Worlds Apart (9 page)
It was
a desolation
unlike any Kurt had known before.
A wilderness of agony, a universe of isolation and excruciating torment.
He lay atop a thin mattress on the basement floor, the cold room oppressive and dank. The house above was silent, the world outside was nonexistent as far as Kurt was concerned. What was left out there for him now?
Thoughts of suicide plagued him.
If Reginald could, if Sonya did, why not Kurt as well?
Was he going to be able to return to his tin soldiers and magazines to sustain his days? Did he truly have anything left to live for now other than these minor pleasures?
He should off
himself,
he should end what was sure to become an even paltrier existence.
But Kurt couldn’t even move his arms; his wrists felt leaden, yoked to the mattress as though he were a prisoner shackled to a jailhouse floor.
Oh, for sleep! To at least be removed from this barrenness for a few hours!
Sonya.
That golden-haired darling of his, that sweet, sweet girl who’d been catapulted down the street like a discarded rag doll.
Why had she done it? Hadn’t she understood that Kurt would have been there for her? That without her he was nothing,
less
than nothing? Sonya.
Johnnie and Amy.
Elyse. Reginald.
His beautiful grandson.
Kurt began to cry.
Yet again.
All gone, they were all gone.
But then suddenly they were all there with him in the basement, and they began to sing. But it wasn’t his family
singing,
it was all men’s voices, Elyse belting out lyrics with a rich baritone, Sonya a bass. Even Reginald was bellowing a song about the glory of country in a lilting tenor, and all of them were so happy, jubilant as they vocalized in tuneful if boisterous harmony.
And then Kurt was in a bar, the basement vanished and his family along with it, and he relaxed as the familiar scene began, and it was as if he knew exactly what he should do.
He was hoisting a beer, foamy suds running down the sides of the glass, roaring as loudly as his compatriots. He knew the song, they
all
knew the song. Plump barmaids with massive bosoms poking out of tight tops wandered the room. A gigantic slab of a man stood behind the bar, unsmiling, waxed moustache catching the ceiling light as he refilled mug after mug after mug.
Everyone was in
uniform,
there was an unbridled revelry in the air that contrasted neatly with the ordered appearance of the men.
And then the bar was gone, sliding away to be replaced with a wasteland. Kurt’s hand still held the mug of beer, and he took a swig. It was tasteless, and he tossed it away; it smashed soundlessly on a pile of stones that four thin men were building.
Not thin, emaciated! And not one of them looked at Kurt, even as the glass shattered practically in their faces. They just continued to move more rocks from a decrepit wheelbarrow onto the pile, one at a time, their eyes never lifting from their chore.
Kurt looked around. He was in a prison.
High, barbed wire fences, corner towers bristling with soldiers, tall gates with armed guards.
Just outside a rectangular wooden building, several men were beating up a pair of prisoners. Kurt headed their way, unsure of whether he should get involved. Insults and grunts of effort emanated from the aggressors; the two being struck said nothing. One of those on the ground had a pink triangle sewn on his threadbare striped uniform, the other a black one. The snarling men above were savage in their determination, and Kurt saw flashes of green on their uniforms – did everyone wear a colored triangle here?
He halted a few feet away. Why didn’t he try to stop this?
But he knew why. This wasn’t real, it was his dream: Kurt’s own personal nightmare, a bizarre world with which he was so familiar after repeated visits that he was almost blasé about the horrors he was witnessing. It wasn’t something he could control, or alter, or affect.
And then he was in front of a gallows, and three of the men in striped uniforms were in front of him, nooses around their necks as their skeletal bodies looked ready to blow away in the light breeze before they could die. Rows and rows of prisoners stood nearby, not moving, merely observing, as Kurt was observing.
Or was he? The soldiers were all watching him, waiting for something. He nodded to them, and suddenly the three men in the gallows had fallen, and their carcasses flapped back and forth for a few seconds before becoming still.
And then nothing.
The prisoners stood in place, Kurt stood in place,
the
soldiers remained as they were.
How long would they all be stuck here? What were they supposed to do?
A prisoner collapsed; two of the men wearing green triangles rushed forward to beat him until he shakily stood up again. Another fell; the same treatment was administered.
This kept occurring, over and over as the mass of cadaverous men did its best to stay upright. Occasionally, one was unable to stand erect again, and the punishment for this was apparently to be flogged until death.
None of the other prisoners turned a head or even an eye as the ferocious atrocities continued.
Finally, several soldiers appeared, dragging four gaunt, bruised bodies behind them. They were tossed into a heap in front of the assembly, and then guns were pulled, and a volley of bullets ended any uncertainty as to whether the men were still alive.
Kurt knew without being told that the men had tried to escape, that this was the most effective way to deter further attempts.
And then he had turned away from the horrifying scene and he was walking down a hallway, opening a door into a bedroom with a crackling fire; in the bed, sheets pulled up to modestly cover her body, was a girl, maybe 18, maybe younger. Huge scared eyes, thin hair cropped short, bony shoulders quivering as she gazed at Kurt.
He had no intention of hurting her, why did she look at him like that? They would have wonderful sex, incredible sex, and Kurt felt himself getting hard just at the prospect.
And so they had sex, for what seemed like hours. And while Kurt couldn’t say she gave him absolutely all of herself, she certainly allowed him all the pleasure he could ever have wanted out of a woman.
Afterwards, she pulled one of those hideous black and white striped uniforms from under the bed, and she was pulling it on as Kurt lit a cigarette, as he thanked her for being so generous. But she didn’t seem at all grateful for his compliments so he let her leave. And then he lay back on the denuded bed and smoked, closing his eyes to relive the moments he had spent with her, wondering if he should look for her again or if he should just forget about it.
Kurt felt calm, he felt good. The fire sparked and
snapped,
a homey sound that brought back memories of other fires, other bedrooms.
Kurt smiled, and he opened his eyes.
“Ah. He’s awake. Welcome back, Herr Schmidt.”
“Was?
Wo
bin
ich
?” Kurt had opened his eyes to find himself in a cold, white-tiled room. Medical apparatuses lined the shelves and walls; several people were staring at him.
“Auf
Englisch
,
bitte
. In English, please. Where do you think you are?”
The speaker was a lean man in a dark green uniform, with intent eyes and a diligent demeanor.
“
Ein
Krankenhaus
?” Kurt was lying on a bed; he could tell
that
much!
“English, please. No, this isn’t a hospital.”
Kurt tried to sit up, but found that he couldn’t. He raised his head to look. Both his wrists and his ankles were bound to a padded table!
“Was
bedeute
das?
Warum
hast Du
mich
gebunten
?” But immediately after he spoke, Kurt facilely switched to English: “What is this? Why have you tied me up?
None of the observers were eager to answer. The man in green continued to study him, a young dark-haired woman sitting on a stool beside him looked away, the others seemed unsure of what to do.
“Untie me! Let me up!” Kurt ordered. No one moved. He began to strain at the bonds, but they were thick and solidly attached to the table. He let out a cry of frustration, and tried to forcibly tear his left wrist free.
“That won’t help,” said the man in green calmly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
Kurt instantly ceased trying. He could tell it was the truth.
“I’m Colonel Stevens. You may call me Colonel,” the man said. “Before I tell you where we are, I’d like to ask you some questions. Please answer them to the best of your ability.”
Kurt was getting angry. What had they done, removed him from his house and restrained him so he wouldn’t hurt himself? How long had he remained in the basement before they’d broken in and taken him?
“What year do you think it is?” the Colonel asked.
Kurt guffawed. They must think him an idiot! “It’s
– ”
But abruptly, Kurt was aware that he
didn’t
know what year it was. He knew he was 65, so it should have been easy to calculate, yet…
“1974?” he answered. That couldn’t be right, though. “1980? 1983?” Had he really said that aloud? His anger turned inward: what kind of fool couldn’t answer a question like that!
“And where do you live?” the Colonel asked coolly, ignoring Kurt’s fumbling replies to the first question.
“America!” Kurt announced triumphantly. Ha! He knew
that
one.
“Any specific city or state?
Or just the country in general?”
Kurt’s eyebrows knotted. Surely he knew where he lived! But then why couldn’t he answer?
“I – I think I live in Ohio. Or New York,” he said. Jesus!
“And how old are you?”
“Sixty-five,” Kurt answered instantly.
The girl on the stool was looking at him again, the Colonel’s eyes were glittering,
everyone
was studying him as though he were a diseased specimen of some sort!
“I am 65, aren’t I?” Kurt asked in a tight voice.
The Colonel shook his head. “No. You’re not. You’re 35 years old.”
This wasn’t happening! Kurt breathed in, breathed out, breathed in again and held it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and then opened them,
willing
all of this to go away.
It didn’t work. Was this a new chapter to his nightmare? Had all of the deaths deranged him so he required medical care along with a padded room?
“You were born in 1911,” The Colonel said.
“In Düsseldorf.”
“In Deutschland?”
Kurt asked in confusion.
“Yes. You were born in Germany. You are a German. Your name is Kurt Schmidt.”
“My name is Kurt Smith!”
“No,” said the Colonel emphatically. “Your name… is Kurt Schmidt. Why don’t you let me tell you a few things about yourself? You may find them surprising.
Or perhaps not.”
Kurt didn’t respond. He wasn’t in control of anything here.
“Your parents were Hugo and Karla Schmidt. He owned a
lumberyard,
she raised you and your four brothers and sisters. Times were good after the Great War. Not for most Germans, but in a nation that required major rebuilding, a man with a lumberyard could do pretty well. Your family had money, and your parents were determined to give you and your siblings the education that they hadn’t had themselves.
“You went to fine schools, you had friends with money and connections,
you
were the first in your family to go to a university.” The Colonel took a breath, and his eyes locked with Kurt’s. “You were also the first in your family to join the Nazi party.
In 1930, when you were 19.
Your brothers and your father soon followed. Business at the lumberyard
really
picked up then.”
Kurt was stunned. Could any of this be true? It was insanity, madness!
“You joined Hitler’s
Schutzstaffel
, the SS, in 1936, after the purge of undesirables left many openings for young men with aspirations.”
“But I was a teacher!” Kurt protested, straining once more at his bonds.
“You
did
study to be a teacher,” the Colonel said. “You studied languages. You did well. And as a matter of fact, you did teach for a while.
But not for long.
And you taught hate. You taught intolerance.”
“No!” Kurt asserted. “I didn’t. I couldn’t have!”
“You did,” the Colonel returned evenly. “But you left teaching behind when the opportunities within the SS became more attractive. More
lucrative,
and more alluring.”
Kurt lay back again. He couldn’t fight this physically. He couldn’t seem to fight this at all.
“After rising in the organization, performing your duties with devotion and meticulousness at post after post, your final position was at the
Natzweiler-Struthof
concentration camp. You were the
Lagerführer
, though your official rank was that of
Obersturmführer
. And,
Obersturmführer
Schmidt, you were without a doubt the most feared of the camp leaders at
Natzweiler
.”
“What about my family?” Kurt asked. “Why about Elyse, my wife?
Sonya and Johnnie?
Where are they now?”
Colonel Stevens glanced away from Kurt for just a fraction of a second. “You did marry Elyse,” he said, his voice quiet.
“In 1934.
She gave birth to your daughter Sonya in 1939.”
“I met her on a tennis court!” Kurt exulted. “We were at the University of
Münster
together. I can remember all of it! I want to see her, where is she?”
The Colonel cleared his throat. The girl on the stool looked away again.
“Elyse died in 1943, a little over three years ago.
Sonya, too.
She had just turned four.”
Kurt felt fury charging through him. “Not true! They’re not dead!”
“They are. May 25
th
, 1943. The two of them were at your home in Düsseldorf. They were
killed,
a
lot
of your countrymen were killed that night by bombers from the Royal Air Force.”
“And Johnnie?
What about my son?”
Colonel Stevens shook his head. “You never had a son.”
Kurt was incredulous. The man was lying straight to his face! “But they’re real! I knew them, I
know
them! Why would you tell me these horrible things about them? Why would you tell me they died years ago when
– ”
But Kurt couldn’t produce any more words; he was completely befuddled. Had they lived just to die in the terrible ways he had experienced? Or had the RAF killed
them
years before in an entirely different time and country from those in which he had
thought
they lived?
“Let me tell you where we are,” the Colonel said. “Perhaps that will make some issues clearer.”
Kurt turned his head. He refused to look at the man.
“We’re actually
in
what’s left of the
Natzweiler-Struthof
camp.
In the Alsace region, in the Vosges Mountains.
A tiny sliver of France that, like so much of the world, is trying to get back to normal after years of occupation, destruction, devastation.
“This room we’re in is one of the rooms in which your SS doctors did so many of their experiments.
True humanitarian efforts of which most of your fellow Nazis profess no knowledge.
Brainwashing, injections of diseases such as malaria, tuberculosis, cholera, gangrene, smallpox.
Vivisections while the patient was still
alive,
electroshock therapy, forced sterilizations. Shall I go on?”
Kurt gritted his teeth and stared at the wall.
“You were the
Lagerführer
here, at least for the final ten months before the camp was liberated. Your duties included administering punishment, being present at all executions, maintaining order. You were the DECIDER,
Obersturmführer
Schmidt. You chose who lived, who died, who got sent to labor in the granite quarry, using their
hands
to quarry rock if no tools were available, which women were granted the ‘privilege’ of providing sexual services to the officers. You also helped select which prisoners would be used in the experiments that were being performed here at
Natzweiler
.” The Colonel’s voice had lowered, and was edged with menace. “Like this one. The experiment we’re running now.”
There was a minute or so of silence. Kurt’s eyes had widened, and a shiver ran the entire length of his body.
“This is Elsa. Won’t you look at her?” the Colonel said.
Kurt turned his head and looked at her. He couldn’t help himself. Elsa was the girl sitting on the stool next to him. She appeared uncomfortable.
“Elsa is your narrator. After the drug and your own memories, she’s the most important part of our experiment.”
“The drug?”
Kurt hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but he obviously had.
Colonel Stevens almost smiled. “Yes.
Actually, several drugs, used in conjunction.
We’ve been administering various doses for days. It’s primarily a mix of psychoactive drugs, blended with a mild sedative.
Essentially a drug cocktail.
When we add in the narration, which is a series of subtle suggestions for your subconscious to chase based on your own past, it allows us to frame your thoughts, tell you who you are. We can’t create a history out of nothing, but we’ve been able to take what is already there and reshape it.”
Kurt was becoming furious. He was seething, in fact! These people, these
interlopers
with their words and manipulations and outrageous falsehoods – he needed Elyse to talk to, he needed to get off of this table and out of this room! He had to get free somehow!
“I want my family back! I want my family back!” he hollered, writhing on the table.
“How about all of the families
you
separated?” Colonel Stevens asked, a grimace contorting his face.
“You
LIE!
You’ve lied about
EVERYTHING!
” Kurt snarled.
“It’s not so fun on the other side, is it?” the Colonel said.
Kurt bared his teeth. “Even if what you’re saying is true, I doubt I ever thought it was fun!”
The Colonel
laughed,
a spare laugh without a hint of humor. “We have written statements from hundreds of former prisoners, from this camp and from your previous posts.
‘Savage pleasure.’
‘Ruthless efficiency.’
‘He smiled as he drew his pistol and shot my cousin in the face.’ Would you like me to read you some of the many quotes I have about you?”
“No.
NO!
”
“Because you’re afraid they’re true? Or because you
know
they’re true?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!”
“Do you really think a retired schoolteacher could afford a
Maybach
?
In
any
sort of reality?”
Kurt took a quivery breath. That thought hadn’t occurred to him.
“If you’re truly an American, why were the dioramas you loved creating all scenes of Nazis and
battles
the Germans won? What was up next, after your parade?”
The Graf
Spee
.
Kurt had wanted to build the perfect model of one of Germany’s most storied warships.
Kurt couldn’t help but respond with anger: “What you’re doing to me, it’s not moral! It’s not ethical!”
No expression: “I’m not even going to touch the hypocrisy of that statement, coming from you.”
“You deserve to die!” Kurt spewed.
“No,” said the Colonel, almost sadly. “
You
deserve to die. You should have, along with your SS compatriots, as you tried to flee the continent. Your ship was detained, the others fought and died. You hid like filth in the bilge tank for 36 hours, but finally you emerged, and you were recognized, and here we are.”
