggered in delight at the reaction.

“Told you that you'd be surprised, Heinrich,” he said.

The small apartment, little more than one room with tiny alcoves leading off, was a complete shrine to Nazism. Behind the man the red Nazi flag, the swastika, stridently black in the middle, dominated the whole wall, forming the backcloth for a huge picture of Adolf Hitler. Walls either side were cluttered with pictures of the Führer, showing him with every Nazi leader, and there were plaster casts of the Nazi motif. Able to see perfectly now in the subdued lighting, Kurnov recognized an S.S. dagger, the death's-head emblem easily visible, lying on the desk, in front of which stood the high-backed chair upon which he was resting. It was heavy, as ornately carved as the desk. There was a bust of Hitler alongside the dagger. And a Luger, easily within reach of the man.

As he looked up from the desk, the man stood up. He was wearing full S.S. uniform, Kurnov saw, his belt and boots brilliantly polished.

Hesitantly, then with determination, Dr. Otto Grüber, with whom Kurnov had conducted human experimentation at Dachau, Bergen-Belsen and Buchen-wald throughout the Second World War, extended his right arm, turned halfway around with something approaching dog-like obedience to the huge photograph on the wall and said, “Heil Hitler.”

Kurnov stared at the man, unable to move. His mind was frozen, like those of the men upon whom he had experimented. It was impossible to encompass the scene. Or accept what he was seeing.

“Heil Hitler,” repeated Grüber, insistently.

Relief suddenly flooded over Kurnov, almost painfully, like the immediate coldness of the ice water after a sauna. He was going to survive. The realization exploded in his mind. It was going to be all right. He was going to get out of everything without any difficulty: probably without paying the money, even. Staring at the old, demented man standing before him like an actor in a comedy theater, Kurnov felt the confidence burn through him. He had been tricked by a crumpled, senile old man who dressed up in a funny uniform and made obeisance to a man dead for thirty years as if he were still alive. He stifled the anger at his own stupidity. Recrimination could come later. Momentarily he allowed himself the pleasure of vindictiveness: he'd be able to keep his vow after all. God, how he would make Grüber suffer for what he had done. But he would have to be careful, he thought, looking back to the gun now held quite steadily in the man's left hand. He was dealing with a sick mind. He would have to take things very slowly. Very slowly indeed. The wrong move, the merest thoughtless mistake, and everything would be ruined.

He extended his arm, feeling embarrassed.

“Heil Hitler,” he said.

Grüber smiled happily, as if Kurnov had uttered the correct password. The man's mind was on the switch back of insanity, guessed Kurnov. Everything Nazi was obviously the key. He reflected upon the man's reaction to the salute. It would be important to pander to his nostalgia, he decided. For several minutes, the scientist remained looking at the old man who had been his assistant for so long. How obvious it was, he thought, in hindsight. All the clues had been there, as obvious as an umbrella on a summer's day. It was not surprising he hadn't decided upon Grüber, though, after all the inquiries he had had made. He'd aged, of course, but the features were unmistakably the same, those heavy bulldog jowls and puckered, sensual mouth. And the eye, that awful deformity that Grüber liked to parade for some bizarre reason of inverted vanity. Grüber's left eye was dead, a graying, opaque pupil in horrifying contrast to the other, which was intensely black. The injury gave him a staring, demonic look. How much he had enjoyed frightening their victims, even before any operations, recalled Kurnov. An early indication, he reflected, of the mental breakdown from which the man was now so demonstrably suffering. The lopsided stare was fixed upon him now, the face twisted in a self-congratulatory smile. Grüber was very dangerous, decided Kurnov again. But manageable, certainly to a man of his training. He answered the old Nazi's smirk. Oh, yes, definitely controllable by an expert.

“Otto!” he exclaimed, smiling further, extending his hand and moving forward. Immediately the other man's hand came up, the Luger aimed at Kurnov's stomach. Grüber had moved surprisingly quickly, thought Kurnov, stopping immediately. An error.
He'd
moved too sharply.

“Back,” shouted Grüber, the fear tinging his voice. “Get back.”

Kurnov frowned, detecting the break in his voice. He's scared, decided the adoptive Russian. That was good. He'd have to avoid any sudden movement, he realized. Everything would have to be very gradual.

“Otto! What is it!” he protested, the pained expression sounding quite normal.

“I've got no cause to receive you like a friend,” threw back Grüber. “You abandoned me. You ran away from Buchenwald, never telling me you were going. No one got out, after you. The road was closed, almost immediately afterwards, as Berlin became surrounded. The Russians were everywhere. Thank God it was some days before they got to Buchenwald. At least we had some time to hide.”

He paused, as if trying to remember something. Suddenly he smiled. “So now you've got to pay,” he said.

Everything had been rehearsed in that sick mind, Kurnov thought. Grüber jerked the gun towards the chair, which Kurnov saw had been carefully positioned a good six feet from the desk, so that no unexpected move could be launched from it. As he sat down, Kurnov realized that the wall behind him was draped with another Nazi flag and two further pictures of Hitler. There were two more busts, as well, on tiny plinths on either side of the room. It was pitiful, he thought, recognizing the mental condition of regression.

“Otto,” started Kurnov, gently, “I tried to find you. I really did. But Berlin fell, as you say, I was trapped. There was no way I could get back to Arfurt …”

“You abandoned me,” insisted Grüber, distantly.

“I
didn't
” argued Kurnov. “The collapse was too quick. You know how it happened. I tried to get help through to you. But I couldn't find you …”

Grüber sniggered, offered the opportunity to boast.

“I was too clever for them,” he said. “They never guessed who I was …”

He
had
wanted to locate his assistant, remembered Kurnov, although not for the reasons with which he was trying to convince the other man. Like the records he had fled to Berlin to retrieve, Grüber had been a possible source of identification. Kurnov had lost count of the number of times he'd cursed himself for not killing the man before leaving the concentration camp. He had insisted Bock try every means through the clandestine Organization to discover Grüber's fate, even while he had lain in the clinic, recovering from the operation. The Organization had been unable to find any trace of Grüber and so they presumed he had been killed by the advancing Russians. But the uncertainty had irked, certainly in the early days. After he had arrived in Moscow, Kurnov had had fresh, discreet inquiries made, but Grüber had vanished.

“But I almost died,” whined Grüber, his voice weakened by the recollection. “It took me six months to get through the Russians and reach Berlin …”

Kurnov sat patiently. Let him talk, he decided. For three decades the man had stored resentment. The therapy was long overdue.

“… By then,” took up the old man, “everyone had gone underground. I tried to reach the Organization, but all the contacts had disappeared. No one wanted to know anyone as positively identified with the camps as I had been …”

It was to be expected, thought Kurnov, in the confusion that existed immediately after the war. All the Nazis had escaped or adopted their new hidden identities within six months. Grüber would have been a dangerous embarrassment.

Grüber jerked towards his dead eye.

“Thank God I'd copied your example and always avoided photographs. But my eye made me an easy target … the yids at the camp gave a very detailed description of me. Even now, I've got to wear a patch. Several times they came this close to catching me …”

He made a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger, chuckling.

“… And that's going to be the greatest pleasure of all,” he mused. “I'm going to make them beg and pay the earth for the box, Heinrich. Can you imagine that? They're going to have to pay someone who's at the top of their wanted list.”

Knowing he would need response, Kurnov laughed, too effusively, Grüber grinned, happy at the reaction. Should he raise the purchase of his personal file? wondered Kurnov. He rememberd Grüber's nervousness at the proffered handshake. He'd reject any verbal suddenness, too, decided the scientist. It would be better to wait.

“That's wonderfully ironic,” he encouraged. “Remember the old motto—‘always make the yids pay' …”

He stretched out, pointing to Hitler's picture, anticipating gestures would have to be exaggerated to penetrate the fogged intellect. “The Führer would have appreciated that.”

The old man turned, his shoulders drooping with sadness as he looked up at the picture. He came back, swallowing, and it seemed impossible for him to talk immediately. It had been wise avoiding premature demands for the file, decided Kurnov. Grüber had a lot left to say.

“Remember how it was, Heinrich?” reflected the old man, wistfully. “The honor … the way we were treated … the importance to the Fatherland of the experiments …”

The memories had to be drained from Grüber's mind by reminiscence, thought Kurnov. And he would help. People always responded if the person to whom they were talking appeared to be confiding, Kurnov knew. It was basic psychology that trust had to be created this way between a doctor and patient. He hesitated for a moment, then thrust the doubt aside. Why not? Grüber had worked with him. He would be saying nothing the old man didn't already know. It would establish a bond between them in Grüber's crippled mind. He'd always been a dutiful, subservient assistant. Before the evening was over, he would become so again, a completely malleable man.

“They were great days,” he agreed, recognizing he was half enjoying the nostalgia, too. “The Führer was a great man … so enthusiastic about the work …”

He paused, casually moving his hand toward his jacket pocket. It was important to get Grüber used to movement. The other man made no move for the Luger, as Kurnov took out the cigarette, inserted it in the holder and began smoking, gratefully.

“… He knew the importance of the studies,” continued Kurnov, wanting to embrace Grüber in the praise. “Another three years and we would have perfected the germ experiments that would have rid Europe of every Jew, gypsy and black … changed the setbacks of the war, even …”

“… So near …” sighed Grüber.

“… The benefits of our experiments to mankind would have been enormous, too,” added Kurnov, his voice strengthening with the indignation of a committed man denied the completion of his life's work. It
had
been close. Often, in Russia, he had daydreamed of the role that would have been his in Germany had the outcome of the war been different.

A cunning look flickered over Grüber's face.

“Other things went unrecognized, too, didn't they, Heinrich? And that was fortunate.”

Kurnov hesitated, guessing the way Grüber's mind was slipping. It would bring them to the evidence he wanted, he decided. He sat, waiting.

“I didn't
know
you'd gone to Russia,” confessed Grüber. “There were the odd stories, like there were about Bormann and Mengele. But I was never sure. I only approached Bock because I thought he would have contact with some Nazis to make them sweat. I threw out your name, like bait … I decided to gamble, knowing what I held would make it suicide for you to stay in Moscow … and I knew you had money, after all …”

He
would
have known about the Swiss account, accepted Kurnov. Or guessed about it, certainly. He had been too close to miss the collections and the ransoms. It had been another reason for wanting to find him in those last days. It was important, thought Kurnov, that his former assistant shouldn't get too confident. There was an easy method, of control, he decided. He gestured towards Hitler's picture.

“It was the Führer's own instructions that the freezing experiments should be conducted not only on Jews, but on the Russian prisoners as well,” he defended. “We had to know whether someone born into the Russian environment had an inherent ability better to resist cold.”

“True,” agreed Grüber, quickly, as if he wished to appease Kurnov's irritability. “I'm not questioning what was done … just remarking about your luck. Weren't you worried that they'd find out in Moscow? Imagine what would have happened to you!”

Kurnov smiled at the hint of admiration in the old man's voice. There was still respect, he judged. That was important. Gradually the conversation was moving in the right direction. He'd end the victor, Kurnov knew.

“I hate to think what they would have done to me if they knew I had frozen four hundred Russians to death,” he agreed. “But I took as many precautions as I could. My Russian file shows me to be Reinhart … Remember that fool, who spent all his time trying to help everybody …?”

Grüber burst in, a mocking laugh. Kurnov joined him, over-effusive again, judging the reaction like a man tuning a musical instrument.

“… I know,” he agreed. “Ironic, isn't it?”

He paused, reviewing the old Nazi's question.

“They wouldn't imprison me,” he said, distantly. “The Russians would shoot me, if they knew. They'd stage a huge public trial, then shoot me. The Russians are odd people … often very stupid. They've created a gigantic myth about their heroic Red Army during the last war, when it was nothing more than a ragtaggle collection of peasants. They won on the same principle that the Chinese would win a war today … they've just got more people to sacrifice as cannon fodder until the other side becomes exhausted. But for them to discover I'm the person responsible for Russian deaths in a concentration camp … deaths of members of their wonderful Red Army … would drive the fools insane …”