The Violent Century (16 page)

Tank understands electricity. He nods. What else is there to do? He looks at the cages as he passes them. They make a slow progression, Dr Mengele and Tank and Dr Mengele’s assistants with their electric cattle prods. A slow exhibition, Tank thinks, staring into the cages. A woman with multicoloured skin looks back at him. Swan wings erupt out of her naked shoulder blades. Her hair is wild and matted, crusted with dirt. Her hair is black and so are her eyes. In another cage a man is on fire, like a human torch. In the next a woman is a statue of glass, her body is transparent, Tank can see the dirty wall behind her, through her.

Übermenschen.

Tank wouldn’t describe himself as much of a thinker but when he looks at Mengele’s specimens he can’t help but think and none of his thoughts are pleasant. Übermenschen. He looks at these poor misshapen creatures in their cages and wonders what it means to be an Over-Man. What it’s like to be a hero. He doesn’t know how they all ended up there, in Auschwitz. Collected like curiosities. Scars on the man in the next cage. An average-looking man. Naked. Scarred everywhere. Scars on his face, his arms, his torso. Scars like a script. Some pus-ing. Some sealed and healed. Scars on his tummy, his abdomen. Scars on his thighs. Looks at Tank. Says nothing. Scar Man.

In the next cage a pale man in a world of ice. Ice frosts the walls and the floor and the bars. The man wears a tattered yellow Star of David on his sleeve. The man has pale blue eyes. He, too, looks at Tank. Smiles. The smile transforms his face. My name is Kerach, he says. What’s yours?

The assistants step forward. Stick the cattle prods through the bars. Hit the ice man with them. He shudders, falls back. Keeps the grin. Keeps his eyes fixed on Tank. Blasted Nazis, what, he says. Mengele pauses. Looks at the man with a frown of displeasure. Schedule Mr Kerach the Jew for tomorrow’s operation, he says. Kerach ignores him. Where are you from? he says. English? I learn English in prison, he says. Camp with English officers, before Herr Doktor bring me here. English good!

Tank wants to reply but then the cattle prod is on him again and the electricity sings through him and he near passes out. Enough, Mengele says. Take him to the operating room.

They drag Tank the rest of the way. Past the cages and the specimens and into a brightly lit room with a metal table in the middle of it and a harsh light above it. They strap Tank to the table. The leather straps dig into his skin. They remove his clothes with a scalpel, leaving him naked. The light hurts Tank’s eyes. It shines directly at his face. He can make out Mengele’s face swimming above him. The man has gained back his good humour. Excellent, Mengele says. He strokes Tank’s skin. Of the English specimens we get so few, Mengele says. He holds up something for Tank to see. A scalpel, Tank realises. It shines in the bright light. He tries to fight the restraints but he has no power left in him. Mengele feels him, strokes him. Such muscles! he says. Such a body!

He lowers the scalpel. The tip of the blade touches Tank’s chest. It begins pressing into his skin. The light shines into Tank’s eyes. The blade presses in and with it comes pain. Eventually Tank screams.

EIGHT:

SOMMERTAG

PARIS
1943

64.
THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE
the present

– These things happen, the Old Man says. As if he’s trying to console Fogg. They happened to Tank, Fogg says. The Old Man sighs. In war there are casualties, Fogg, he says.

Silence reigns as they look at each other. The Old Man, as if trying to bring back this meeting – this interrogation – onto its right track, turns another page in the dossier before him. The Paris operation, he says.

– Yes?

– It failed, the Old Man says, because intelligence cannot always be relied on. I can assure you the informant was dealt with, later.

Fogg thinks of the corpse of a man, floating face down in a body of water. Is that what the Old Man meant? Or a quiet assassination in a curfewed street, in the dark, a bullet to the head, a body left behind.

Or a simple disappearance. A Nazi functionary who happened to go missing, one day. So much space in the catacombs under Paris, and dark quiet places to store such offerings in. Whichever way this nameless informant was dealt with, it doesn’t matter to Fogg. It doesn’t change things. And it makes facing the Old Man easier, somehow. As if, momentarily, Fogg has gained the upper hand. The point, the Old Man says, is that you came out of it, Fogg. Alive.

– Was that the point? Fogg says.

The Old Man regards him with his head tilted, like a bird’s. Makes Fogg uncomfortable. The Old Man says, Vomacht was never there. It was a set-up, we both know that now. The others were decoys, sacrificial pawns, and Vomacht was kept clear away. Correct?

– Yes …

And now the Old Man smiles, a small, tight smile. As if this momentary shift in their relationship has ended, and he is once again holding the tiller on this ship, and it is heading into hidden reefs where Fogg has no desire to go.

– You had a hunch though, didn’t you, Fogg?

The Old Man’s voice is soft, almost a whisper. Fogg feels hypnotised, it is so hot in the room, the Old Man’s eyes hold him in their stare. You stuck around, the Old Man says, matter-of-factly. Even when we recalled you and the others. You stuck around, in Paris. Watching in the fog. What were you watching for, Fogg? What did you
find
?

The Old Man’s voice rises then, becomes a whip, demands an answer. Fogg moistens his lips. Nothing! he says. His voice is small and alone in the room. Nothing, he says. I found nothing. The Old Man looks at him and Fogg looks away.

The door, miraculously, opens. Ah, tea, the Old Man says.

It’s his old driver, Samuel. As unchanged as they all are. Gives Fogg a tight-lipped smile. Nods at Oblivion. Carries a tea service on a tray. He places it on the desk and pours three cups, carefully. Cream? Sugar? he says.

Fogg just shakes his head. Cream and sugar, the Old Man says. For both of us, please, Samuel. Oblivion holds up two fingers, silently. Samuel serves the tea and departs. Fogg holds his cup of tea on his lap. The Old Man takes a sip from his, sighs with contentment. Then:

– Paris, the Old Man says. Nineteen forty-three.

– Old history, Oblivion says. Takes a sip of tea.

– Funny thing, history, the Old Man says. It has a curious tendency to come back to life when you least expect it.

65.
PARIS
1943

Fogg, watching. Just like we’re watching, now. The smoke from French cigarettes curls like fog. He makes shapes with the smoke. Releases tiny smoke men into the air. They float overhead and slowly dissipate. You’re a good watcher, aren’t you, Fogg. The Old Man, after three months on the Farm. You’re a watcher, Fogg. A hider, not a seeker. Lays a fatherly hand on Fogg’s shoulder. We could use men like you, he says.

And, later, in a bookstall on the Charing Cross Road in London, leafing through colourful American magazines. Like
Thrilling Tales of the Beyond-Men
. The text written by a Jacob Kurtzberg, in a tone of thrilled adoration. And yet the eye is drawn to the pictures, the bright uniforms in pixelated garish four-colour. There’s Tigerman, framed dramatically on top of the Empire State Building, holding onto a cowering criminal mastermind. There’s the Green Gunman chasing outlaws in the wilds of Texas. The Electric Twins in Detroit capturing Al Capone. Fogg is mesmerised by the images, their brashness, their colour. It is raining on the Charing Cross Road. A grey morning, people hurrying past with black umbrellas over their heads. You’re a good watcher, Fogg, the Old Man says, his voice is in Fogg’s ears. We need men like you. Do not be tempted by the Americans, the loudness, the colour. We are the grey men, we are the shadow men, we watch but are not seen.

What did you see in Paris, Fogg? What were you so diligently watching?

A girl, Old Man. I was watching a girl.

Fogg rolls smoke like quarters between his fingers. Watching the coffeehouse and the girl and the older man she’s with. The way she leans over and touches the back of his hand with her fingers. The way she holds her hot chocolate. Watches the rain streaking down the glass, hiding her face. There are just the two of them, the girl and the older man. No Gestapo minders, no SS shadows. No Übermenschen. Just the two of them. Just the two of them and Fogg.

66.
THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE
the present

– Unaccounted-for days, your stay in Paris, the Old Man says. Oblivion shifts beside Fogg. Fogg doesn’t answer.

– It’s understandable, the Old Man says. Fogg looks up. Oblivion crosses his legs. The Old Man’s voice is soft, compassionate. You were looking for Vomacht, weren’t you, Fogg, the Old Man says.

Vomacht, Vomacht. That name again. Hanging like smoke in the room. Fogg doesn’t reply, neither confirms nor denies. A note of finality in the Old Man’s voice. We are not here to tell stories to each other, he seems to say. We are here merely in pursuit of the truth.

– You figured even falsified intelligence must have a kernel of truth in it, the Old Man says. Turns another page in that damned dossier on his desk. Nods his head wisely. Hitler said something similar, once. For a lie to work it must have some truth in it to begin with. Or something of that nature, anyway.

Pauses. Oblivion looks sideways at Fogg. For a moment their eyes meet. Fogg looks away. The Old Man takes a sip of tea. Rests the china cup back on its saucer. Delicately. A chime as the two meet. The Old Man, softly: So what did you see, Fogg?

Like a hunter done with the laying of a trap. You were my best watcher, Fogg. The very best. A silence. Into it the Old Man’s voice, a whisper, an insinuation.

What did you see, Fogg, that lost week in Paris?

67.
PARIS
1943

He shadows the girl for two days, in fog and rain, trying not to think of Tank, of that botched operation, of rocket-men lying like broken mechanical toys on the ground. Late at night, lying on the narrow bed in a room too hot and too cold at once. Thinking of his mother back in England. Of the whistle of a train. Of the smell of wet leaves. Of a faraway place called Auschwitz, of which not much is known, somewhere in Poland where only the Jews, like lemmings, go.

But it isn’t the thought of Tank that keeps him awake at night, tossing and turning, it isn’t the thought of the operation; not even of Vomacht.

Fogg is thinking only of the girl.

Fogg had a hunch. Fogg stayed on in Paris, arguing with Oblivion, a bitter fight.

Standing there at the Gare du Nord. The whistle of a train. The smell of wet leaves. The smell of rich perfume and cheap cigarettes. Oblivion’s long body clad in a raincoat. Fogg is just Fogg. Bored German soldiers patrolling. Spit had gone separately, was already out of the country. Oblivion says, We need to get on the train. Come on, Fogg. Reaches for him.

Fogg shrugs him away. I told you I’m not going, he says. Oblivion’s white face seems chiselled of marble. He has that classical Roman statue look. Anger in his eyes, though. His voice is cold as the rain. You don’t know what you’re doing, he says. Fogg, listen to me—

– No. I have to—

– Damn it, Fogg!

– Leave me alone, Oblivion!

A soldier turns to look. Nudges his friend, who also turns. Two men shouting at each other on a platform attract attention. Fogg makes himself relax. Body language. Smiles. Oblivion smiles back. Pats him on the shoulder. You’re not leaving me a choice, he says, quietly, through the smile. The soldiers turn back, bored. Men yelling at each other in France are a common occurrence. What do you expect. No, Fogg says, I’m not.

A conductor whistles. Oblivion’s hand still on Fogg’s shoulder. His fingers digging, hard, into flesh, into bones, hurting Fogg. Get on the train, Oblivion says, quietly, still smiling. Now, Fogg. We have to leave.

– Get your hands off me, Oblivion.

– Damn it, Henry! A different note in Oblivion’s voice. Hurt, Fogg realises. It makes him feel peculiar. He’s almost giving in. No, he says, but softly. He puts his hand on Oblivion’s wrist. Feels the pulse of Oblivion’s heart through his skin. I have to, Oblivion. I have to do this. Please.

– Please.

Oblivion looks at him. What’s behind those pale blue eyes, Fogg wonders, Oblivion’s eyes are as clear as windows, nothing but empty sky behind them. Blue sky and clouds. Fogg feels the pressure on his shoulder easing. Feels Oblivion’s heartbeat, faster, then faster still. Hears the conductor whistling again. Smells wet leaves, oil, a woman’s perfume. I just have to do this, he says. Oblivion nods. His face never changes. Only the beating of his heart against the tips of Fogg’s fingers betrays what’s inside. Goodbye, Henry, he says.

Fogg shifts in place, suddenly awkward. Things to say, no way to say them. Cover for me, he says. Oblivion nods, once. Then he turns and boards the train and is gone.

Fogg stays on the platform. Watching as the wheels start to turn. As steam rises into the air and the train starts its motion, accelerating along the platform. Watches as it disappears into the distance. Then he walks outside.

Into light and air and rain. Walking along the Seine with the rain falling around him. The sun peeks around a cloud, for just one moment, its light breaking through the drops, and Fogg can see a rainbow, an illusion of colour blossoming out of water and light. It stretches over the Seine, over Notre Dame, like a message he can’t decipher, a sudden explosion of colour in a black-and-white world. For just a moment he stops and takes a deep breath, as if he could inhale not just air, but light and colour, with that physical act; as if he could make himself come alive, gain substance, gain shape and definition and scale.

But it’s just air; and he stands there, by the river snaking below, and stares, transfixed, at the rainbow, rising over the river, a bridge in the sky, an impossible dream of colour; and then a cloud covers the sun again and the colours fade, and Fogg remains standing there, in the rain, in a world washed grey.