The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Let’s begin,’ said Dr Steinberger. His tiny, twelve–year-old patient, head shaved and looking vulnerable and frail, lay on the crude operating table in front of him. Dr Kozakievicz would be assisting Dr Steinberger in reconstructing the very operation depicted in the ancient text. The operation, however, was only the first part of the experiment. The far more important, critical element would follow later.

  When Dr Steinberger agreed to purchase the codex from José Gonzales, a Mexican art dealer, the year before, he had attached an important condition: Gonzales was to provide a sample of the medicinal plant depicted in the text as part of the bargain. Gonzales agreed and, true to his word, delivered the plant on his return from his next buying trip to Mexico.

  Dr Steinberger, a meticulous and precise man, had obtained his young patients’ medical records from a colleague in Prague. The records told him something quite unexpected, which excited him even more.

  Lena’s tumour, already well advanced, had been diagnosed the year before. However, at the same time, her twin sister, Miriam, also showed symptoms of a developing an aggressive tumour, but in its very early stage. Would both twins succumb to the disease and die, or would one be able to fight the cancer and live, just as depicted in the Aztec codex? And if so, how, and why?

  Dr Steinberger firmly believed that the answer to these crucial questions was within his reach, and the operation he was about to perform would reveal all. If he was right, his place in medical history was assured, and the Swiss pharmaceutical company, which already followed his controversial experiments at the camp with interest, would pay a small fortune for the results.

  Ironically, it had all come down to the healing power of a medicinal jungle plant known to the Aztecs for centuries and accidentally rediscovered in an ancient text sold as a curio by a Mexican art dealer in Paris.

  ‘Ready?’ said Dr Steinberger. Dr Kozakievicz nodded and handed him a scalpel.

  43

  Jana glanced at Alexandra walking slowly into the kitchen and smiled. She looks like I feel, she thought, remembering the two bottles of wine from the night before. Barefoot, pale, her hair dishevelled and wearing a creased pair of short pyjamas, Alexandra looked like a hungover reveller craving a pot of coffee after a long night on the booze.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ asked Jana, reaching for the coffee plunger.

  ‘I would be, if it hadn’t been for this,’ said Alexandra. She put Jack’s book on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Oh? How come?’

  ‘I read Dental Gold and Other Horrors – cover to cover – during the night. Barely slept a wink.’

  ‘You are keen – why?’

  ‘Jack would call it destiny.’

  Jana looked at Alexandra and raised an eyebrow. ‘Please explain.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Lena Abramowitz?’

  ‘Well, as it says in the book, she was the one who gave us the first solid lead. That’s where it all began. She claimed to have recognised the SS officer in that dreadful photograph Jack found.’

  ‘The photo of the officer holding the gun to the head of the naked young boy hanging by his …’ Alexandra didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else? How old would she be now, approximately?’

  ‘Eighties, I’d say. A Holocaust survivor from Auschwitz. She was there as a young girl. Had the tattoos to prove it …’

  ‘Did she mention a twin sister?’ asked Alexandra, her voice sounding hoarse.

  ‘As a matter of fact, she did. Her sister died in the camp. Some dreadful operation … Dr Mengele … But how do you know this?’ demanded Jana, surprised. ‘That wasn’t in the book; I’m sure of it.’

  Alexandra reached into her pyjama pocket. ‘Because of this,’ she said, and put Professor K’s letter next to Jack’s book on the bench. ‘This is a letter I received the other day from Professor K’s executor. He came to the institute and handed it to me personally together with the professor’s notebooks that were left to me in his Will.’ Alexandra reached for the letter. ‘Here, let me read something to you: “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” …’

  Jana looked thunderstruck. ‘Good God! This is unbelievable! Do you think she’s the same – ?’

  ‘Has to be. It all fits! Could she still be alive?’

  ‘Sure. We only met her a few years ago …’

  ‘Can you remember where she lived?’

  ‘Yes. In Rose Bay, a short drive from here. We could be there in twenty minutes. Is she that important?’

  ‘She is, in more ways than I can possibly explain right now.’

  ‘Destiny, eh?’ said Jana, shaking her head. ‘Jack and destiny …’

  ‘Would you mind if we were to go and see her?’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Why the urgency?’

  ‘Let me put it this way: if she’s still alive, she could be carrying the key to understanding one of mankind’s most dreadful diseases in her genes …’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely! It’s all in the professor’s notes.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Jana. ‘Get dressed!’

  Jana found the old block of flats without difficulty. She knocked on the door of the ground floor unit she had visited with Jack. There was no response. Jana knocked again and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Alexandra standing next to her.

  ‘Are you sure this is the place?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  As Jana turned to leave, the door of the unit opposite opened just a little, and an old woman squinted at them from inside. ‘You want Lena?’ said the woman in a heavy, guttural European accent.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jana.

  ‘She not here. Fell down stairs … hospital.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last year.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Nursing home.’

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  ‘Wait here.’ The woman closed the door.

  Alexandra kept staring at the door, her heart beating like a drum. ‘Do you think she’s coming back?’ she said, anxiously counting the seconds.

  ‘Patience,’ said Jana. ‘Here she comes now; listen.’ Slowly, the door opened again and a shaking hand appeared, holding a slip of paper.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jana, taking the piece of paper from the old lady. The door closed again.

  Jana stepped outside and read the address scribbled on the slip of paper in barely legible writing. ‘I know the place,’ she said. ‘It’s in Bondi, not far from here.’

  ‘You are relatives?’ demanded the matron at the reception of the dilapidated nursing home.

  ‘We are; of a kind,’ said Jana.

  ‘Just in time, then,’ said the matron brusquely. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Alexandra, following the woman down the dimly lit corridor reeking of cleaning fluids and urine.

  ‘Lena’s been in palliative care for a few days now; she’s dying. I thought you knew.’ The matron gave Alexandra a disapproving look. ‘She’s in there. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be at reception.’

  Jana could barely recognise the frail creature lying on the narrow bed in the corner of the tiny room. The curtains were drawn and a few fingers of sunlight were reaching hesitantly into the darkness as little reminders of a vibrant world outside.

  Waiting for death, thought Alexandra, strangely moved, but feeling like an intruder into the final stage of a stranger’s long and painful journey. Yet, if Lena were the surviving Abramowitz twin from Auschwitz, this was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss.

  Jana sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the old lady’s hand. ‘Hello, Lena; can you hear me?’ At first, there was no response,
but then slowly, the old lady turned her head and opened her eyes.

  ‘Miriam?’ she said, calling out her dead sister’s name, her breathing shallow and her voice barely audible.

  ‘No, it’s me, Jana. Remember? We brought the major to justice, thanks to you. Sturmbannfuehrer Steinberger, from Auschwitz.’

  Stimulated by memories of a painful past, something inside the old lady began to stir. Her cloudy eyes began to focus and she turned her head slowly towards Jana. ‘Der Mann mit dem Hund. Arbeit macht frei!’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, the officer with the dog; that’s him,’ said Jana, gently squeezing the old lady’s limp hand.

  ‘Jana? Ah … Thank you, thank you …’ The old lady closed her eyes and her voice faded away, the momentary recognition having drained away the little energy she had left.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Jana, turning to Alexandra standing behind her.

  ‘It certainly appears to be her, but I have to be absolutely sure …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is very awkward; it’s certainly not the time or the place, but this is too important.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’ asked Jana, looking puzzled.

  ‘I would have to examine her.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘All I would have to do is look at her head. If this is indeed the Abramowitz twin from Auschwitz mentioned in Professor K’s letter and the Auschwitz notes, then she would have a distinct scar on the top of her head.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Jana. ‘Go ahead. I don’t think she would mind.’

  Alexandra walked over to the bed and began to stroke the old lady’s head, the dispassionate, logical scientist in her wrestling with her humanity. Then, bending down, she parted the lady’s hair. ‘Here, look,’ said Alexandra excitedly. A long scar running across the top of her head like a zipper on a lady’s purse was clearly visible. Could you please take a photo of this?’

  Jana pulled her phone out of her pocket and took a couple of close-ups of the scar. ‘It’s definitely her; can you believe it? No doubt about it!’ said Alexandra, stepping back, the implications of what she had just seen making her feel dizzy.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Jana.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Alexandra, her mind racing. It was obvious the old lady didn’t have long to live and could slip away any moment.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need a sample.’

  ‘Are you serious? We cannot just—’

  ‘A few strands of her hair would do. There, look.’ Alexandra pointed to a hairbrush on the bedside table with a few white hairs caught in the bristles. ‘What do you think?’

  Jana looked pensively at the old lady in front of her. After all she had been through, especially in Auschwitz, Lena wouldn’t mind, she thought. She wouldn’t mind if medical science could somehow benefit from her ordeal and her sister’s horrible death in Dr Mengele’s obscene laboratory. Perhaps it could all be viewed as some kind of ultimate justice and vindication … Jana paused. ‘Go ahead. I think it’s the right thing to do,’ she said.

  Alexandra looked at Jana gratefully, reached for the hairbrush and carefully pulled out a few hairs, one by one. Deeply moved, and with tears in her eyes, Alexandra bent down and kissed the old lady tenderly on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Lena,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes, ‘I’ll make sure it hasn’t all been in vain; I promise.’

  44

  From the moment they arrived at the Gonzales residence, Tristan had spent most of his time with Boris, his new friend. Lola had flown to Boston to collect the surgeon, who had finally agreed to come to Mexico to examine his famous patient, and Jack had locked himself into his room to plan his next move. He needed some quiet time to consider the new information provided by Señora Gonzales. Exhausted, Isis had retired to her suite to rest and prepare herself for the visit of the celebrity surgeon. This left Tristan momentarily alone to explore the extensive grounds of the villa, full of exotic treasures and surprises.

  Señora Gonzales steadied herself, gripped the handrail and looked down into the candlelit temple chamber in the basement of her villa. What a remarkable boy, she thought, watching Tristan stand motionless in front of the statue of Huitzilopochtli. The bloodthirsty god looked threatening and strangely lifelike in the flickering candlelight casting wild shadows against the stone walls. ‘So, there you are,’ she said, and slowly walked down the narrow stone stairs towards Tristan. ‘Isis would like to meet you. Come, she’s waiting.’

  ‘This place is silent, yet I can hear so much,’ said Tristan without taking his eyes of the frightening god.

  ‘What can you hear?’

  ‘Chanting … and I can feel fear and see blood.’

  ‘It’s a little spooky down here, I agree,’ said Señora Gonzales, trying to brush aside Tristan’s strange remark.

  ‘It’s much more than that,’ said Tristan. ‘It’s a window into the past, and I’m looking back through time …’

  Señora Gonzales walked over to Tristan, who kept staring at the statue. What an extraordinary thing to say, she thought, taking Tristan by the hand. ‘Come; let me take you to Isis.’ Tristan turned away from the statue and looked at the elderly lady in front of him. ‘But before I do,’ continued Señora Gonzales, ‘I must tell you a few things about my grandson.’

  They sat on the bench facing the Coyolxauhqui stone, where Jack had had his first real conversation with his new client.

  ‘Isis is biologically a man,’ began Señora Gonzales, ‘but emotionally, intellectually and spiritually if you wish, a woman. He’s a woman trapped in a man’s body, but first and foremost, he’s an artist. Does this make sense to you?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Tristan. ‘When I meet someone new, I only look at their soul …’

  ‘And when you do that, what do you see?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain … An aura. My mother taught me what to look for, and how to see. She had the gift …’

  ‘You must tell me about it sometime but for now, I must warn you, my grandson is very ill; a mere shadow of his former self, I’m afraid,’ continued Señora Gonzales, trying to prepare Tristan – the adoring young fan – about to meet his idol. In doing so, she was unable to hide the pain and sadness in her voice.

  ‘This doesn’t change the soul … I will meet the person, not the patient,’ said Tristan.

  Surprised by the remark, Señora Gonzales squeezed Tristan’s hand. He’s trying to comfort me, she thought. Amazing! ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then come.’

  Isis, the consummate performer, had forced herself to get changed and put on some make-up before meeting Tristan. Greeting him as an invalid lying in bed was unthinkable, regardless of the circumstances.

  ‘I look like shit,’ she said, ‘don’t you think?’ Isis examined the pale, listless image staring back at her in the mirror.

  ‘Don’t worry; he’s only a boy,’ said Hanna, helping Isis walk across the room to the lounge facing the terrace.

  ‘Oh no. He’s much more than that; wait and see.’

  Wearing a spectacular blue Kimono – one of her favourites – instead of a dressing gown, and gold slippers with extravagant glass tassels, Isis had managed to momentarily transform herself. The frail, bedridden patient had once again turned into a seasoned performer. ‘Show him in,’ she said, letting herself sink into the soft cushions, her pose theatrical and relaxed.

  Señora Gonzales opened the door to her grandson’s bedroom and, sensing Tristan’s hesitation, gently pushed him inside.

  Tristan looked at Isis sitting on a lounge by the window, a shaft of sunlight pointing to her heart. He was trying to interpret the mixed messages assaulting his senses. Then their eyes met. Suddenly, Tristan felt an unexpected burst of pleasure-pain well up from somewhere deep inside, heralding the meeting of two kindred spirits in an eternity moment. It was an unfamiliar, disconcerting mixture of joy and sadness he had
n’t experienced before. The starry-eyed boy meeting the megastar was wrestling with the ancient seer in his blood. Knowing too much can be as much of a burden as knowing too little. Tristan noticed that Isis was wearing the small Celtic cross he had sent her, on a leather thong around her neck.

  ‘Jack tells me you can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity,’ said Isis, breaking the silence. ‘Come; will you help me understand what that means?’

  Señora Gonzales walked over to Hanna standing by the window. ‘I think we should leave them alone, don’t you?’ she whispered. Hanna nodded and followed Señora Gonzales quietly out of the room.

  For the next two hours, Isis and Tristan were locked in deep conversation. Tristan only left the room after Isis had fallen asleep on the lounge, exhausted but comforted by the unexpected revelations of the eternity moment she had shared with another extraordinary soul.

  45

  After returning to London, Sir Humphrey had pulled off an almost impossible coup. By using his extensive network of worldwide contacts and calling in favours, he managed to persuade one of the busiest, most gifted and sought after surgeons in the US – if not the world – to fly to another country to examine Isis. But it hadn’t been easy.

  At first, he encountered a lot of resistance. The professor’s inflexible minders, who guarded his diary with iron-fisted determination, told Sir Humphrey that travelling to Mexico to examine a patient, however famous, was out of the question. Professor Greenberg was far too busy to entertain such a ludicrous request. The fact the patient was dying and unable to travel didn’t seem to matter.

  The breakthrough came with a three million dollar donation for a new operating theatre and the offer to send a private jet to save time and make it all happen. The whole exercise would take up less than forty-eight hours of the good professor’s precious time, travel included.

  Out of options, Isis’ medical team had reached an impasse. The specialists concluded that the tumour was inoperable; nothing further could be done. They were resigned to the fact that Isis had less than three months to live. Sir Humphrey refused to accept this – however sound and well-founded the diagnosis may have appeared at the time – and was pinning his hopes on the famous surgeon’s legendary talents.