The Ocean of Time (53 page)

His future death is killing him. Choking the flow of thoughts and ideas in his head.

‘Otto?’

‘Yes, Meister?’

‘Have you ever wondered about your name?’

‘My
name
?’

‘Why you were given it. What significance it bears.’

I shake my head. I have never wondered. My name is who I am.

‘I gave it you,’ he says. ‘I …’ He gestures for me to stand. ‘Come. Let me tell you a little tale.’

He walks over to the door and I follow, waiting while he taps the code into the lock. And then we are outside, literally outside, in a walled garden filled with sunlight, on a spring-like day, the air filled with birdsong.

There is a stone bench nearby. Hecht goes across and sits, patting the soft grey stone beside him. I join him there.

He turns, facing me, composing himself. And then he speaks softly, his eyes distant, the faintest smile on his lips as he tells me how I got my name.

‘You were always Otto. All of our children are given a first name – what they used to term a “Christian” name – long before they acquire their second names. It’s not until a child is five that we bother giving them that, and usually the name is chosen to “continue the line”, so to speak. To ensure that the good old German family names don’t die out.’

I remember being told this once, by Ernst perhaps, only it has never seemed particularly significant to me. With a system such as ours, it is not possible to follow the old ways, handing down the father’s name, generation after generation. This way we ensure our genetic diversity – our
strength
– while avoiding all of the old nepotistic sins of family preference. All the old tribalism. All children are
our
children. All
volk
our
volk
. And I’ve not questioned that before. Not, at least, until recently.

‘Most times there’s no more to it than that. A name’s a name. Only sometimes I would notice something in a child, and it would remind me, perhaps, of a figure from history, and I would borrow that name and use it on that child. You, Otto, were such a one.’

His smile broadens momentarily as he remembers.

‘You were a bright child, but very serious. Adult before your time, so it seemed. And tall. Elegantly so. Such that you seemed, even at four, to have something stately about you, like a young prince. Not that there was anything remotely arrogant about you. No. You were the most polite and sensitive of children. Sensitive of others’ feelings, that is. And with your fine dark hair and your elegant stature, I kept seeing reminders of someone I had met, long ago, when I was merely a
Reisende
and not the Meister.’

His eyes meet mine, something of the old fondness in them. ‘It was in Stalingrad, in the winter of 1942. I was in the
Kessel
– trapped along with the whole of Hitler’s Sixth Army, surrounded by the Russians, with no hope of reinforcements or of our own forces breaking out. It was there that I met him. Behr, that is. Captain Winrich Behr, late of the Afrika Korps. Behr was one of Paulus’s most trusted men, responsible for the situation map and for all the facts and figures in the reports sent back to the Führer. He was an impressive-looking young man, with his black panzer captain’s uniform and the knight’s cross that hung about his neck – like one of those figures from the propaganda posters depicting the perfect Aryan. And so he was. One of Hitler’s chosen. Anyway, General Hube had been sent to see the Führer, flown out of Stalingrad to report personally to the Great Man. Only when Hube told Hitler the truth about the hopelessness of the situation, he could not persuade his Führer that defeat was inevitable. Hitler believed that Hube had been infected by the same disease of pessimism that all his other generals seemed to have caught. He refused to surrender and ordered them to fight on to the bitter end. Downcast, Hube flew back to Stalingrad to tell Field Marshal Paulus the news, and Paulus, at his wit’s end, decided to send Behr to see Field Marshal Manstein.

‘Manstein, entrenched in his headquarters in Taganrog, down on the Sea of Azov, listened to Behr’s report and agreed with Paulus. Behr must be sent to see the Führer, at Rastenburg, at once. And so it was, that very next day, after a long and difficult flight, in the early evening of the thirteenth of January, 1943, Behr was escorted to the operations room of the
Wolfsschanz
e, to meet his beloved leader, Adolf Hitler. It was to be a poignant meeting. Behr had been warned, both by Hube and Paulus, how Hitler reacted to bad news; how he would try to manipulate the bearer of ill tidings and persuade both them and himself that only he, the Great Leader, knew the full picture, and that things were much better than appeared. Only Behr did not let the Führer play this trick on him. Requesting Hitler’s permission to give his account, he launched in, outlining with a shocking frankness just how bad things truly were within the
Kessel
. How the troops – the
Stalingradkampfer
– were overwhelmed by exhaustion and starvation and the bitter cold. How badly outnumbered they were and lacking in fuel, ammunition and basic foodstuffs. Hitler, for once, listened, impressed by this knightly vision that stood before him. All seemed well, only when Behr had finished, Hitler turned once more to the great map, which was covered in tiny little flags, and claimed – audaciously, but, more to the point, fantastically – that he was preparing a massive counterstroke that would reverse everything and set things right. Behr, looking on, felt a wave of shock pass through him. He had been an enthusiastic advocate of National Socialism, and a fanatical admirer of the Führer, but now he saw through the little man who stood there in front of him, hunched over the map, and in that instant he was stripped of all illusions. He knew then that the great cause he had fought for was based on the beliefs of a fantasist and a madman and that Germany, his beloved Germany, was set to lose not just Stalingrad but the war.’

‘What happened to him?’

Hecht looks past me. ‘A few days later he was summoned to see Hitler’s senior aide, General Schmundt, and questioned closely. Schmundt saw at once that Behr had lost his faith, but Schmundt was sympathetic, however, and decided to take no action against the young man. That said, he could not risk sending Behr back to rejoin Paulus, lest his personal despair infect those about him, so he sent him to join Field Marshal Milch instead, in Melitopol on the Black Sea coast, appointing him to the special staff working to help Fortress Stalingrad hold out.’

‘Did he survive the war?’

‘He did. And lived to a ripe old age. There’s video footage of him in his seventies.’

‘And something in me reminded you of him?’

‘There was a resemblance, a physical resemblance, but it was more his manner. Something genuinely aristocratic. Princely. He was a knight, in an age that had no need of knights.’

‘I see.’

Only I don’t, quite.

‘But come,’ Hecht says, getting to his feet again. ‘Let me show you something.’

I see now that there is a wooden door in the end wall of the garden, partly obscured by ivy, and by the bushes that grow densely to either side. Opening it, Hecht steps through, and as I follow him, so I am surprised to find myself in a land of verdant, rolling hills and valleys. Only my surprise is short-lived, for as Hecht stands aside I see them, gathered on the rocks below me by the river, their tiny easels in their laps, and realise with a shock just where I am.

The Garden! Urd save us, I am in the Garden!

‘Come,’ Hecht says again, reaching out to gently touch my arm. ‘You’ve been waiting all your life for this.’

Ernst is surprised to find me in his rooms when he returns from teaching.

‘Otto!’ he cries, embracing me. ‘I didn’t know you were back. Where have you been?’

‘San Francisco Bay Area, California. 1952.’

‘Where the platform was.’

‘Yes, but listen … you won’t believe where Hecht just took me. To the Garden.’

‘The
Garden
? No!’

‘Remember that day when we went out sketching, by the river, and Hecht joined us, and he had a guest? A tall man, dressed sombrely?’

‘Vaguely …’

‘Well, that was me. The tall man.’

‘
You
?’

‘I saw myself, Ernst, as a child. Nine years old, I was. And you, you were there too, sitting no further from me than you are now.’

‘But why? Why would he do that?’

‘To show me myself. To explain why he gave me my name.’

Ernst looks puzzled. ‘Why did he?’

So I tell him the story, and afterwards Ernst is quiet, thinking things through.

‘It must be hard,’ he says finally. ‘It must make you question everything.’

I stare at him, not understanding, and he adds. ‘Knowing that you’re going to die. I mean, that you’re going to die
soon
, on a certain date. Odin save us, he probably knows
how
!’

‘And I become Meister. And then I leave.’ I look to Ernst. ‘Why would I do that?’

Ernst shrugs. ‘Katerina?’

I sigh. I feel I’m no nearer to solving things. No nearer to getting to see her again, to making sure that she’s safe. She and my girls.

‘So what does Hecht have planned for you?’

‘I’m to go in,’ I say. ‘2343. He wants answers.’

‘We all want answers. But why you? He could send in a whole squad of other agents.’

It’s a good question. And there are others, too. Like why he’s not gone for Reichenau’s throat. Why – when he knows where he is – he can’t pin the bastard down.

‘I think Hecht’s losing it,’ I say. ‘His memory is still as good as ever, but … he seems to lack
sharpness
.’

‘Things have changed,’ Ernst says. ‘Zarah says there are agents coming in from the future.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘He knows it’s finished for him. That must be devastating. The ultimate failure. To be the father of one’s people and to know you won’t be there. That it’ll stand or fall without you. It must make you question the value of everything you did. Make you take stock.’

I can’t argue with that. Only it doesn’t seem like Hecht to give up on things. Even if he is about to die, the old Hecht would have done all he could to prepare for that, to set things up for after he’d gone. Simply to let go …

‘How long has he?’ I ask.

‘Thirty-one days.’

It isn’t long, and no doubt it seems even briefer when you’re living it, knowing the sand is running through.

Master of Time, and yet not in control of it.
Subject
to it.

‘Zarah will know,’ I say suddenly. ‘Zarah knows everything. Nothing comes or goes without her knowing about it.’

‘Then see her.’

And so I go, there and then, leaving Ernst behind, as I’ve left him far too often these past months. Only there’s nothing he can help me with this time, because if Hecht
is
to die and I become Meister, then the problem’s mine and mine alone.

Or so I convince myself.

Zarah, however, is not at the platform but in her room, and when – with her permission – I visit her there, I find her seated on the edge of her bed, her head slumped forward, her face hidden behind the screen of her hair.

‘Zarah?’

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and I see that she’s been crying.

‘
Zarah?
’

‘He’s dead,’ she says, and for a moment I’ve no idea who she means.

‘Dead?’

‘Meister Hecht. The news came back just now. His brother …’

‘But I was with him, half an hour back. He—’

I stop dead, recognising the fallacy in what I’m saying. Of course he can be dead, even if I did see him only half an hour back. Thirty-one days, yes. But that’s
subjective
. If he went back. Back to the Haven …

‘Thor’s teeth,’ I say. ‘Are you sure? Dead?’

Zarah nods, and another tear courses down her cheek. I go to her and, kneeling before her, wipe the tears away gently with my thumb.

‘How did he …?’

‘I don’t know. But he left something, for you.’

I turn, looking to where she’s indicating, and see the slender package on the bedside table, my name – ‘Otto’ – written in Hecht’s neat hand on the brown paper exterior.

So I am Meister now
, I think, and am surprised by how calm, how unemotional I am. Hecht is dead and I feel nothing.

I stand and look about me, but nothing seems to go in. Not a single impression sticks. It’s like my whole being is in sudden stasis, every sense of mine suspended, my brain numbed by the news. And I wonder if that is normal, or whether that is a failing in myself. And then I remember how I’ve felt about Katerina, recall that wild, obsessive surge of raw and primitive emotion that she conjures in me, and know that how I feel in this moment is to do with shock.

I go to speak, to say something significant, but nothing comes, and after a moment I just shake my head. And then I remember it – the package – and, picking it up, read my name, mouthing it to the air.

‘Well?’ Zarah says, calmer now. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

I hand it to her, and, after the briefest glance at me, she slits it open with her fingernail and tips it up, and out falls something bright and reddish-brown, but shiny.

Something made of copper. And as she holds it up, her eyes questioning me, so I feel my heart stop in my chest, like someone’s punched me hard.

‘Urd save me!’ I cry, reaching out to take it from her, bringing the perfect, sculpted copper ash leaf before my eyes, fear gripping me. ‘It’s Katerina’s!’

‘The German soul has corridors and interconnecting corridors in it, there are caves, hiding places, dungeons in it; its disorder possesses much of the fascination of the mysterious; the German is acquainted with the hidden paths to chaos. And as everything loves its symbol, the German loves clouds and all that is obscure, becoming, crepuscular, damp and dismal: the uncertain, unformed, shifting, growing of every kind he feels to be ‘profound’. The German himself
is
not, he is
becoming
, he is ‘developing’.’