The Prize (112 page)

‘As you know, I hold many position of—of importance in East Berlin today. I have access to every record, all data. I made it a project to find out what happened to our old Kaiser Wilhelm Institute alumni. I thought I might bring them all together for peaceful nuclear researches.’

‘And you found Walther’s obituary?’

‘His entire history. And yes, his obituary, as you put it. You see, Max, for a long time, after we heard of the accident, the explosion at Dubna, near Moscow, and saw the list of dead and missing—many of our old colleagues were lost there—a few of us had unrealistic hopes that the missing had not been killed but had disappeared somewhere, possibly escaped, and we might one day see them alive. Unfortunately, it was not to be. As I say, it was unrealistic of us, this faint hope. For now I must tell you, among the papers I found were some recent untranslated ones—and one of these, several years old, declared Walther officially dead. So that is it.’

‘So that is your great find,’ said Stratman bitterly.

Eckart nodded solemnly, as if in reverence for one departed. ‘Yes, that and something more.’ He reached down beside his chair for his briefcase. Stratman had forgotten it. Briefcases were so much a part of German costume that one hardly ever paid attention. As he opened the briefcase, Eckart went on. ‘I understand Walther’s daughter is alive and with you in America.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Stratman quickly.

Eckart was all innocence. ‘I read the newspapers, Max. You are a celebrity, you forget. Well, now, I was able to locate—it was not easy—some of Walther’s personal effects. I had them returned to Berlin, because I am a sentimentalist like you. I had love for your brother.’

Stratman poked at the beef and was silent.

‘And when I learned his daughter had survived, the first thing I thought was that she might like these souvenirs.’

From the briefcase he had extracted a silver wristwatch, dented but recently polished, a worn Talmud, a yellow-brown portrait on stiff cardboard of Walther, Rebecca, and Emily at the age of two, and a chipped enamelled cigarette case initialled W.S., which Walther had received as a gift from his pre-war employers on the anniversary of his tenth year with them as an engineer.

Accepting the objects one by one—passing through his hands a dear and precious human being’s entire life—Stratman’s eyes brimmed with tears, and his heart felt near bursting. Slowly, he stuffed the wristwatch, small Talmud, cigarette case into his pockets, and the five-by-seven portrait he turned face down beside his plate.

‘I am sorry,’ said Eckart. ‘I was only trying to help.’

‘Thank you,’ said Stratman sincerely. ‘Let us eat.’

They ate without another word for five minutes, until Eckart saw that Stratman had recovered his composure.

‘As you have said, Max, you have no affection for the past. So let us forget the past. We are alive in the present, and we have too much to do.’

Stratman nodded, and chewed his meat, and made no comment.

‘I am now the senior member of the board of Humboldt University,’ said Eckart. ‘Did you know that, Max?’

‘No.’

‘The future is in the hands of science, and I am a scientist. I am seeing that the university had the broadest basic research programme in the world. We are making a home for the leading minds of every land. Would you like to hear of some of our plans?’

‘Not especially,’ said Stratman. ‘For me, this is a vacation, not a business trip.’

Eckart, fork poised in mid-air, sat nonplussed. Again, he was not used to such offhand treatment. It was with difficulty that he remembered that Stratman, as a Nobel Prize winner, might consider himself his equal.

Uncomfortably, Eckart tried a chuckle. ‘Well, now, you are right. But I still have my curiosity. My only interest is science. That is my business and my pleasure. What are your plans, Max?’

‘About what?’

‘The field you are in. You have perfected conversion and storage of solar energy. That is what I read. What next?’

‘I will remain a servant of the sun.’

‘For peaceful purposes, I hope?’ inquired Eckart.

‘Who says the energy we now use to make rocket fuel is not for peaceful purposes?’ Stratman shoved his bifocals higher on his nose and squinted at Eckart. ‘I think my discovery will keep the peace. And work I plan for the future will doubly assure it.’

‘I cannot tell you how happy that makes me, Max—to know we are both working to the same end. This makes it easier for me to reveal a thought that has come to my mind.’

‘Yes?’

‘Max, I want you to keep an open mind about this. Hear me out.’ He paused, and then he asked, ‘Have you ever considered returning to the Fatherland?’

Stratman looked up. ‘What does that mean? Hans, your circumlocutions make direct conversation impossible. What are you talking about?’

‘A high position—the highest—in Germany—for you. You would be the most brilliant scientist at Humboldt University, among your own kind. We would furnish you a home, any home, of your choosing. A private laboratory building. And three times the salary you now make. All this, to bring you back to the land of your birth. For the first time, you would work for yourself, for us, and the devil take both our enemies.’

Stratman laid down his fork and knife. ‘You mean I should defect from the West and join the Communists?’

‘Childish nonsense—communism, communism. They fill you up too much with that poppycock in America. Who cares about communism? Am I a Communist? I am not. I am a German citizen and a German scientist, and that is the best religion, and you belong to it, too.’

‘Do I? Recently, it was not thought so. Recently, my religion was Jew, not German.’

‘Max, we have washed our hands of those gangsters.’

‘There will be new gangsters. I know my Germany. On the outside, the beautiful peak—the peaceful Ku’damm, and cafés, and Fr
ن
uleins with braided hair and miniature cameras, and toy fairs—and underneath, down inside, the lava cooks and steams and waits to explode. I have no love for Germany, Hans. I have love for my youth. But not for Germany. That was an accident. My seed might have grown anywhere.’

Honest astonishment showed on Eckart’s face. ‘I cannot believe you.’

‘It is so. But suppose this is only grief at what has happened. Suppose I did wish to return to the old place. It would not be Germany but Soviet Germany.’

‘That is not so. That is propaganda.’

‘Who pays you your salary, Hans? Who would pay mine at Humboldt?’

‘The German government, of course.’

‘The
East
German government, you mean. East of the Brandenburg Gate is Russia and Marxism. That is your supreme authority. You have come to me at the wrong time, Hans. You see, I have been spoiled. Yes, little golden America with its milk and honey has spoiled me—because it is golden, and there is milk and honey. I think and speak as I wish, and read what I wish, and, within the law, do as I wish, and when you have known the beauty of freedom, you cannot go to a pimp and his whore.’

Eckart’s lips had compressed until they were blue. ‘This freedom of yours—do you take me for a provincial dolt, Max? I have seen pictures of your slums, and unemployment offices, and black people beaten on the streets. And despotism over science—Oppenheimer—the rest—this is your freedom? I swear to you, you will find no such savagery and primeval living in East Germany.’

Stratman pushed his plate aside. He was still calm, but he missed his meerschaum. ‘Freedom breeds its own canker sores,’ he said. ‘The coloured man was once slave, now he is only half slave, soon he will be free. Under Communism, Germans will never in our lifetime, or after, be free. We, in America, have hope. You have none.’

‘Max, I do not want to argue with an old friend. I want nothing of politics and neither do you. Max, I want you with us. It is simple as that. Not in Russia. Not in America. In Germany. And if, for personal reasons, it cannot be in Germany, I will compromise. I will let you do your work in a neutral climate—Sweden, Switzerland, as you wish—as long as the work you do is for us. Why? Because to work for America or Russia is not to work for peace. But to work for your Fatherland, which with strength will enforce peace, that is the only sense for all of us.’

Stratman sighed, and tried to maintain a pleasant demeanour. ‘Do not waste your energies on me any longer, Hans. I see you did not arrange this lunch to speak of Walther, but to proposition me. It is no use. If I took your money, I could not face myself or my niece Emily, or the ghosts of Walther and Rebecca. I am an American now, Hans, and so I shall remain to the last of my days.’

There had been many shifts of emotion on Eckart’s countenance, and the one that deliberately remained was of friendly resignation.

‘Well, Max, I respect your feelings. You cannot blame me for trying to hire the world’s foremost physicist, can you? It would have been a fine feather in my cap. But your work is so important, I pray you point it towards peace.’

‘Let me care for my own child, Hans.’

‘How long are you remaining in Stockholm?’

‘Until the day after the Ceremony—the eleventh, I think it is—just time enough to pick up my cheque. I may take Emily to Paris for a week. Every girl should see Paris once. After that, I sail for home. There is much I have to do. And you, Hans?’

‘I have some other business. I may stay a few days longer.’ He hesitated, then resumed. ‘Max, if ever you should need money, and wish to reconsider—’

‘At my age, I will not need more money. I have my salary. It is generous. And now, I have Nobel’s legacy.’

That moment, Eckart hated the Nobel Prize, which, ironically, had given Stratman the independence to reject his offer. But, at the same time, the prize had been necessary to bring Stratman here so that he might be tempted. Eckart’s own design, and Krantz’s execution of it, had been intelligent, correct. It had quite simply backfired.

‘People are known to change their minds,’ said Eckart hopefully. ‘Possibly, one day, I can make the inducement higher.’

‘Never high enough.’

‘I can hope. We shall see. . . . Will you have a dessert, Max?’

Stratman shook his head. ‘No. I think I have had just about all I can stomach for one day.’

Except for the inadequate circles of artificial light thrown by the street lamps, the city of Stockholm was pitch-black at 5.40 in the afternoon, the time when Andrew Craig returned from the Stock Exchange Hall to his suite in the Grand Hotel.

The last lecture had been successful, but enervating. Despite his physical weariness, he felt at peace within himself. The reception accorded him by the university students, and their faculty, had shored up his writer’s pride, and it reinforced the tenuous structure Jacobsson had built for him at the Swedish Academy on the ruins of his old self. The frivolous lunch with Emily, in the Stratman suite, had also played a positive part in his well-being. Gradually, Emily was beginning to accept and trust him, and for the first time in three years, he was enjoying companionship with a young woman of his own choosing.