The Virus (7 page)

Schmidtt’s English — or rather American — was normally so perfect that Kaplan was surprised at the grammatical mistake: “remembered” for “reminded”. He hoped his host had not been too rattled by his reference earlier that evening to the Marburg virus.

He put his hand on the other man’s arm as they walked. “Franz, I hope you didn’t mind what I said. I didn’t mean to upset Heidi. You know me well enough to know that.”

“Of course, I realize that.” Franz half-turned as he walked to look his friend in the face. “But you must be aware, Lowell, that even though some things have crept back, like the song you just heard, there are other things we still prefer not to talk about. What happened here in Marburg in 1967 is one of those things.”

“Can you tell me about it now?”

“Later. I want to show you something first. I think it will help you to understand.”

They ducked under an archway and climbed down half-a-dozen steps. The street was so narrow that three people could not have walked along it abreast.

“This is the oldest part of the old city. It dates back to the earliest part of the Middle Ages. The university’s clubs have always met here. Remember that the university is almost as old as the town itself. They have grown up together. Each one needs the other. Ah, I think we have arrived.”

Franz Schmidtt gave three short knocks, followed by three long knocks.

“Is that a code?”

“Yes, of a sort.”

The door opened. A young bearded man confronted them, and Schmidtt said something to him in German. The man laughed.

“What’s he saying?” Kaplan asked.

“He’s saying you’re never too old. Once a Hessenkraut, always a Hessenkraut.”

“And who or what is a Hessenkraut?”

“Literally, a cabbage from Hesse. Actually, it’s the oldest fraternity in Marburg. And the most famous. The Chancellor himself is a member, and so is half the German cabinet. They’ve all been at Marburg University at one time or another. They were all Hessenkrauts.”

“As you know, we have Phi Beta Kappa in the States. Is it the same kind of thing?”

Franz Schmidtt smiled. “I have several friends who are Phi Beta Kappa, but I’m not sure how they would make out as Hessenkrauts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Wait and see.”

They went inside. A wave of sound hit them. Wreaths of smoke obscured the interior, and visibility was poor. Groups of students were sitting at tables, drinking and talking. There was a great deal of laughter.

They sat down at one of the tables and ordered beer. While they were waiting for their drinks to arrive, Schmidtt explained: “We will all be going upstairs in a few minutes. Drinking is downstairs; upstairs is . . .” he paused “. . . er, the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Before the Professor had time to reply, there was a general movement to the stairs. One or two of the students greeted Schmidtt as they elbowed their way up.

“Good evening, Herr Doktor. It is not often we have the pleasure of seeing you here.”

“I like to keep in touch.”

The room which they entered at the top of the stairs reminded Kaplan of a mediaeval refectory. Long oak tables were ranged along each wall. At the far end was a dais, raised about two feet above floor level. From the high roof whose rafters had been blackened by centuries of smoke hung a variety of shields, spears and other weaponry. Students were packed into every corner. Some were drinking and talking; others were clustered about a green baize card-table where an official of the club, whose rank was denoted by the golden cabbage which dangled from a chain around his neck, was clearly taking bets.

Schmidtt thrust forward through the crowd to the edge of the dais and Kaplan followed him. They found chairs and sat down.

A few seconds later a uniformed figure stepped smartly through the door onto the dais. Kaplan took in the clear features and flaxen hair of a youth who could not have been more than eighteen years old. In addition to a gold-embroidered pillbox hat which sat askew on his head, he wore a frogged jacket with high tasselled epaulettes.

The youth raised a trumpet to his lips. A short spatter of notes produced a sudden silence in the room. At the same instant, from either side of what Kaplan now saw was effectively a stage, other uniformed officials entered the room. Each of them carried a razor-sharp sword which, with a well-rehearsed gesture, they proceeded to hold out to the crowd.

A roar of approval went up. Glasses clinked as more beer was downed. Some of the gathering banged impatiently on the heavy tables calling for the show to begin.

The point of it all dawned on Kaplan at last.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Are they going to duel? I thought duelling disappeared from German universities years ago.”

“It didn’t disappear,” Schmidtt answered. “It just went underground. You can’t wipe out a tradition like duelling overnight. It’s in the blood. There have been duelling fraternities at Marburg University for four hundred years, and I think the tradition will continue as long as the university itself continues. The object is to wound, of course, to scar the face, not to kill. The bout will be over as soon as that has been achieved. One of the contestants will be marked for life. Perhaps both will be. But they will carry their scars proudly.”

Before Kaplan had time to comment, the youth who had first appeared on the dais blew another blast on the trumpet. At this signal, two other uniformed young men sprang from the wings to join their seconds on the dais. Each was presented with his sword and with a pair of metal goggles.

“To protect the eyes.” Schmidtt’s voice had dropped to a whisper because by now a hush had descended on the room.

“Of course.” Kaplan understood the purpose of the goggles but he couldn’t help feeling that they added an incongruous touch to the ensemble.

The club official who had been sitting at the green baize table now rose to his feet and walked over to the stage to inspect the contestants and their equipment. He handed a blue sash to one and a green sash to the other.

“Blue and Green are the traditional colours of the Hessenkraut
Verbindung
— student fraternity. This is also a Schlagende Verbindung — a Fighting fraternity — because its members are obliged to fight with swords.”

Schmidtt would have gone on to explain the finer points of the fraternity system when he was interrupted by the umpire who had begun a solemn address to the participants.

“He’s telling them that there is a maximum of thirty rounds in the fight with five blows each per round,” Schmidtt explained. He gripped Kaplan’s arm, communicating his own excitement to the American.

“Seconds, stand back!” the umpire called. “On your guard, gentlemen! Fight!”

The first hit came within seconds, as Green aimed a slashing blow at Blue’s face. The point of the sword neatly caught the top of Blue’s left cheekbone and sliced it three clear inches in a diagonal line towards the corner of the mouth.

The whole room exploded with a roar of enthusiasm at one of the best and earliest strikes seen for years in a student duel.

“First hit to Green,” the umpire shouted. “Stand back!”

The contestants sprang apart, swords at the carry.

As the audience cheered, Blue’s seconds came forward to dab the flesh where it was cut and bleeding. The contestants returned to the on-guard position.

“Ready, gentlemen. Fight!”

The two students once again began to hack away at each other. This time Blue was handicapped by the blood which continued to pour down his face. The students roared their support indiscriminately. What they wanted was action. Who won, who lost was of less concern.

“Another strike to Green! Stand back, gentlemen.”

It was a nasty slicing blow, which had carved the flesh from hair to jawline. There was loud booing from the audience.

“That one’s going to need stitches later,” Schmidtt commented, his professional interest evident. “That’s why the crowd is booing. The cuts are meant to be clean, and they are meant to heal without needing stiches. Stitches spoil the effect.”

“By God, they’re purists, aren’t they? Is Blue going to continue? Surely he’ll give up now, won’t he?”

Schmidtt looked at the man in the blue shirt, by now a hideous sight. The blood had run down and spattered his clothes, and one eye was almost completely shut.

“No, he won’t give up. He’s collected two scars, but he needs a third before being admitted into the cabal.”

“What’s the cabal?”

“That’s the inner circle of the Hessenkraut fraternity, the cream of the cream, if you like.”

“What about Green? Doesn’t he want to collect some scars too?”

“Oh, Green’s already a member of the cabal. He will have earned his scars some years back. He’s simply volunteered to fight the novice, for whom tonight is a kind of initiation test.” His tone changed. “Come, I think we’ve seen enough.”

They pushed through the crowd and back down the stairs the way they had come. After the noise of the fraternity house, the streets seemed very quiet and empty. They walked in silence, each one wrapped in his thoughts.

When they reached the Professor’s house once more, it was evident that Frau Schmidtt had already gone to bed.

“Let’s have a nightcap,” said Schmidtt, pouring two large balloons of brandy.

The two men settled into deep arm-chairs facing each other. The Professor was the first to speak.

“Lowell, my old friend.” Schmidtt looked fondly at the American. “Why do you think I took you to the Hessenkrauts’ this evening?” When Kaplan did not reply, Schmidtt continued: “I took you there because I wanted you to understand some things about us.”

“To tell the truth, Franz, I’m surprised the authorities allow that kind of thing to go on at all.”

“They don’t. Duelling is illegal today, just as it was in the ’sixties. In fact, in the ’sixties, it was even more anachronistic, as you would see it. Remember what it was like in Germany then. Remember the student movements and the power of some of the student leaders. Danny the Red, Rudy Dutshcke. In France, they toppled de Gaulle and brought Paris to a standstill. Here, in Germany, it was touch-and-go. There were riots in the street, all right, but by a miracle there was no spark to light the powder-keg. But there could have been, by God, there could have been!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that what happened here in Marburg in 1967 could have provided the spark, could have rocked Germany to its foundations. Remember, this is a very tense country. We live in the shadow of the Soviet Union on the one hand and of the United States on the other. Materially, we might look good, but we have still not recovered as a nation from the trauma of the Second World War. Always, there are forces at work in our midst ready to exploit the divisions and tensions that exist.”

“Tell me about 1967.”

Schmidtt took a large sip of brandy and lit a cigar.

“Yes, I was here, all right,” he said. “It was not long after I returned from the States that the trouble began. The Head of the Virology Department at the University was a remarkable woman called Irma Matthofer. She was about fifty years old, an extraordinarily able and forceful personality. She ruled her department with a rod of iron, drove herself and her colleagues hard, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Her speciality was vaccines. She believed passionately that vaccination as a medical technique was the key — and a cost-effective one — to mankind’s fight against viral diseases. Many would say, and not merely in Germany, that the development of polio vaccine, for example, owed as much to Frau or, I should say, Professor Matthofer’s work as to that of Salk and Sabine; but she never received the credit, least of all from the Nobel Committee. She was bitter that her contribution had not been recognized, and I think she was probably right to feel bitter. It was a clear case of injustice.

“But what she felt personally was one thing; her professional life was another. Far from letting her disappointment deflect her from the central path of her research, she threw herself into her work with increased vigour, almost as a form of compensation, and drove her people harder than ever . . .”

“What was the line of her research?” Kaplan interrupted.

“Cholera. As you know, existing cholera vaccines have begun to lose their effect and in any case are difficult to mass-produce. She thought she was on the track of a totally new concept when the tragedy occurred.”

Professor Schmidtt rose to refill his glass before continuing.

“Back in the ’sixties,” Franz Schmidtt resumed his tale, “medical research was a large consumer of imported animals. In Germany, the Marburg Clinic was one of the main culprits. I use the word deliberately. Over the last few years we have all come to realize that many animals needed for medical research can be custom-bred in Europe or America for the purpose. We don’t have to raid nature for them.”

“I wish everyone felt the way you do,” Kaplan interjected. “I know of centres in the United States today still importing wildlife in large quantities. And I’m talking about medical centres, not zoos.”

Schmidtt took the interruption in his stride. “Fifteen or twenty years ago,” he continued, “the Marburg Clinic, particularly the Virology Department under Frau Professor Matthofer, was importing large numbers of animals, mainly from Central Africa, where the export trade was well-organized. Monkeys especially were imported, of every shape or size. Some of them were used in toxicological research, much as they are today — although, of course, we have our home-grown varieties nowadays. But others were being used specifically in the Virology Department. What Irma Matthofer had in fact discovered — and the discovery was extremely important to medical science — was that the kidney cells of monkeys were invaluable as media for the culture of viral-based vaccines. They would thrive there as they would nowhere else.”

“Go on.” Kaplan was listening with rapt attention.

“Irma Matthofer grew increasingly excited as her research progressed. You have to understand something of our national psychology to realize just what her achievement meant. Germany as a nation, and the Germans as a race, have made notable contributions to scientific research, but these have not always been for the good of humanity. I need not elaborate. Frau Matthofer’s monkey research was a different business. Here, perhaps for the first time, a German and, what is more, a German woman, would be responsible for a major medical breakthrough. Something that could do more to restore Germany’s standing in the eyes of the world than almost anything else you can think of.”