He yelped in pain but didn’t loosen his hold.
Twisting, she jabbed her elbow into his collarbone, and her wet braid smacked the shield in his hood.
“I can’t hold her much longer,” Kristian said, attempting to wipe the visor. “Do it now, so I can help Dad.”
“This is wrong.” Still gripping the syringe case, Finn put his hands to his hips, and his free hand brushed against his flashlight. His biceps fired, and he felt a sudden urge to clock his brother with the military-grade tool. “I won’t let you hurt her,” he warned through clenched teeth, his fingers squeezing open the hook.
Cora stopped struggling, and her body slackened against Kristian’s chest.
“This is Mom’s only hope,” Kristian pleaded.
Suddenly Finn saw the brother who often sat beside their mom’s wheelchair for hours, simply holding her hand, and he wavered. He knew that each time Kristian lost a pediatric patient in his neurology clinic, he closed his office door and bawled—once, Finn had arrived early to join him for lunch and caught him in the act.
That same man stood before Finn now, plainly desperate to save their mother, and convinced that this was their best shot at doing so.
“If we can eradicate the drug-resistant bacteria,” Kristian said firmly, “it’ll be easier to reverse the nerve and arthritic damage.”
He’d made it sound so easy, so plausible for their mother to be once again pain free.
Torn, Finn shifted his focus to Cora’s face and took in her sheer terror.
It can’t happen this way, he knew, and certainly not along with whatever else that serum contained. Shaking his head, Finn released the flashlight’s clip from his belt loop. “Let her go.”
Cora pitched her head and shoulders forward, clearly preparing to bolt if given a chance.
Kristian clutched his forearms to strengthen his viselike hold and stepped toward Finn, bringing Cora with him. “Give me the needle.”
Raising the flashlight in his right hand, Finn shifted the case in his other hand to behind his back. Any blow he could land would disable his brother long enough for Cora to flee.
Kristian exhaled loudly through his respirator. “What do you think you’re gonna do with that? Hit me?” He jolted Cora upward—a human shield.
He couldn’t risk striking her, Finn decided. But one of the tranquilizer darts wouldn’t require the same accuracy-reducing windup. A puncture, however, would potentially expose his brother to Cora’s germs. Finn sucked in his breath. With a woman at Kristian’s mercy, did he even have a choice?
He dropped the flashlight and syringe case, his body shielding their fall from Kristian’s view. Subtly he reached into the side pocket of his pants for the dart container.
Certain that from ten yards away his brother wouldn’t be able to distinguish the two cases, he removed a dart. Holding it up, with just the tip exposed, he approached the struggling pair. “Hold her steady.”
“How dare you?!” Cora screeched. “I trusted you!”
“What did you expect?” Kristian jerked her hard, stilling her. “We’re family.”
Finn kept walking, his hand with the dart trembling with rage.
Visibly devastated, Cora remained inert.
“Silly me,” Kristian continued. “You can’t be expected to understand. It’s been more than a century since you’ve known that kind of love.”
Unleashing a piercing, primal grunt, she slammed the heel of her work boot into his rubber overshoe. He grunted and shook her. “Hold still, mutt, it’s almost over.” He pivoted so her shoulder faced Finn. “Do it now.”
Finn raised the needle, and the look of terror and hatred in her turbulent eyes almost froze him.
“Run,” he said with a hiss before bringing the dart down into the Teflon of his brother’s suit.
“Ahhh,” Kristian roared and flailed his arm.
Cora sprang free.
“You . . .” Kristian twisted his arm to inspect the puncture, but obviously consumed by rage, he couldn’t direct his attention away from Finn. “You’ve betrayed us.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Finn screamed inches from Kristian’s visor. “You’re the one who said my life would be an acceptable loss.”
“I was bluffing!”
“Bullshit,” Finn snapped, even though he knew it could be true. While Finn had been in middle school, Kristian had been living at home to save money. More than once, Kristian had taken a black eye for him as they together tested various tactics to convince the group of bored teens in their neighborhood to leave Finn alone. At the moment, that didn’t matter. It might take as long as two minutes for the drug to knock him out. Finn turned to Cora, who was watching them, stunned. “Go.”
Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Kristian lunged for her; she sidestepped him and made a beeline for the trees.
Seconds later, her figure merged with the foliage.
A heavy thump sounded, and Finn turned toward his brother, who’d landed in the mud.
Frantically, Finn checked to ensure that air could still enter through the filter in Kristian’s suit.
Lily. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward his girlfriend. Taking the corner so tightly he almost clipped his shoulder, he reached the path beyond the northern wall of the morgue.
In the same spot where Finn had left her, his father crouched over her limp body.
Suddenly, the wind seemed to cease. The chop of the East River softened. Even his dad’s form stilled.
Finn couldn’t lose her. He just couldn’t. While the rest of the world hung suspended in time, he raced to her.
1926–1938
June 15, 1926
n a long, gray woolen suit and Panama hat, the young man could have passed for a city official. But the bouquet of lilies, cradled in one arm, his other hand fisted, told Cora otherwise. She knew why he’d come. The anger-infused sorrow, rising viscerally from him like steam, seemed to merge with her own.
From the church’s roof, she watched him descend the ferry gangplank. The last to have disembarked, he stopped halfway down the pier. His head bowed, he seemed to be waiting for the day staff to disperse across the campus before stepping ashore.
Today marked the twenty-second anniversary of the sinking of the Slocum. Earlier this morning, Cora had stood on the seawall with Mary, O’Toole, and his wife and prayed into the wind as it scattered their white rose petals. Below her, on the sand where Dr. Gettler had tried to revive his daughter, fluttered a cluster of edelweiss. Every year on this day, he visited the site at sunrise to mourn alone.
By this evening, the beach would be dotted with garlands and small, wooden crosses, though their count had been dwindling. Each year, fewer of the staff who’d helped that day remained at Riverside. Even Linnaeus and his wife had left; eight years ago, he’d filled a prestigious administrative position at Tisch Hospital after its previous occupant died during the Spanish flu. Only then had she realized that seeing him with another woman had been better than not seeing him at all.
Most of the families of the deceased, their hurt assuaged through a new generation of births and marriages, had stopped making the annual memorial visit. Grief had broken that community; Kleindeutschland no longer existed. And with its dissolution, as well as anti-German sentiment following World War I, New York’s collective resolve to never forget the Slocum had disintegrated.
Finally, the man lifted his face to survey the island, revealing fair skin; a nose as straight and steep as the Alps; and short blond hair, barely visible beneath his hat brim.
Gawking at the familiar look of his Norse features, Cora strained to better see him through the spyhole she’d drilled between two bricks a year ago. Resembling a younger version of Dr. Gettler, the man could be Ulrich, she thought, now twenty-five years old.
Cora wondered if
Otto knew. For the past year, since they’d faked her death a second time, burned her cloak, and reintroduced her to Riverside as Canne’s new, equally reclusive assistant, she’d spent much of her free time people-watching from this roof, where she couldn’t spread her germs. In the nearby hospital building, Mary was cleaning the bottles in Dr. Gettler’s lab. She’d threatened to expose the nature of his work unless he made her his technician.
Now Cora peered through the fissure.
Dr. Gettler stood rooted to the footpath, staring in the direction of the pier. Often, when a new theory struck him, his body would become stone still, all his energy seemingly rerouted to turning the wheels of his mind. But, in this moment, Cora could tell from the rapid blinking of his eyes that he was not thinking of his science. The young man had to be his son.
During the past two decades, Otto had not once brought Ulrich back to the island, and he’d rarely mentioned him. Five years ago, Otto had stated in a stiff tone that his son had begun his training to become a surgeon. From his silence on the topic since, Cora figured that the two had become estranged.
His attention on the shallows, Ulrich strode down the dock.
Almost imperceptibly, the doctor raised the heels of his black cap toe shoes; she guessed he was contemplating greeting him.
“Go on,” she whispered, “this is your chance to say sorry.”
Ulrich noticed him and halted abruptly.
Ten feet apart, they eyed each other, their shoulders squared, arms at their sides, jaws locked shut. The back of Otto’s dress shirt had darkened with sweat.
With her hand pressed to her heart, she waited. Throughout the years of specimen collections and unexplained surgeries, she’d repeatedly attempted to divert his attention from her to his former hobbies. Rekindling his interest in building ships in bottles had been out of the question, but she’d hoped he might rediscover the joy he’d once found in either sketching or the Pigs in Clover marble maze games he used to make for the quarantined children. Nothing had worked, so Cora had prayed that someday, through his son, the doctor would find his former self.
“Willkommen.” The wind carried Otto’s stiff voice to Cora. “I’m . . .” He removed his hat. “Did you have a smooth crossing?”
“Tell him you love him,” Cora whispered, even though she knew Otto had forgotten that phrase.
“I’m not here to see you.” Ulrich turned his shoulder to his father and faced the beach.
The doctor lowered his gaze to the lilies, burning white against his son’s smoky gray suit, and said nothing.
“Sie gehörten auch zu mir,” Ulrich stated, his tenor lower than Otto’s.
“You’re right; they did belong to you, too.” Otto returned his hat to his head with an extra tug that brought the brim in line with his eyes.
“All you cared about was your own sorrow.”
“Es tut mir leid.” Otto raised his hand in an apology but stopped short of touching his son. “I didn’t handle it well. I should’ve—”
“I lost my entire family that day.”
Otto’s shoulders jerked, and Cora closed her eyes to block the tears. For both Ulrich’s and her sake, she wished she’d been more assertive—and relentless—in reminding Otto that he still had a son and a responsibility as his father.
“I’m here for you now.” Otto reached for him.
Glowering, Ulrich stepped back. “What need do I have for you now? When I was eight years old, terrorized by nightmares, that’s when I needed you. Not a Kindermädchen who didn’t believe in ‘coddling’ boys.” His fingers were gripping the flowers so tightly that the stem of one snapped.
Although they’d been living worlds apart, she’d developed a bond with her imagined version of this man, who’d been just as lonely and scared as she was. She too knew how it felt to be fatherless. But, thank God, she’d had her mamaí. A sudden longing to be enveloped in her mother’s warm, fleshy hug gripped Cora so intensely it felt like it was crushing her windpipe.
“Without any help from a father,” Ulrich continued, “I put myself through medical school.”
“I tried to transfer funds.” Otto grasped at the emptiness between them.
“I know. I instructed the bursar to refuse payment from you.” Ulrich brushed a speck from his sleeve. “I don’t need your money: I’ve accepted a surgical position at Bellevue.”
“Congratulations,” Cora murmured, and the bricks absorbed the sound. She’d often wondered what would become of the boy. During the second wave of the Spanish flu, which had blazed across the country in the fall of 1918, killing healthy people his age within twenty-four hours of the first sign of infection, she’d prayed for him. Despite Otto’s lack of relationship with his son, the doctor’s fear that Ulrich would fall victim to the virus drove him to insomnia. One night, well past midnight, Otto infected Cora with the deadly strain. Throughout the dark hours of the months that followed, he feverishly attempted to extract from her an antibody that could end the pandemic. Oblivious to his father’s efforts, largely on his behalf, Ulrich had presumably been braving the streets each day to attend his college classes until they’d been canceled. Surely the mass misery he’d witnessed had served as a calling for him to the medical field.
“A surgeon,” Otto finally said. “Wunderbar.” Wonderful.
Cora tensed. In addition to awe and regret, his tone had been laced with something else. Hope, she realized.
“Jawohl, top of my class. So, you see, I’m doing fine without you,” Ulrich said, his chin high. “I came here today only to honor meine Mutti und Schwester, whom I know almost nothing about, thanks to you.”
Otto put his fist to his mouth, and Cora sensed that he was stifling a sob. She’d seen him do it before, while bent over his microscope or work papers.
“All I know of them, I learned from our neighbors.” Ulrich stroked one of the lilies, and Cora realized he was no longer addressing Otto. “Since my own Vater wouldn’t share even a single memory.”
“Weißt du,” Otto sang slowly, the timbre of his voice rising as he found the melody, “wieviel Sternlein stehen an dem blauen Himmelszelt?” Can you count the stars that brightly twinkle in the midnight sky?
Cora’s mouth hung agape. She’d never heard the doctor sing before. And his voice! So clear and strong, yet vulnerable. Maybe the man he’d once been still did exist.
Ulrich was staring at him, and Cora could tell that he’d recognized the song.
“Deine Mutter, she used to sing that while cradling you in the rocking chair near the stove. That’s how you fell asleep each night, even when you were three. Even the night before . . .” Otto stuffed his hands into his suit pants. “I’ll show you to the site.”
“No, I came alone. I’ll mourn alone.” Nearly choking the flowers, he strode along the seawall.
Wringing his hands, Otto took a step forward, then pivoted to look at the church roof, where he knew she often hid.
Cora held her breath.
The doctor spun toward his son. “Wait, Ulrich.”
The younger Gettler halted but kept his back to his father.
“When you’re done, stop by my lab. I’d like to introduce you to my spezielles Projekt. Just one hour, and you’ll understand why I had to stay here.”
Without acknowledging that he’d heard the plea, Ulrich continued toward the beach.
Otto hurried after him.
Ten years later
October 1936
ora tried to keep the noisy hedge trimmers to a whisper so that she could hear the nurses gossiping in the parlor of their residence. Silence would cause them to suspect her of eavesdropping and hush their voices. She searched for another errant branch, but the shrub blurred into a tangle of thorns. Since Otto’s sudden absence three days ago, she’d been able to see straight only with her eyes closed, while imagining what might have happened to him, and what
would become of her now that Ulrich was in charge.
“Maybe he fell in love again.” The woman’s voice had drifted through the open window.
From her crouched position, Cora stretched toward the conversation. She was certain Otto hadn’t abandoned his life’s work for an affair, but at least the ladies had turned to the only topic she cared about. If anyone at Riverside knew of his whereabouts, it would eventually be dissected over tea and wafers in this lounge.
Each afternoon, the construction crew renovating the nurses’ home and dormitories took their break and the women gathered to enjoy a half hour of tranquility.
“More sugar, dear?”
The nurse sighed. “Aren’t we almost out?”
“Dee says that with the patient count so low, she’s got extra. Eggs, too.”
“Mmm. A nice country omelet.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” A plume of cigarette smoke wafted from the window.
Cora willed them to return to the matter of Otto’s disappearance. In retrospect, she should have seen it coming ten years ago, when Ulrich had first arrived.
Initially, he hadn’t believed his father’s claims. But by the time Ulrich had finished interrogating Cora and studying specimens under the microscope, his blue eyes had gleamed with curiosity. Mere weeks later, he’d requested a transfer from Bellevue to Riverside so he could serve as Otto’s assistant in his free hours.
Unable to stifle his proclivity for grandstanding, a trait not tolerated by his father, Ulrich had resorted to sharing his theories with “the mutt,” as he often called her. He’d explained that he thought she might have inherited her unique abilities. He was fascinated—and frustrated—by the question mark of her father, and he believed that if they could map her “impure” bloodline, they could “breed” her with other descendants. According to his hypothesis, offspring with a more concentrated version of the attribute would be able to safely leave the island.
Once, she’d summoned the courage to ask him if removing her gallbladder might eradicate her pests. He’d scoffed at the hypothesis, calling it scientific chicanery. “Mary may be an obtuse, ornery broad, but she was right to refuse the procedure. You, on the other hand, have no rights.”
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