Sequence 77

by Darin Preston

  In protest, Dieter pulled the file back and clutched it to his chest. “Stop! You must see what is inside, Niclas!” he said, staring insistently at his dismayed colleague.

  “I don’t want to know what’s in that, Dieter, and neither should you,” whispered Niclas, shaking his head harshly. “The only thing you’ll find is treason.” Once again he attempted to pry the file away from his friend’s frightened grasp.

  Struggling to hold on to the file, Dieter adjusted his grip as his frightened friend attempted to wrest it from his hands. Like a fish being gutted on the deck of a trawler, the folder spilled its contents onto the floor in an avalanche of official forms, handwritten letters, and photographs.

  “Now see what your foolishness has brought us?” scolded Niclas as the situation swirled into chaos. Dropping to his knees, he hastily began gathering the loose materials into a pile. “Help me, Dieter!” he pleaded while his friend stood motionless among the commotion, gazing intensely at a group of documents lying near his feet. “I swear Dieter if you don’t start helping me, I’ll…”

  Stopping in the middle of his threat, his eyes focused on what had caught his friend’s attention. Lying partially obscured by government forms was a black and white photograph of a young boy. The child was no more than six or seven years old and was standing naked with his arms held over his head by Doctor Wirths himself. Scars under the child’s arms and around the groin and neckline were visible. All marks were indicative of multiple lymph node biopsies. “What is this?” murmured Niclas under his breath as he cautiously picked up the photo to examine it more closely.

  “It is one of many, Nicky.” Dieter knelt down and shakily picked out several more photographs and showed them to his confused friend. “There are notes on the back. Read them so I can hear,” he instructed quietly, closing his eyes to listen.

  As Niclas turned the black-and-white photo, his hand began to tremble at what he discovered. A mundane label, like what would be affixed to that of any lab specimen, had been glued to the photo’s back. He found it difficult to speak at all but was able to read it just loud enough for Dieter to hear.

  “Potulice Detention Center—Subject number TP–2071—Three node biopsy pre-typhus infection—Four node biopsy post-typhus infection—Samples delivered for processing October tenth, 1944 to Naklo Research Facility.”

  He looked at the next photograph of a small girl with nearly identical scars as the boy in the first. The denotation on the back was nearly exact, except that the date was a few weeks earlier. Each photograph he came to bore the image of an emaciated, naked, and listless-looking child who had been subjected to the same invasive medical procedure. “I don’t understand how there could be such an outbreak as to only affect the children...?” he said, his voice wavering and catching in his tightening airway.

  “Are you that blind, Nicky?” asked Dieter as he grabbed one of the photos from Niclas and grimly read from the label on its back. “This photo says that the children’s nodes were removed pre-and post-infection.” He waited to let the statement sink in. “That means whoever wrote these notes knew that infection was imminent. It means they infected these children deliberately!”

  Refuting his colleague’s assertion, Niclas shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous! No doctor is going to purposely infect a child, or anyone else, with Salmonella Typhi. They must have suspected that the children were simply at high risk based upon environmental factors,” he said, struggling to find some kind of logical justification.

  Leafing desperately through random papers strewn about the floor, Dieter paused as a lone document bearing the signature of the facility’s Chief Medical Officer Eduard Wirths caught his attention. “I believe I know where that transport vehicle was heading this morning,” said Dieter, handing the paper over to his disbelieving companion.

  He swiped the document from Dieter’s hand as if annoyed but quickly began to read its neatly written script. Niclas’s expression changed profoundly from stony indifference to one of abject horror as the blood drained from his face. His eyes widened in dismay as he read repeated phrases such as “offspring of rodents” and “worthless eaters” were peppered throughout the detailed document so often that they seemed as common as any other set of factual descriptors. The document went on to commend the “great progress” being made by several researchers near the camp in Potulice, including ‘Niclas Kappel and Dieter Mueller’.

  Niclas felt his stomach turn as he recited the final line aloud. “Of the seven hundred twenty-two original test subjects, eighteen have survived the infection to this point. The high mortality rate is likely due to a combination of strain potency and inferior breeding of the subjects themselves.”

  As the paper fell feebly from Niclas’s limp grasp, he brought his hands up to conceal his face. The room fell silent except for the sound of labored breathing, the shock of revelation beginning to sink in.

  Recognizing that his best friend’s entire way of looking at the world had been shattered in a matter of moments, Dieter leaned forward and gently grasped Niclas by the forearm. “Nicky, it’s going to be alright,” he choked as the lie caught in his throat.

  Allowing his hands to slip down his face and fall into his lap revealed deep bags under Niclas’s eyes. As if he had not slept in days, his entire bearing sagged heavy and dark.

  To Dieter, it appeared that his friend had aged several years in the moments between covering and uncovering his face. “I didn’t trust them, but I never expected this.”

  “How could this have happened?” asked Niclas in a voice that sounded more like a rusty hinge than that of a twenty-year-old man.

  Looking directly into his eyes, Dieter wasn’t about to let him take full blame. “Niclas, there was simply no way we could have known. They kept us in the dark on purpose,” he said, kneeling across from his shattered friend.

  His brow furrowed into tight horizontal lines as Niclas rejected the explanation. “You suspected something was wrong and I ignored you. I should have listened.” Tears began to fall from his eyes for the first time since he was a small child.

  Dieter put his hands on the broken man’s sagging shoulders. “No, Nicky, you were right. I didn’t have the evidence, but now it’s here in front of us,” he said, reaching down and crumpling one of the documents in his hand. “The question is, what are we supposed to do with it?” he wondered aloud as a sense of hopelessness washed over him.

  The sickening haze that had blanketed Niclas began to lift, his disgust turning quickly to anger. “Is Doctor Wirths’s office still open?” he asked in a low whisper as his intellect began to reassert itself.

  “I closed the door, but I don’t believe it was locked.” A new wave of uneasiness washed over him as he noticed vengeful gleam forming in his friend’s eyes. “What are you planning, Nicky?” he asked as he frantically gathered documents and began stacking them together.

  Glaring with fierce determination, Niclas gathered up a handful of papers next to him. “You and I are leaving this place!” Handing the papers to Dieter, he revealed his plan. “Go back to our barracks and fill the large duffle under my bed with warm clothes and a few rations, but be sure to leave at least half the space free.” Handing the last of the stray papers over, he got to his feet.

  “I will, but why do you need me to leave space?” questioned Dieter, reaching out his free hand as Niclas pulled him to his feet.

  One eye began to twitch noticeably as Niclas made his intentions clear. “I’m going to take as much evidence as I can from Wirths’s office.” Still grasping Dieter’s wrist tightly, he stared unflinchingly into his eyes. “We’ll need it to make sure the bastard cannot hide from his crimes when the time comes.”

  Pulling away from the vice-like hold, Dieter urged him to reconsider. “We have enough right here. We should leave now.”

  “Nein! I must know what else I’ve helped the monsters to do.” He rolled the stack of papers into a tight cylinder, grabbed Dieter’s hand, and pressed it firmly
into his palm. “Take these and hide them in the duffle, I will meet you by the canal boathouse in fifteen minutes,” he said, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders and steering him toward the door.

  Reluctantly, Dieter turned to face the closed door, pausing as he turned to look once more at his insistent friend. The revelations of the past few minutes had surely transformed both men, but Niclas truly looked the part. The tensions building throughout his body had already started to crumple him into a hunching distortion of his previous self.

  “Don’t do anything rash, Nicky. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes and we’ll leave together,” said Dieter, smiling in an attempt to comfort them both.

  Stepping impatiently around his friend, he opened the door to usher him along. “Stay in the shadows, Dieter. Talk to no one.”

  Looking worriedly in each direction for signs of the night guard, Dieter stepped into the darkened hallway. “No unnecessary chances, Nicky. I will see you at the dock.” Passing through the doorway, he disappeared quickly down the darkened corridor and out of sight.

  Once certain that Dieter had left the building, Niclas retrieved his long, gray cotton trench coat, a flashlight from the emergency cabinet, and twine from a cabinet drawer. Entering the hallway he paused briefly before closing the door behind him and looked around the lab. Everything which had meant so much to him just moments before had suddenly become nothing but a house of horrors. His entire way of being had been dismantled in a matter of minutes, but there was no time to lament the loss of that life. Turning away, he ran stealthily toward the medical chief’s office.

  With most of the researchers having gone back to their barracks for the evening, the hallway was unnervingly quiet. Only a few lights remained on, while a lone soldier roamed the facility, checking each door and making sure no one attempted to do what Niclas was about to attempt. The guard had yet to reach Doctor Wirths’s office when Niclas turned the door’s handle to find that it was still unlocked.

  Entering silently, he closed the door, locking it behind him. Turning on the flashlight, he pointed it at the large desk near the center of the room. A metal nameplate reflecting in the harsh light read, “Schutzstaffel Captain Eduard Wirths—Chief Medical Officer and Overseer.” It was set evenly between a small German flag and the distinct red, white, and black flag of the Nazi party which had been tilted slightly forward to show prominence. A single picture of Wirths posing with what appeared to be several other physicians was perched on the edge of the desk, the only nonofficial piece of propaganda in the office. It was clear that this was just one of the chief medical officer’s many quarters, as little of personal interest could be found anywhere in the room.

  Niclas moved his beam of light to the back of the small office where several tall, gray filing cabinets rested side by side. Clearly labeled cards placed at the front of each drawer became more readable as he approached. Moving quickly past the cabinets that appeared to contain bureaucratic drudgeries such as personal reports and equipment orders, he paused at one of the last sets of drawers labeled “Potulice Experimentations.” Trying the drawer’s handle, he found it locked. “Damn,” he said under his breath and turned back toward the front of the room.

  A bright light cat sharp shadows against the office door window. Quickly pointing his own flashlight directly at the ground, Niclas turned it off and moved hastily to hide behind the desk. The light became brighter as the slowly moving guard reached the office door and tried the handle. Finding the door secure, the soldier continued on, methodically checking each door as he passed by.

  Kneeling in terrified silence, he waited until the last remnant of light and sound from the guard had drifted away. Reflexively gasping for air, he realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. Reaching into the top drawer of the desk, he searched frantically for the key to the filing cabinets. He found many of the usual things one would expect to find, but not the key.

  Fretting that Captain Wirths had taken the key with him when he traveled to other facilities, he scanned the desk with his light one last time and noticed a small glint coming from under the base of the Nazi flag sitting at the front of the bureau. He tilted the flag forward, revealing a small, silver key resting beneath it. Grabbing the key, he moved swiftly back to the filing cabinet and smiled—it fit perfectly. A satisfying click ensued as the drawer unlocked and revealed its contents after a firm tug on the handle. Knowing that time was running out, he began pulling every fifth file and stacking them on the floor. Always the pure scientist, Niclas knew that a random sample would give the best chance of yielding results when not knowing exactly where to look.

  Before long, a stack of files measuring a few inches below his knee lay on the floor. Feeling he had accumulated enough data to damn anyone involved, Niclas closed the file drawer carefully and knelt next to the mass of folders. Pulling a generous length of twine from his pocket, he expertly laced it under and then over the stack, taking up the slack as he went. He repeated the pattern down all four sides of the stack, creating a small tower of paper stable enough to carry.

  With some effort, he lifted the weighty stack and held it against his chest as he carried it to the front of the room. Setting the files down near the exit, he quietly unlocked and opened the office door. Slowly, poking his head into the hallway to ensure the area was still deserted, Niclas slid the files into the hall with his foot and closed the door behind him. Judging by the guard’s slow pace, he calculated that there should be ample time before anyone discovered the unlocked door. It would be even more time before anyone noticed the missing files and raised the alarm. He again picked up the stack of files and moved as noiselessly as possible to the main doors, then peers out onto the empty courtyard.

  During the day, the wide open area served as an ideal place where restless personnel could play fußball, exercise or simply sit and chat on one of the few benches set around the field’s perimeter. Once the sun had set, only the paths between buildings were illuminated by temporary banks of lights set up by military engineers. Except for an occasional spotlight sweep from the guard towers, the courtyard remained concealed under the cover of night.

  Skulking silently in the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, he began making his way toward the bitterly cold waters of Bydgoski Canal. His destination was a rundown boathouse that had not seen regular use for years. Much of the exposed lumber had rotted from direct contact with the damp air at the edge of the river. Local fishermen would occasionally lash their boats to the rickety dock to affect minor repairs, only to find that the tie-downs had pulled free, sending them on a merry chase to retrieve their errant vessels. A small number of old boats were kept lashed to the few remaining solid moorings and used as salvage for parts as needed by the locals.

  Drawing nearer, Niclas could see that there were currently three such boats secured to the pier. Two of the boats were listing and appeared to be close to sinking due to an accumulation of heavy snow within. The third was completely out of the water where someone had pulled it onto the dock. Niclas set the files down on the path and walked over to the boat. Tilting it heavily to one side, he attempted to empty as much of the snow out as he could. Having cleared most of the unwanted contents, he pushed it into the water. He sighed in relief; it appeared to be seaworthy, if not a bit Spartan in appearance. With just one oar accounted for, he knew it would be a struggle to fight the water’s current, but hoped that he and Dieter would not have to spend very long rowing before finding a safe place to come ashore.

  Placing the stack of files into the rowboat, Niclas began pacing the dock impatiently. Fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no sign of Dieter. Stepping back out onto the path to get a better view of his friend’s approach, he could see a shift in the lights coming from the guard towers. Cautiously, he crept back up the slope of the path so that he could view the courtyard from a safe distance.

  To his dismay, he could see Dieter standing near the edge of the field holding a large duffle bag. One o
f the guards was pointing his rifle at him and seemed to be questioning him about where he was heading. Shaking his head as he held his hand upward, he proclaimed innocence. The night guard’s lieutenant approached from out of the shadows and barked orders while Dieter stood shaking uncontrollably.

  Niclas watched helplessly as the officer grabbed the duffle and began searching through it. He tipped the bag over, spilling the entirety of its contents onto the frozen ground. He felt the urge to yell to his friend, but terror had stolen his voice. The rolled-up papers he had Dieter unraveled upon landing in the hardened snow. Photographs and documents swirled around the three men in a vortex as the officer bent down to examine one of the pictures. After a few seconds, the officer walked to stand behind Dieter and forced him into a kneeling position. Without warning, the officer raised his Luger and fired.

  As Dieter lurched forward into the snow, Niclas fell simultaneously to his knees as if struck by the same bullet. His only friend in the entire world was dead, and in an instant he knew what it meant to be alone. He felt his stomach turn and he vomited into the snow.

  Niclas looked back up at the scene of death in the distance and could see the guard and the officer speaking to one another casually. They had not sounded any alarm or instituted a search. Clearly, Dieter had said nothing to betray his friend and appeared to have convinced the officer that he had acted alone. Even in shock, Niclas comprehended the amplified importance of his escape. If he were captured now it would mean that a good man, and his dearest friend, had died for nothing.

  Rage welled from within as Niclas gathered the strength to turn and begin crawling back down the snowy path to the boathouse. As he reached the pier, he came unsteadily to his feet and stumbled toward the rowboat. He reached for the stack of files and lifted them into the air. Catching on a rusted nail jutting from the old pier, the twine snapped, scattering loose documents every-which-way. Grasping wildly at the sudden avalanche of paper, Niclas lost his balance and fell sideways into the small boat. Righting himself in time to see the bulk of the files, and his remaining hopes, being swept away by the current of the unforgiving river, he released a silent scream of pure agony. To his dismay, only a single file remained intact as it rested in the bow. Desperately, he grabbed the folder and held it to his chest as if grasping the very life of his fallen friend. He tucked the file into his shirt and untied the boat from the pier. Fast-moving current took the small craft into the channel, sweeping it quickly away from the camp.