The Methuselah Project (16 page)

More than one night he’d dreamed of mounting the concealed steps behind that steel door, stepping out of this building—which he’d never seen from the outside—and finding his old P-47 repaired and waiting to wing his way home forever. Such pipedreams were ridiculous, but every time he relived the vision, his spirit gained a slight bit of altitude. He pictured hope as the parachute that kept him safely dangling above total anguish and self-destruction.

One additional idea encouraged Roger to remain among the living. From time to time, Miss Hawkins’s voice would wheeze out from his memory and remind him that he could petition the Almighty for help. This particular morning he lay in bed feeling lethargic, and for the first time in weeks those words pierced the gloom in his mind.

Finally motivated to action, Roger threw back the bedclothes. In desperation, he sank to his knees beside the bed and folded his hands. “God, I need help. I’m going nuts. Save me from this dungeon. Please, help America to whip these insane Nazis and restore peace to the world. I don’t care about living a long life, but if You get me out of here, I’ll do whatever You want. I swear it. I’ll even go and preach to orphans like Miss Hawkins did if that’s what You tell me to do. Please, please just get me out of here before I go totally mad.”

Even as Roger breathed an “Amen,” a startlingly simple inspiration flashed into his brain: ask Kossler for a Bible. Why hadn’t he ever thought of that before? Despite the doctor’s fanatical devotion to the Nazi Party, he’d never objected to the American’s reading books. Sometimes, when Kossler could find some old English hardbacks for sale, he would unexpectedly show up with a paper sack filled with yellowing volumes in English, French, Dutch, or other European languages to puzzle over, in order to keep the prisoner occupied and quiet. Was it possible that an English-language Bible could’ve survived somewhere in the Third Reich?

“A Bible?” Kossler slid the breakfast tray through the slot in the bars. “Have you turned religious overnight, Captain Greene? Perhaps I should check your temperature.”

“I’m fine.” Roger nearly growled the words. He was sick of Kossler interpreting every comment as a possible side effect of Methuselah. “I haven’t suddenly turned religious. I just want a Bible.”

Kossler stood, contemplating his captive with crossed arms.

“I’d also like it to be in English, please. Even though I can read German, it’s still not the same as reading in my own language.”

Kossler circled his desk and eased into his leather chair. “A Bible in English … It might be possible. I know of quite a few used-book shops. But I can’t promise. I’ve never searched for such a thing. I don’t even own a Bible.”

“Why is that so easy for me to believe?”

Kossler’s gaze locked on Roger. “What an extraordinary mood you’re in this morning, Captain. But tell me, do you believe in the Bible, or do you simply want to read it as a pastime, similar to Norse myths of Odin, Freya, and Thor?”

Except for isolated verses Miss Hawkins had printed on large squares of pasteboard, Roger had never read the Bible. He’d feel uncomfortable saying he definitely believed it. But he radiated irritability this morning and wouldn’t yield one inch of territory to the enemy.

“Oh, I have proof that at least some portions of the Bible are true.”

“Indeed? Such as?”

“Well, the Bible mentions a place called hell, doesn’t it? I have to believe that much, since I’ve been living in one for the past quarter century.”

Kossler erupted into laughter. “Touché, Captain Greene!” He applauded. “But honestly, I had hoped that my family’s estate would rate a little higher in your estimation.”

“Maybe the upstairs where you live isn’t so crummy, but just try living behind these bars for a couple of decades. You’ll figure out what I mean.”

“Personally I follow Friedrich Nietzsche’s philosophy on such topics. I have no time for God, nor for investigating whether such a being exists.” Kossler withdrew a pocket notebook from his lab coat and picked up an ink pen. He jotted a reminder: “One Bible. English.” He flipped the booklet shut. “Very well. I’ll try. Is there anything else you desire?”

Roger’s eyes landed on the locked cell door.

“I mean anything else, barring the obvious. No pun intended.”

“Yeah. I need more ways to pass the time. I want to learn how to play a musical instrument. Could you order a piano for me?”

Kossler scoffed. “Request the planet Jupiter, why don’t you? I have no funds for extravagant luxuries. Furthermore, you don’t have enough room in your apartment for a piano.”

“My apartment? Ha! That’s rich. Just call it what it is: my cage. Okay, if not a piano, how about something smaller? I’m willing to negotiate.”

“How much smaller?”

“I’m reasonable. Say, a guitar?”

Kossler looked upward and heaved a sigh. “Really, Captain Greene—”

“Hey, I could’ve asked for a trumpet. Or a screechy violin. Or bagpipes. I could even drive you batty drumming on these steel bars all day with my spoon. You have to admit, a guitar is pretty tame. Not too hard on the nerves, and it would help me to while away the hours. What do you say, Doc? Have a heart.”

“I see your tactics, Captain. You’re like the boy who begs his father for an elephant, only to accept a compromise in the form of the puppy he wanted all along.” Kossler sighed again, then retrieved his pocket notebook. “One guitar. But only if I can find a used one at a bargain price. No guarantees.”

“No need to promise.” Roger lifted his mug of coffee to his lips.
I wouldn’t trust your promises anyway. Not in a million years.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
25, 1995

T
HE
K
OSSLER ESTATE
, G
ERMANY

A
s he did on every Christmas in the cell, Roger backed to the far wall when the pistol-toting guard in a black turtleneck waved him away from the bars.

While the unnamed guard held his pistol ready, Kossler unlocked the barred door. With his traditional Christmas greeting of
“Fröhliche Weihnachten!”
the aging doctor completed the ritual by placing a miniature, brightly decorated fir tree inside the cell. Then Kossler retreated and relocked the door. He dismissed the man in black with,
“Danke. Das ist alles.”

With a reverence akin to awe, Roger approached the three-foot evergreen. He sank to his knees and pressed his cheek against a prickly, needle-laden branch. Eyes closed, he inhaled the delicate scent of forest until his lungs neared bursting. He exhaled and drew another huge lungful. How he yearned to be outdoors, standing in a grove of such trees! He could soak up this wonderful, natural fragrance all day and not tire of it.

Kossler broke the silence. “I’m always gratified to see how you enjoy my little peace offerings. Not that I celebrate Christmas personally.”

Roger heard the words but let them pass without response. The fir tree—this random sample from God’s creation—had completely filled the grounded pilot’s steel-bound universe. He drew back to gaze at it, to stroke the pliable, green needles, to touch the slightly sticky roughness of its narrow trunk, to drink in the whole intoxicating vision.

The woody scent fetched back memories of hikes through forests in Indiana, of Christmases in the past. Even without the silver garland Kossler had draped over its boughs, Roger would’ve come to the same conclusion: “It’s beautiful.”

Kossler settled onto the leather sofa he’d installed in the basement a decade earlier and proceeded to fill his pipe with tobacco. After lighting it, he leaned back and crossed his legs. Dedicated though he was, the German had never worked on holidays, including December 25. Today there would be no glowing Bunsen burners, no bubbling test tubes, no odor of sulfur or other chemicals, no injections into white mice. “Would you like to smoke, Captain? I don’t have a spare pipe, but I believe Werner kept some cigarettes in his desk.”

Roger pulled his eyes from the Christmas tree and regarded his captor. What was left of Kossler’s hair had turned Santa Claus white, just a sparse thatch that allowed quite a bit of scalp to peek through. The decades had etched deep lines into his forehead, under his eyes, around his mouth. How old would Kossler be by now? At least seventy-five. Probably older.

The airman shook his head. “No thanks. You should give up smoking, Doc. I don’t think it’s good for you. After all, look at me. I don’t smoke, and I’m the spitting image of good health. You’re always lighting up that chimney of yours, and look what it’s done to you. You look old enough to be my great-grandfather.”

Kossler laughed, coughing out smoke in little puffs. “Yes, I do look old, Captain. But tobacco isn’t the culprit. Your body can shake off years as a duck shakes water from its back, but mine can’t. My time is running out.” Something in the man’s voice suggested he’d raided a liquor cabinet before descending the steps this evening. His words were coming out slightly slurred.

Roger jerked his head toward Werner’s desk. Dust had accumulated on its once-glossy surface. “You never told me—how was his funeral?”

Kossler twisted the pipe sideways in his mouth, an idiosyncrasy that signaled he was willing to converse while enjoying his smoke. He shrugged. “It was a funeral. A couple of old schoolmates. A handful of cousins, nieces, and nephews.”

“I would’ve gone, but no one invited me.”

Mirthful twinkles appeared in Kossler’s eyes, as if the prisoner had shared something enormously amusing.

Studying his aging captor, Roger pondered his emotions toward the man. Part of the airman’s heart despised this creature who played the role of warden, guard, and mad scientist. Yet now, watching the wrinkled man puffing on his pipe, pity welled inside him. Although it was true that the past fifty-two years of Roger Greene’s life had been fruitless, the same could be said of Otto Kossler’s. For all these decades, the scientist had dedicated himself to chasing a persistently elusive goal. Did the man still clutch hopes of success?

Somewhere over the past half century, the line between captor and companion had blurred. Certainly Roger harbored no love for Kossler and would often draw him into verbal sparring matches. On the other hand, this enemy scientist had become his main source of conversation. During evening hours, Kossler had increasingly descended the steps simply to relax on the sofa and to banter with his prisoner.

Thanks to Roger’s growing collection of books, which overflowed the cell into stacks just outside the bars, the airman could discuss world literature all day and never repeat himself. The German scientist wasn’t nearly so widely read, but he enjoyed waxing eloquent on the mysteries of science, especially in the realm of biology. Occasionally he would discuss the specific experiments he was conducting and what he hoped to accomplish. In recent days, the man seemed to prefer relaxing his brain and discussing lighter topics.

“So why didn’t you ever get married?” Roger asked.

Kossler gave his characteristic shrug. “Marlene Dietrich wouldn’t have me.”

The German’s uncharacteristic humor startled a laugh out of Roger. Along with the 78 rpm records of classical German composers, Kossler had frequently played records of Dietrich’s songs. When he did, Roger would listen, enthralled, to one of the few female voices he’d heard since leaving England.

After a few more puffs on his pipe, Kossler provided a more serious explanation: “I’ve always been married, Captain Greene, but unfortunately, never to a woman. In school days, I was married to my studies. Later, I married the Nazi Party and its ideals. For the remainder of my life, I’ve been married to my research. So you see, circumstances left no time or energy to seek female companionship.”

Roger grunted understanding. But if his own presence had kept romance from the German’s life, he didn’t feel one shred of guilt.

“How about you?” Kossler questioned. “Have you ever pursued a romantic interest, Captain?”

“Oh, I dated a few girls in high school. We had fun, but I knew they weren’t the ones for me. Besides, back then, I mostly wanted to fly airplanes. Got my first couple of lessons from the man who crop-dusted our cornfields. As soon as I got out of school, I ran off to Canada, and from there volunteered to fly for the RAF.”

“Didn’t you tell me you were an orphan?”

“I was, but when I turned twelve, a farmer and his wife took me in. Not for love of children or anything. He just needed some extra hands milking his cows and plowing the fields. His wife might’ve felt a tiny bit sorry for me, but even she didn’t act like a real mom.”

Kossler absorbed these details with a thoughtful nod.

“If I could have the girl of my dreams,” Roger continued, “she probably wouldn’t look like some glamour-girl screen star. I figure those kind are fun for looking at, but not for marrying. I’d rather have a girl-next-door kind. She’d be pretty, sure, but her head wouldn’t swell up over it. And she would look natural whether she was wearing satin and lace or faded dungarees. She would be soft as moonlight, but with real spunk and backbone to her. Of course, she would like airplanes. And children. I always thought it would be fun to have at least three or four someday.”