The Vines

by Shelley Nolden

  At the end of the previous session, after measuring the distance between her eyes, the angle of her nose, and the height of her forehead, he’d said, “Your Irish lineage is unfortunate, but you appear to possess traces of Aryan ancestry.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she’d refrained from mentioning that he’d missed the conclusion so obvious to O’Toole. Cora wasn’t merely Irish. Even though she hadn’t yet harnessed its fearlessness and savagery, she could feel her Celtic warrior blood coursing through her, as real as her microbial monsters. The previous autumn she’d found a book about the Roman dynasty, which had referenced Brunnus, the great Celtic war chief who’d led the sacking of Rome. If she were his descendant—and it was possible—any Aryan ancestry she had would have yielded to these Celtic genes.

  A gust of wind stung her face. Already the flurries were thickening into a more substantial snowfall. Ahead, Ulrich stopped five yards shy of the dormitory.

  Apprehensive about what this delay might mean, Cora reeled to a stop. This could be the day he finally infects me with a new, weaponized virus strain, she thought, her knees shaking.

  Motion in a maple tree beyond him caught her eye.

  A gray squirrel scurried down its trunk.

  Even though his back was to her, she knew Ulrich was mesmerized by the animal. Having grown up in a city with only rats, cockroaches, and pigeons, he’d remained fascinated by the few rodents that had managed to reach this island.

  Abruptly he strode through the main entrance without a backward glance and propped the door open for her.

  Cora glanced back at the cold, cruel river. She could sprint there now and dive in. Hypothermia would shut down her body long before Ulrich found a way to rescue her. That, however, wouldn’t be the act of a woman of warrior descent. Nor was it her destiny. Over the past six decades, the island had been speaking to her through small miracles. This spit of land had given her the stamina to go on.

  I won’t let you down, she whispered back to it.

  Making the sign of the cross, she entered the foyer.

  Ulrich beckoned for her to follow him to the second story. From the main hallway, the rooms within her view looked untouched.

  He barked at her to hurry, so she began climbing. Out of habit, she refrained from touching the handrail.

  “This way,” he called from the first of the communal sleeping quarters.

  Cora peered into the room, which didn’t contain any medical equipment. Her insides felt like they were trying to dig their way out of her, with the hope of escaping even if the rest of her couldn’t.

  “Macht schnell.” He crossed to the far wall and set his bag on a dresser. “The probability of success will be lower if I’m rushed.”

  She stayed in the doorway, near the stairs. Already this building smelled of decay.

  “Did my father ever tell you the story of old professor Pettenkofer of Munich?” he asked as he wriggled out of his coat.

  Back when Paul de Kruif’s book Microbe Hunters was first published in 1926, Otto had read her that particular passage. Shortly after, she’d sneaked into the laboratory to thumb through the tome herself. Mesmerized by that first glimpse of the “wee assassins” lurking within her, she’d read the entire history of microbiology in one night. But she couldn’t tell Ulrich that. The only time she’d inquired about Otto’s absence, Ulrich had threatened to remove her vocal cords if she ever mentioned him again.

  “Tell me about the old professor, please,” she said, humoring him.

  “Professor Pettenkofer was a skeptic. Today he would be laughed out of scientific circles. But in those days, he was one of many who viewed germ theory as hogwash. When the brilliant Dr. Robert Koch returned from Calcutta, he claimed that deadly cholera doesn’t arise spontaneously in its victims. Rather, it’s caused by a comma-shaped microbe. Pettenkofer scoffed at the theory. Now I’ve told you about Koch’s earlier work with Bacillus anthracis—Anthrax—through which he discovered that microbes are the root of disease . . .”

  Cora nodded, eager to further delay whatever Ulrich had planned for her. Whereas the microbiology greats had inspired Otto, Ulrich idolized Josef Mengele. The Asian flu outbreak that began in 1956 did little to reignite Ulrich’s desire to prevent a global pandemic. But it did solidify his disdain for the Chinese. Surely the appeal for him in developing a universal antidote from her blood now centered on the exclusive access he would have to it, and thus control over its distribution—both in the case of germ warfare or a naturally occurring outbreak.

  “Pettenkofer was aware of these findings,” Ulrich said with a flourish of his hand, “as well as Koch’s discoveries of Tubercle bacillus and Streptococcus. Foolishly, he demanded that Koch send him a tube of the supposed cholera microbes so he could prove they weren’t the cause of the disease. Koch obliged, and much to the astonishment of the scientific community, Pettenkofer swallowed the whole damn vialful. He should have died a terrible death. But he didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “That old codger didn’t so much as run a fever. I’m not telling you this story, Cora, to make you feel less special. Instead, it’s to help you understand that the super immunity trait also exists in the Aryan race. And thus, quite possibly in my bloodline.”

  “Have there been others?” she stuttered. Consumed with horror about what awaited her, she wanted this discussion to last forever. “Germans, I mean, that can’t get sick.”

  “Enough. Story time’s over,” he said, opening his kit.

  The next morning, white blanketed the campus. The snow’s brilliance overwhelmed her, yet Cora didn’t look away. Huddled on her cot on the fourth story of the tuberculosis pavilion, she tugged the new comforter tighter around her. Her lower region throbbed, more from the memory of the heinous “medical” procedure than from the act itself.

  “You’re to spend the next month resting,” he’d told her while unbuckling the leather straps he’d used to tie her wrists and ankles to the corners of one of the beds in a long row within the communal sleeping room. “I’ll have fresh produce, meat, and dairy, as well as other supplies dispatched to the coal dock weekly, which I expect you to eat—not squirrel away.” He eyed her. “When they arrive, you are to remain out of sight.”

  Not even tempted to disobey this command, Cora had nodded. She knew the man who would bring those goods would be the same thug who operated the fishing trawler that always delivered Ulrich to her. No doubt Ulrich was paying him handsomely to look the other way.

  “In one month, I’ll return. And continue to do so until you’re pregnant.”

  “Why?” She’d wailed.

  “You haven’t figured it out? That’s disappointing. Even if immortality isn’t possible for me, I can at least try to establish it for the Gettler lineage.”

  Gazing at the dazzling snow, she sipped her pokeberry tea, flavored with the last of the cinnamon and cloves from her stores within the pavilion. The crate she’d opened yesterday was still sitting in the physical plant. Her abdomen was radiating heat, and she wondered if it could be from more than the steaming liquid.

  Hugging her middle, she imagined a baby growing within her. For so long, she’d been yearning to experience motherhood. The hope of an antidote that would lead to her eventually having the chance to fall in love and start a family had sustained her through Otto’s and Ulrich’s experimentation.

  If a cure never came, this could be her only chance to have a child.

  But his child, conceived in such a vile way?

  If it were possible for a baby to inherit her immortality, then reason stood that it was equally feasible for it to possess Ulrich’s cruelty. At least with Ulrich, his ability to harm would end one day.

  In all likelihood, the Gettlers’ lineage hadn’t crossed with Pettenkofer’s. If that were the case, the baby’s only unique immunity genes would come from her, which would likely mean that his ability to coexist with
germs would also be limited to the island. If he couldn’t safely leave Riverside, would Ulrich let her raise him? She bartered with him for supplies; could she do the same for rights to a child?

  But what if the infant were normal? She wouldn’t be able to touch her baby. Through six decades of contemplation, she’d recognized that Otto had been right: it could never have worked for her to raise Emmett.

  Her love could have killed that little boy, just as it might any child she conceived.

  Fourteen months later

  March 30, 1965

  s another contraction seized Cora’s abdomen, she gritted her teeth to suppress a scream. Attempting to combat the pain that wrapped around to her back, she bent at the waist and clutched the balcony railing. Everything but the metal in her grip blurred away, yet still she could feel Ulrich watching her.

  The cramping subsided, and her body slackened. Behind her, she could hear the tapping of his finger against his Eberhard watch, followed by the scraping of pencil on paper.

  “Three minutes and thirteen seconds. Excellent.”

  Without losing her hold, she lowered her head between her arms and rocked to comfort the baby, who, she imagined, was terrified of these tremors. She hadn’t felt her—or him—move since before the labor pains began.

  Despite his kindness during the pregnancy, she couldn’t admit to Ulrich that she was concerned. All those affectionate phrases and creature comforts: she knew better than to believe they’d been for her.

  It had taken him six miserable months to impregnate her. Following his first attempt, she’d decided to flee before he could drag her back to the male dormitory—to hell with her greater purpose and whatever spiritual force had ordained it. She’d even constructed a makeshift raft. He must have guessed that she would try to escape; two days before she planned to push off, he arrived alone in a small motorboat and instructed her to climb in. They’d just cleared the eddies that clung to North Brother’s shallows when she felt the onset of a fever. A minute later, pustules competed for space on her skin. With a smug smile, his eyes twinkling, he returned her to her prison.

  By the time she missed her period, all she’d been able to feel was relief. Upon his next arrival, he’d promised that she would never have to enter the male dormitory again, provided she gave him a healthy baby. During the months that followed, his visits weren’t any longer than an appointment she would have had with an obstetrician in the city. Although he never mentioned it, she knew he understood that the stress caused by his presence was felt by the baby, too.

  A month ago, despite the bitter winter weather, he’d taken up full residence in the doctor’s cottage. In case she went into labor early, he’d explained. Cora had a different theory: he’d finally told Angela about his research and this latest “experiment,” and she’d been furious. Though if asked of her, she would presumably come around to raising the baby. While the Gettlers had been living at Riverside, she’d never seen the woman act anything but compliant.

  Undoubtedly, all he’d invested—and sacrificed—had made him even more committed to ensuring the endeavor’s success. But also, Cora knew he’d fallen in love with her baby. At the end of each exam, he placed his gloved hand on her belly and waited to feel a kick, no matter how long it took. “I think it’s a boy, no, a girl.” Surprisingly, he seemed equally excited by the prospect of a daughter. When the baby did move, the smile in Ulrich’s eyes, visible through his mask, made Cora forget for a second who he really was.

  Another contraction squeezed her midsection, and she went through her motions. The desolate campus, gray in the late afternoon light, blurred away.

  At last, it passed, and she exhaled again.

  “Three minutes, seven seconds.”

  To get away from Ulrich, she waddled farther down the balcony. The nip of early spring felt good against her flushed skin, partially exposed by the hospital gown.

  He isn’t the only one in love with this baby, she thought, cradling her belly. Over the past eight months, the days he’d been absent had been the happiest of her life. Then it was just her and “Peach.” Night and day, she prattled to her little one, filling her tiny ears with all the good that Cora knew of in the world and none of the bad. Always, at the back of her mind, a voice that sounded a lot like Mary’s warned her that Ulrich’s seed might have contained his cruelty.

  But even that hazard couldn’t dampen the exhilaration of experiencing firsthand the miracle of life. Despite the perils of it, Cora dreamed of raising her child.

  Now the muscles in her pelvis and abdomen ignited, and she clenched her jaw. Long ago she’d decided to deny him the pleasure of hearing her agony, though at times the pain had been greater than her willpower.

  The moment he deemed Peach sturdy enough to attempt the river passage, Cora was sure that he would take her away. Unless the baby’s immune system had the same dependence on the island as hers. Then, he might decide that it would be safer—for the public and Peach—to keep her on North Brother Island.

  If Ulrich’s hypothesis was wrong, and the baby had no special qualities, Cora feared he would allow the newborn, no longer worthy of a place in his lineage, to die. As an atheist, he had no qualms about breaking the Ten Commandments. Conversely, Cora had already begun planning the repentance that murdering Ulrich would require.

  The contraction ended, and she sank to her knees and sobbed. Once she gave birth, this child would no longer be hers.

  “Did your water break?” Lurching to compensate for his bad knee, he ran to her. “Are you okay?”

  “No, yes.”

  “Which is it?” He checked the ground, presumably for her fluids, and then placed his stethoscope on her abdomen and listened. “The heartbeat’s faint. We’re losing her! We must get to the OR.”

  Horrified, she let him help her up.

  On her feet, she felt even less steady.

  A fall could cause more trauma than the baby could sustain. She swallowed her pride, and disgust, and hooked her arm through Ulrich’s, protected by the slick sleeve of his hazmat suit.

  “This way,” he said, pointing with his other hand. “I shouldn’t have agreed to you laboring up here.” He stooped to pick up his doctor’s kit and glanced at her. “I suppose we should bring your satchel, too.”

  Surprised and genuinely grateful, she nodded and tightened her hold on him. They crossed the balcony to her bag, and he slung it over his shoulder.

  Together they made for the stairwell, pausing whenever a contraction gripped her.

  Each time her muscles slackened, she pulled her mind inward until everything but her womb disappeared. Hypersensitive, she waited to feel the slightest of movements.

  Not once did she perceive life.

  If the baby were stillborn, the true Ulrich would return.

  Most likely, he would kill her on the operating table. That would be fine with her: without Peach, she would have no will to go on.

  If instead he let her live, she didn’t know if she could withstand another series of that “procedure,” followed by pregnancy with a child that could never replace this one.

  They reached the stairs. “We’ll take it slowly,” Ulrich said as they began the descent. A spasm hit, and he rubbed her back. Although she despised his touch, she didn’t shake him off. He alone, through God’s grace, could save her baby.

  The contraction abated, and she lowered herself to the next step. “Please, Lord, let her live.”

  He held her steady. “Please, God, please.”

  Ten Minutes Later

  he baby’s breach.” Ulrich withdrew his hand from inside her pelvis.

  “What does that mean?” She pushed herself up on the pillows piled behind her and looked at him between her legs.

  “He’s feet down. I’ll have to perform a C-section.” Ulrich ripped away her gown.

  “Wait! I don’t—” The cramping i
ntensified, and the yellow tiled wall blurred. The contractions were on top of each other now, the valleys barely more manageable than the peaks.

  Ulrich came around the operating table. “It’ll save the baby and you. Trust me.”

  She jolted at those last two, familiar words.

  “I must act quickly.” His hand skimmed the instruments on his tray. “Where did I . . . No matter, I’ve got these.” He reached into his black kit and pulled out a case that Cora recognized.

  “Those are mine!” she yelled.

  He eyed her through his mask. “Nothing is yours.” He caught his breath, and his eyes softened. “Though if this baby lives, and you prove to be a nurturing mother, I will be generous.” He flipped back the folded cloth, and the three rows of her blades now gleamed. He must have sterilized and polished them.

  A pain seized her, so sharp she had to shriek.

  “We need to get this baby out.” He grabbed a scalpel.

  Bracing for the incision, she wondered if she’d heard the “we” correctly. Angela must be more stubborn than Cora had surmised. She stared across the room at the bassinet, lined with the friendship quilt she and Mary had made four decades ago. She’d thought she’d lost it forever when Ulrich stole her cache from the supply closet. But after first detecting the fetal heartbeat, he’d returned it to her.

  Rather than cutting right into her abdomen, he injected local anesthesia. “Tell me when it’s numb. We can only spare a few moments.”

  “Do it now.”

  Without hesitation, he carefully sliced through her skin and muscles, then pulled out the baby.

  Straining to hear those first cries, Cora bit her hand to silence herself.

  Even Ulrich, holding the newborn with his back to Cora, didn’t speak.

  The room remained as quiet as a crypt.

  Stillborn.

  “No!” Cora screamed, trying to sit up, but the severed muscles couldn’t engage.