We Live Inside You (16 page)

She designed a new wing flap that would allow the craft to stabilize even over sharp mountain winds. She perfected her fuel equation to maximize distance. She recalled bits of her work with Wuerzberg and proposed ways to equip the weapon with radar guidance.

The effort exhausted her. She requested a soldier to shuttle her home from the factory.

Her driver didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t speak a word.

This is wrong
.

She’d had the thought so many times before—when she’d stolen from her mother to buy hard candy, when she’d tossed a book which Goebbels had banned into the pyre at University, when she’d buried Jakob, when she’d thought about all of the destruction her project might create.

But none of those moments had felt as wholly wrong as when she’d read the letter that had been delivered to her residence.

Minna had hoped that the letter might tell her that a doctor had finally been assigned to come help Garin, as she’d been requesting. Instead she’d received notice that both she and Garin were going to receive “the finest care” at the Reich Work Group of Sanatoriums and Nursing Homes.

As a scientist she was supposed to be insulated from the daily goings on of the war. But she’d heard of the Reich Work Group, and understood the nature of their “healing.” Even if she could convince someone that she and Garin were becoming healthier, she was sure her University protest from ’38 would resurface. She’d be shunned—they might even declare her insane for once having favored Jews.

The Reich had clearly decided, with the utter finality the Work Group represented, that Minna and Garin no longer represented the best interests of the great race.

We must escape
.

As soon as she had the ridiculous thought and her mind tried to put together all the permutations of the idea, there was a knock at her door.

Kuntzler entered and in a few acidic, boozy breaths, explained that the requisition had already been filed, that they were patients in his care, and that he would personally supervise their transfer to Work Group tomorrow.

He did not hesitate to add that an armed guard would be standing outside the door to her house all evening. To protect her security in this time of transition, of course.

The guard was kind enough to listen to her. Her words, her promise, and the banded bundle of cash she placed into his hands assured that he let her and Garin pass.

Minna had difficulty moving Garin’s wheelchair in a straight line. With only one arm to steer she had to lean the weight of her hips against his back and felt the heat of his body through the chair.

During the long, slow slog to Nordhausen she stopped occasionally to look up at the stars, or to kiss the tops of Garin’s hands. She’d been doing so since he was an infant. He had delicate, beautiful hands, and she forced herself not to imagine the work they may have done at Maidanek. Rather she let herself feel his pulse and heat through the thin skin of her lips.

They can’t have us, Garin.

All the chaos was reduced to this simple truth—the huge steel press machine in which she cradled her son was made to exert monumental amounts of pressure at an incredible speed.

This pressure had already proven its potency on flesh and bone.

That Jew died trying to destroy this thing.

Feeling the immense power of the apparatus that held her and Garin, she realized what a fool’s errand it was to try and break it. Some things were too large, too immutable. There were forces around them which would not slow against resistance.

She’d toured the main floor at Nordhausen many times; she knew from watching the star-marked laborers that it took about a minute for the machine to build up to the explosive release of the vast black panel above.

Minna used that time to speak her husband’s name with love.

Jakob, please forgive me. We had to escape.

She whispered kind words to her only child and ran her fingers through the still thick hair on the right side of Garin’s head.

The building sound of the great machine began to fill the empty factory.

Minna was ready. She placed her lips to Garin’s, closed her eyes, and waited for The Beauties to complete one last equation.

Mandy Vasquez let the sun soak in, hoping to retain the day’s heat when cold, wet night rolled in and left her shaking. She’d begged up enough cash to score tonight, so at least there was one guaranteed warm evening ahead of her.

“Listen, lady, do you want some money or not?”

“Oh, sorry…” Mandy hobbled over to the blue sedan, maintaining a delicate balance on mismatched prosthetic feet (the left—a curved spring meant for disabled athletes, the right—a regular foot with fake skin that swelled on rainy nights). She snatched the cash from the woman’s hand, caught the smell of a new perm.

Gotta stop zoning. I’d be out three bucks if that light would have turned green.

Mandy stepped back to the curb thinking this new intersection was working out fine. She’d only been in Portland for a few days, but they seemed pretty free with the cash. She made sure her sign—DISABLED, WAITING ON SSI, PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS!—was upright, then flinched as a streak of pain ran through the sole of her non-existent right foot.

That was the worst, the terrible pain in feet she didn’t even have. Like being forced to give birth to a kid you weren’t allowed to keep. Hurting for nothing at all.

That’s why she got high—it killed the ugly feeling that ripped through her missing heels, like hooks driven through meat, tugging ever upwards. The dope let that agony sluice into the gutters and trickle to nothing.

Another shock of pain hit the space where she didn’t exist. She held back tears and lifted her sign higher.

Martin Vasquez hated the drive home. Early summer weather had him cooking. Run the A/C—kill the ozone. Open the windows—fill your lungs with exhaust. No conscionable way to avoid roasting.

Today was worse. March 14
^th
. Mandy’s birthday.

She’s thirty-one today, if she’s still alive.

March 14
^th
meant pounding booze and pretending the wreck never happened. Pretending that he’d stayed awake, that he’d buckled Mandy in. Wishing he and Estrella hadn’t been so young and poor when Mandy needed them to be rich and mature and strong. Wishing that he had it all to do again, to never abandon his crippled four-year-old in the fruit section of a Shop-Rite.

Mandy had such beautiful brown eyes, with flecks of gold in them. He still saw them, some nights. Stupid dreams.

He rounded 13
^th
and his fresh-bought bottle of SoCo rustled in its paper sack.

You talkin’ to me, buddy?
Let’s get started.

Martin twisted the cap loose, let it click to the plastic floor-mat beneath his feet. Quick cop-scan, then he knocked back two stern slugs, let the burn spread.

He pictured the calendar in his kitchen, today’s date reading “Mandy 31.” Easier to swallow another shot, let his focus go soft.

Martin pulled up to a four way intersection and spotted movement to his right.

Mandy wished the man would let go of her hand. The light would go green soon, people would start honking. This guy was interrupting the flow of her grind.

“I’ve seen your eyes in my dreams,” he said.

“That’s dreams for you. Now let go of my hand and get the hell out of here.”

You had to be stern with the freaks.

The man flinched at her words, shook his head.

“Yeah…sorry…” He dropped his gaze to the bottle in his lap. Mandy pulled away quickly, happy she still held the twenty he’d waved at her.

The light turned green and after a moment’s pause, the man drove on.

Mandy hardly noticed. She was thinking of tonight’s score and the liquid pleasure that would roll through her limbs and calm the screaming phantoms haunting the places where she’d died.