The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘How exactly?’

  ‘By igniting the will to live.’

  ‘What kind of match will you use?’

  ‘Curiosity. I have information that will rock Isis to her core.’

  ‘Of a positive kind?’

  ‘Don’t know; yet; it’s too early to say. But what I do know is this: Once she hears what I have to tell her, she will not be able to rest until she gets to the bottom of it all and finds the truth.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Only in part. I think it would be only fair if Isis hears this from me first. However, I can tell you it all has to do with an ancient artefact, a beautiful Mexican woman, a dashing German officer and a spectacular scandal. The scandal of the crystal skull, no less.’

  For a moment, Lola looked thunderstruck. ‘Escorting Sir Humphrey back to London and bringing you over was only part of my mission,’ she said quietly. ‘Isis asked me to do something else for her.’

  ‘Oh? What?’

  ‘To bring something back with me she wants to have by her side – especially now.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Let me show you,’ said Lola. She walked over to her desk, opened an overhead locker and carefully lifted something out. As soon as Jack saw the wooden box, he knew instantly what it was.

  40

  Unlike Jana, who crashed as soon as her head hit the pillow, Alexandra couldn’t go to sleep. Turning restlessly in her bed, she kept going over Professor K’s letter again and again in her mind. My God, those dreadful medical experiments with the twins, she thought, in the concentration camp! Unable to banish the disturbing images floating into her mind’s eye, she saw young girls lying on makeshift tables being operated on by Professor K’s father and the notorious German doctors. Open wounds, children dying, rows of little glass bottles with tissue samples floating in formalin; leather-bound record books meticulously kept … scalpels and needles; blood; horror. The sickly-sweet smell of death.

  Bathed in sweat, Alexandra sat up in bed. As soon as she turned on the light, the ghosts disappeared. Feeling better, she pulled Professor K’s letter out of her handbag and for a while, looked at the creased pages.

  She hadn’t told Jana about the letter. Not because she didn’t trust her, but because she needed more time to come to terms with what Professor K was telling her from beyond the grave. The man she had known and admired since her childhood was suddenly turning into a stranger with secrets. A new truth was threatening to destroy treasured memories of a dear friend and Alexandra was reluctant to let go. Searching for answers, she began to read, Professor K’s familiar handwriting giving the letter in her hands a chilling presence:

  The spark of inspiration is never predictable. It can ignite an innocent train of thought that can change the way we look at everything, or lead to an insight with the most far-reaching consequences in the blink of an eye and in the most unexpected ways. The spark of inspiration can alter the course of medicine and change the destiny of mankind. I believe this has been the case with my work, and you of all people deserve – no – must know the truth. I don’t say this lightly, but this is a story that has to be told.

  If my work is to be understood for what it means and represents, it has to be viewed in its proper context and I must disclose where it all came from, and how it all began. To do otherwise would not only be unethical, it would be dishonest and could tarnish my work and reputation forever. This must not be allowed to happen and so I must speak for those who no longer have a voice, regardless of how painful the memories may be … The warning finger of approaching death can be most persuasive …

  It all began a long time ago with a Polish doctor, an inspired idea, and a pair of young twins – the Abramowitz girls, Lena and Miriam – in a place of unimaginable cruelty and horror: a German concentration camp …

  Alexandra put down the letter, her hand shaking, and looked pensively down into the dark harbour below. He never spoke of this while he was alive. So, why now? she thought, a strange feeling of premonition and dread gnawing at her insides.

  The man who conceived the idea and started it all was my father, Doctor Simon Kozakievicz, Alexandra continued to read. He was an expert on twins and was renowned throughout Europe for his research and discoveries, especially in understanding cancer. In 1942, he was deported from Krakow where he worked, and taken to Auschwitz with his wife and two young daughters.

  The infamous Dr Mengele and his team of butchers was conducting secret medical experiments at Birkenau, a sister camp near Auschwitz. To give his work some credibility, Mengele liked to surround himself with talented Jewish doctors who had been deported and were on their way to the gas chamber. They were given a diabolical choice: they could work for him and carry out experimental operations and treatments that would have been unthinkable in any normal hospital environment and so keep themselves and their families alive, or they could refuse. The consequences were obvious. Usually, the doctors had family members in the main camp. They only survived there as long as the doctors cooperated. This was certainly the case with my father. His wife, his first wife that is, and two young daughters were at Auschwitz.

  Mengele was picking his brains. He had an assistant, Dr Erwin Steinberger, an ambitious young surgeon who carried out most of the operations. Mengele and Steinberger were obsessed with twins. They were convinced, as was my father, that the answer to why some people get cancer and some don’t, and why some can fight it and survive and others can’t, was to be found somewhere buried in the immune system and the genes of twins.

  There is something else you should know. I’ve never told you this, but your mother and I were once lovers. We were both young students in Paris at the time. Part of five close friends; the gang of five …We were inseparable and had sworn to stay together forever. How life changes… There was of course Olga, your mother, her brother, Nikolai, Katerina and Zoltan, who was tragically killed in a nightclub fire. Sadly, that tragedy changed everything. We drifted apart and your mother met Pierre Delacroix, whom she later married.

  After Zoltan died, and before Anna was born, Katerina married Nikolai Popov. You know the rest. What you don’t know is that I’ve been in love with your mother ever since. Sadly, however, there’s no future in the past. That’s the real reason I never married. That and my work, I suppose, and you are … the daughter I never had …

  How could I have been so blind, to see none of this? thought Alexandra, tears welling in her eyes. And Maman never spoke about any of this either. Yet now, here it all is. Alexandra wiped the tears from her cheeks and continued to read.

  There are a few things I have to tell you about my father … He survived the war. His wife and two daughters did not. They were sent to the gas chamber just before the camp was liberated. Mengele went to ground and escaped. He fled to South America and died years later in Argentina. As for what happened to Dr Steinberger, things aren’t that clear. Apparently, he too escaped. There have been rumours that he went first to Italy, where he was helped by the Vatican, and then just vanished …

  In 1945, my father was in his prime. He was 42, well-known and respected in medical circles, even after Auschwitz, or perhaps because of it. A Swiss pharmaceutical company sought him out and gave him a job. He went to live in Switzerland and shortly thereafter, met my mother. I was born in 1949. As you know, I studied medicine at Heidelberg and followed in my father’s footsteps. Medical research became my life.

  Alexandra folded the letter carefully along its creases and slipped it back into her handbag. Wide awake by now and too excited to go back to sleep, she reached for Jack’s book, Dental Gold and Other Horrors that Jana had given her earlier, and began to read.

  In the opening chapters, Jack explained how a letter sent to a Sydney newspaper by an old lady had started it all. The woman was claiming to have recognised the German officer in a photograph Jack had found in the ruins of a cottage destroyed by bushfire in the Blue Mountains. The shocking photograph had earl
ier been published in the paper, together with an article Jack had written about it.

  When Alexandra read the name of the old lady in question, she sat up in bed with a jolt. Coincidence, surely, she thought, dismissing the wave of excitement washing over her as nonsense. Yet the feeling wouldn’t go away. Instead of closing the book and going back to sleep, she continued to read, furiously turning the pages. By the time the first rays of the morning sun banished the darkness and gave the glass of the open windows a pinkish glow, Alexandra had finished the book. Exhausted, she closed her eyes, trying in vain to get her head around what she had just read. The implications, if true, were as far-reaching as they were astounding.

  41

  Tristan was in heaven. He hadn’t left the cockpit throughout the entire flight. Just before landing in Mexico City, Lola even allowed him to hold the controls for a while, and showed him what to do. ‘He’s a natural,’ she told the co-pilot. ‘I could have him flying this little beauty in no time.’

  Boris picked them up at the airport and drove them to the Gonzales villa.

  Lola looked at Jack sitting next to her in the back of the car. ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said.

  ‘I may need your help,’ said Jack.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s a little delicate …’

  Lola put her hand on Jack’s knee and squeezed it, the gesture of intimacy and encouragement obvious.

  ‘I don’t know how I should handle Señora Gonzales,’ said Jack.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The information I discovered just before I left is, to say the least, explosive, and it directly concerns Señora Gonzales. It could have far-reaching consequences of a very personal nature …’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, Isis is my client, so to speak, but it was Señora Gonzales who gave me the clue that pointed me to the information. In fact, it was because of that very clue that I accepted the brief in the first place. So, who do I tell first, or at all? Perhaps Señora Gonzales doesn’t want Isis to know what I’ve discovered. But I have a duty to Isis. I just don’t want to put my foot in it, that’s all. Can you see my predicament? Once this information gets out, there’s no way back.’

  ‘Now, you’ve really got me intrigued,’ said Lola. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll try to speak to Dolores and Isis separately before you see them.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jack leant across and kissed Lola on the cheek. ‘Look at those two,’ he whispered. He pointed to Tristan sitting in the front, chatting animatedly with Boris. ‘Two strangers who’ve just met, or two buddies who have known each other for years? And I thought Boris was the quiet one.’

  ‘Tristan’s a special boy,’ said Lola. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He has a gift … I’m glad you brought him along.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Isis had improved considerably during the night. The crisis had passed, at least for the moment. No longer confined to bed, she was sitting on the terrace soaking up a little sun under the watchful eye of her grandmother fussing over her. Lola had spoken to each of them, as promised. Isis and Señora Gonzales would see Jack together and hear what he had to report. Lola too, had been asked to be present.

  As Jack walked up the stairs leading to the terrace from the garden below, he remembered the spectacular morning exercise routine he had witnessed during his last visit. When he reached the top of the stairs and looked at Isis sitting in a cane chair under a sun umbrella, he was shocked.

  It was almost impossible to imagine that the frail-looking creature in front of him with the pale face and sunken cheeks was the same person who had engaged in a breathtaking acrobatic display of hand-to-hand combat with Lola just a short time ago. Her skin looked pasty, hair limp and without lustre, and her eyes had retreated into their sockets, making her protruding cheekbones look almost corpse-like.

  Jesus, thought Jack, trying to appear his casual, easygoing self. ‘No yoga this morning, I see,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Lola wasn’t up to it,’ said Isis, managing a little laugh, her first in days.

  ‘That’d be right,’ said Jack. ‘All this jet-setting must be getting to her; no stamina.’ He walked over to Señora Gonzales and held out his hand. Instead of shaking his hand, Señora Gonzales embraced Jack and kissed him on both cheeks. It was a gesture of genuine affection and a clear signal – no secrets here.

  ‘Thanks for coming over, Jack,’ said Isis. ‘Here, sit with me …’ Isis patted the empty chair next to her. ‘My world has changed a little since we saw each other last, and so have my priorities.’ Jack was glad to see that Isis was as lucid and sharp as ever. Her mind had obviously not been affected. ‘We have to talk. By we, I mean all of us here. Understood?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Jack, relieved.

  ‘I appreciate your tact, Jack. Lola spoke to us earlier. Why don’t we begin by letting you tell us what you’ve found out so far? All cards on the table. No holds barred; no secrets. I understand you have something important to share with us? But before you start, there’s something else … Lola, would you mind?’

  Lola stood up and walked into the room opening onto the terrace. She returned moments later carrying the mahogany box and put it on the table next to Isis. Isis opened the lid, activating the mechanism that folded down the sides of the box to expose the spectacular artefact inside. ‘I thought it was appropriate to have our friend here present. After all, he’s an important player in this – right, Jack?’

  When Jack looked at Señora Gonzales, he noticed that she kept staring at the sparkling skull, visibly shaken. Jack wasn’t surprised. If only part of what he had discovered was true, Señora Gonzales’ reaction was perfectly understandable.

  ‘I am a storyteller,’ began Jack, collecting his thoughts. ‘I believe the best way to relay what I have found out so far, is to tell you a story. It is a remarkable tale spanning many decades. The characters are as colourful as the times they lived in were turbulent, and we have to look at the people and their actions in proper context. But I must warn you; I do not have all the answers – yet. Some of what I’m about to tell you is a little speculative, and I have to resort to conjecture to close some of the gaps because there are still too many questions left unanswered at this stage. However, the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place. The full picture is slowly taking shape.’ Jack paused, and took a sip of his guava juice.

  ‘It all began with a name and a clue given to me by Señora Gonzales right here, on this very terrace just over a week ago. The name? SS Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger. The clue? The hotel on Place Vendôme in Paris; none other than the famous Ritz. However, there was a lot more, but I didn’t appreciate the significance of the subtle connections at the time.

  ‘When I met with Sir Charles in London, he gave me access to your late mother’s letters and showed me this fascinating artefact here.’ Jack pointed to the skull on the table next to him. ‘The manner in which these items were discovered by you, Isis, are as remarkable as the items themselves. May I assume we are all familiar with this?’

  ‘You can,’ said Isis.

  ‘That’s where matters stood until Countess Kuragin introduced me to a dear old friend of hers …’ Jack paused and looked at Señora Gonzales. ‘And a close friend of yours as well, I believe, Señora,’ he continued. ‘Madame Petrova.’

  Señora Gonzales paled, but said nothing.

  Jack then went on to describe his meetings with the Russian ballerina at the exclusive nursing home, and had them in stitches when he told them about the flamboyant Mademoiselle Darrieux and her antics. Jack did this quite deliberately. He was preparing the way for the bombshell to come with some levity.

  ‘And then, when I thought I had hit a dead end and could go no further, I met a delightful old gentleman. Entirely by accident as it turned out. You may even remember him, Señora,’ said Jack. ‘His name is René Bardot, but he was known as Petit Moineau – “Little Sparrow” – at the time he
worked as a bellboy at the Ritz during the war. He remembers you well, Señora. Apparently, he ran many an errand for you and …’ Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a copy of the photograph he had borrowed from Madame Petrova and put in on the table next to the skull ‘… for the man standing next to you in the photo here,’ said Jack, completing his sentence.

  Isis picked up the photo, looked at it and then handed it to her grandmother.

  ‘Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger, I believe,’ said Jack quietly.

  ‘My God! How … where on earth did you get this from?’ stammered Señora Gonzales, her voice sounding faint.

  ‘It stood on a piano in Madame Petrova’s room, together with many other fascinating snapshots taken during the war. Shall I continue?’

  ‘Please do,’ whispered Señora Gonzales.

  Jack outlined the whole story of the scandal, the theft of the skull and Göring’s fury. ‘Officially, the stolen skull was never recovered,’ he said. ‘Yet, here it is—’

  ‘Provided it’s the same one, of course,’ interrupted Isis.

  ‘Obviously. But I am quite sure it is; I’ll explain why later. However, this is by no means the end of the story. In many ways, it’s just the beginning,’ said Jack.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Isis. ‘You have been busy, and all of this in such a short time; amazing.’

  ‘I have been lucky,’ said Jack, turning towards Señora Gonzales. ‘The leads appear to have found me in this case, and all I had to do was follow the breadcrumbs. However, I may need your help with the rest of the story, Señora,’ he said, ‘because the crumbs have become few and far between. Trampled into the ground by turbulent events. Please correct me if I get it wrong.’

  Señora Gonzales nodded.

  ‘This is how the story continues,’ said Jack. ‘A beautiful young Mexican woman is staying at the Ritz with her little daughter. Her husband has just been arrested by the Germans, accused of having stolen Göring’s precious skull. The man is interrogated – robustly, I believe – but eventually released. Nothing has been proven. However, the man knows he has to get away from Göring’s clutches as quickly as possible. Using his network of contacts – the French Resistance, it was rumoured – he leaves France in a hurry and returns to Mexico.