Pressure Drop (47 page)

“I think so,” Nina said.

“You think so. And do you also know that there are two kinds of eugenics, positive and negative?”

“No.”

“No. No, she says. Well, young woman, Dr. von Trautschke knew. He was expert at both. Expert. Positive and negative. Breeding and weeding, he called them.” Her voice rose, high and bitter.

“Hilda,” said her husband. She took a deep breath, then went to him, put her hand on his shoulder, squeezed it. Mr. Goldschmidt looked at Nina. “We knew him, you see.”

“Von Trautschke?”

“Yes. He worked on Block Ten.”

“Block Ten?” Nina said.

“Where they did the medical experiments,” Matthias told her quietly. “At Auschwitz.”

“
Mazel tov
,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. “A goy who has heard of Block Ten.”

“Hilda,” said Mr. Goldschmidt.

“
Mazel tov
,” she said. “I mean it.”

“Hilda.”

“It's all right, Mr. Goldschmidt,” Matthias said. He rubbed the side of his face; Nina saw him feel something and look with surprise at the blood on his hand. “You were there,” he said to Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“We were,” she replied.

“And Felix?”

“Not Felix.”

“He was born after the war?”

“No,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. “That would have been impossible. Felix was born in 1941. Mr. Goldschmidt and I were taken to the Vélodrome in 1942, but we were able to get Felix safely away to a friend in the country.”

“Then you were sent to Auschwitz.”

“That's what happened to the Vélodrome people.”

“And …”

“And?”

“And von Trautschke was there?”

“Oh, yes. He was there.” Mrs. Goldschmidt stood beside her husband, gently kneading his shoulders. He watched the conversation going back and forth.

Matthias rose, crossed the room, peered through the curtains. Then he walked back across the room, leaned against the wall. He was too big for the Goldschmidts' apartment, too heavy for their floor: it creaked under his weight. “I hate to drag you through this,” he said.

“But you are planning to anyway,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“Hilda,” said her husband.

“I am,” Matthias told her. “I know how much you don't want to talk about it, don't want to remember. But I am.”

Mrs. Goldschmidt's voice rose. “How do you know that? How can you know that?”

“I was in a prison camp myself once. Not a death camp. Nothing like Auschwitz. But people died there, and I don't like to talk about it either.”

They all looked at him. He leaned against the door, nose crooked, face bloody. A good face, Nina thought.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. Her hands never stopped rubbing her husband's shoulders. “We were on Block Ten. Dr. von Trautschke … used us in his experiments.”

Mr. Goldschmidt reached for his wife's hand, patted it. “But we were among the lucky ones, sir,” he said. “We didn't die.”

Mrs. Goldschmidt pulled her hand away. “We died,” she said.

Mr. Goldschmidt stiffened in his wheelchair. Then his eyes glazed and he hung his head.

“What do you expect?” asked Mrs. Goldschmidt. “When a man who calls himself a doctor—an obstetrician, as you put it—injects caustic liquids into your fallopian tubes, and you are a young woman, full of life—and yes, sexual desire, Pinchas, why not say it?—you die, even if you walk out afterwards. And when this man who calls himself a doctor tapes your husband's scrotum to a plate and bombards it with X-rays, for five minutes, ten minutes, day after day; and when this doctor, for his important research, then collects your husband's sperm using a prod of his own invention to insert in the rectum and stimulate ejaculation, so he can take away this radiated sperm to study under a microscope for science—then you die.”

Pinchas Goldschmidt smiled shyly.

No one spoke for a long time. Then Matthias said: “And after?”

“After?” Mrs. Goldschmidt shrugged. “The war ended. We went back to France, found Felix, went on. What else?”

“He was a wonderful boy,” said Mr. Goldschmidt.

“Yes,” said his wife. “And he made us happy. Didn't he?”

“Very happy.”

“But then he grew up. And went away to university.”

“And we came here,” Mr. Goldschmidt said. “To America.”

“Because we despised France,” said his wife. “For what it let them do to us.
Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité
.”

Matthias pushed away from the door, returned to the couch. “I think you said Felix taught Jewish history.”

“He taught all kinds of history,” Mrs. Goldschmidt said. “He specialized in Jewish history.”

“And he became interested in von Trautschke.”

Mr. Goldschmidt looked at her over his shoulder. “This is a smart man, Hilda.” His wife made no reply. The old man leaned forward in his wheelchair. “He became interested in von Trautschke, sir. Intellectually.” Behind him, Mrs. Goldschmidt shook her head. The old man must have been aware of it because he added, “Maybe not just intellectually. But intellectually was part of it. He wanted to know how a man who invented the first fertility drug, who started as someone who appeared to be helping people, could finish as someone doing experiments on Block Ten.”

“It was all part of eugenics,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. “Positive and negative.”

“Yes,” said her husband. He held out his hands. Mrs. Goldschmidt laid the manuscript in them. He leafed through it, stopped. “I translate—‘Positive eugenics. Encouraging the propagation of desirable elements. Negative eugenics. Discouraging the propagation of undesirable elements.' Do you see Felix's point? Positive and negative came together in the same man. They were part of the same thing. It was like
Lebensborn
. Von Trautschke was involved with that too.”

“
Lebensborn
?” said Nina.

The old man smiled at her. “She hasn't heard of
Lebensborn
,” he said.

“Why are you smiling when she doesn't know?” asked Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“It makes life better,” replied the old man. “Not knowing.” He turned to the second page of the manuscript, showed it to Nina. On it was an epigraph from Heinrich Himmler, in German.

“I can't read that,” Nina said.

“No? Himmler was the head of
Lebensborn
, you see. Well of Life. The idea was to set up a chain of houses where unmarried girls impregnated by SS men could have their babies without stigma. They wanted to encourage the making of lots of eugenically positive babies.” He flipped through the manuscript. “‘In 1936, von Trautschke designed the questionnaire to establish the genetic heritage of the girls and women who wished to qualify for the
Lebensborn
program.'”

“But there was more to it than that,” Mrs. Goldschmidt said.

“I know, Hilda. I am explaining to her. The rest is in the epigraph.”

“What does it say?”

“Himmler,” replied Mr. Goldschmidt, “speaking to the officers of the Deutschland Division, November 8, 1938. I translate—‘I really intend to take German blood from wherever it is to be found in the world, to rob it and steal it wherever I can.'”

Nina's heart began to pound in her chest. “What does that mean?”

“Kidnapping, dear lady,” answered Mr. Goldschmidt. “When the Nazis occupied conquered territories, SS men fathered illegitimate children by local women. If
Lebensborn
established their racial purity, they were kidnapped and sent to Germany.”

“Oh God.”

“Yes, it was horrible,” Mr. Goldschmidt said. He reached over and patted her knee. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“And von Trautschke was involved with this?” Matthias said.

“He helped plan it,” Mr. Goldschmidt answered. “He wrote many learned papers for Himmler. He was an expert on fertility, you see. He even proposed artificial insemination of unmarried women, to expand the pool of—what does Felix call it?” He leafed through the manuscript, quickly found the place: “‘The biologically valuable.' But that was too much for Himmler. He believed in the conventional family.”

Mrs. Goldschmidt snorted.

“Hilda.”

“What? Are you going to tell me there was some good even in Himmler?”

“No, Hilda. I will not tell you that.” She rubbed his shoulders.

“What happened to von Trautschke?” Matthias said.

Mr. Goldschmidt held up one of the Xerox document copies. “This,” he said, “is his death certificate. It states that he died in a traffic accident on April 2, 1945.”

“Just before the end of the war.”

“Exactly.”

Nina studied the death certificate. All she could read were two names: Wilhelm von Trautschke and Gerd Müller. She put her finger on “Müller.” “Why is he here?”

“Dr. Müller,” said Mr. Goldschmidt. “He signed the certificate. It has to be signed by a doctor.”

“Is this the same Müller who worked with von Trautschke?” Matthias asked.

Mr. Goldschmidt looked over his shoulder. “This is a smart man, Hilda.” He turned to Matthias. “Yes, Müller was on Block Ten too. He went to prison after the war.”

“For two years and three months,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“But he went to prison, Hilda.”

She rubbed his shoulders.

“Unlike von Trautschke,” Matthias said.

“Who was saved by death,” Mrs. Goldschmidt said.

Her husband sighed. “Except that—”

“Who was saved by death,” Mrs. Goldschmidt repeated, a little louder.

Mr. Goldschmidt put his hand on hers, squeezed. “Let us be fair to Felix, Hilda. I think that this lady and gentleman want to continue his work, don't you see?”

“Except what, Mr. Goldschmidt?” Matthias said.

He looked back at his wife; her face was impassive. “Except that Felix could not find von Trautschke's grave,” said Mr. Goldschmidt. “All he could find was the death certificate. He tried everything, official channels, unofficial. He even located von Trautschke's daughter, here in America, and Dr. Müller, in Australia, and wrote to them. They did not reply.”

“He contacted them?”

“As a researcher. Not as the son of survivors.”

“Victims,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. He squeezed her hand.

“When did he write those letters?” Matthias asked.

“About two years ago.”

“Can you be more precise?”

“Why does it matter?” asked Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“Because Gerd Müller's son turned up at my hotel last August.”

“Felix wrote his letters before that,” said Mr. Goldschmidt. “In the spring.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Matthias said: “And Bernie went to Andros and Happy Standish—von Trautschke's grandson—went to Aix.”

“About this Bernie you must be right,” said Mr. Goldschmidt. “But there was no connection between the grandson and the letters.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Felix met him by accident, at a party. Felix knew the name from his research. That's how it started. Felix made the approach. Felix liked him. He was the grandson of a monster, but he was not a monster. He knew nothing about his grandfather.”

“So he said,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt.

“No, Hilda. Felix would not be mistaken about something like that. The boy knew his grandfather was German and had died in the war, but that was all.”

“Did they come here together?” Matthias asked.

“Pardon me?” said Mr. Goldschmidt.

“When your son borrowed the suitcase.”

“Felix came alone.”

“So they met later in Florida.”

“We know nothing about that,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. “Felix was here only for a few hours. He was in a great hurry. He mentioned Happy Standish, but said nothing about what they talked about or … anything.”

“Sea on fire,” said Matthias, so quietly that Nina thought he was talking to himself.

Mrs. Goldschmidt heard him too. “What?” she said.

Matthias rose, walked across the room, leaned against the door. Nina wondered if he could ever be comfortable indoors. She had heard of men like that but never seen one.

“I know what they talked about,” Matthias said. “Von Trautschke didn't die.” Nina looked at the old couple. Their faces were colorless; they scarcely seemed to be breathing. “At least not on April 2, 1945. He escaped to the Bahamas in a U-boat. I believe he blew it up with the crew on board, so there would be no witnesses. Most of the wreckage must have gone to the bottom. But, by an accident of underwater geology, some of it didn't.” He told them what he had seen in the domed chamber under Zombie Bay. “In 1953, bits of wreckage must have started floating up in the blue hole. Maybe a storm stirred things up, maybe it was just the result of normal tidal forces over time. Hiram Standish, Senior, and a partner dove down and plugged the leak, but something went wrong and Hiram drowned. The partner survived to tell Inge Standish about it.”

Mr. Goldschmidt moistened his lips as though he wanted to speak, but no words came. Mrs. Goldschmidt took a deep breath and said: “Is this partner still alive?”

“I don't know,” Matthias said. “He would be very old by now.”

“We are very old,” said Mrs. Goldschmidt. Her eyes filled with tears, quickly dried up. Mr. Goldschmidt turned to her and smiled his shy smile. She took her hands from his shoulders and dropped them to her sides. The smile remained on his face, stiff and meaningless, disconnected now from whatever was happening inside.

Nina and Matthias left the tiny apartment. “Are they safe?” Nina asked.

“Yes. Otherwise they'd be dead already.”

Nina and Matthias walked toward the car. She knew it was a cold night, could see her breath; her skin burned anyway. She took out the car keys, but for some reason couldn't unlock the car. Then she felt Matthias's hand on hers, a cool hand, very big. He opened the car door.