The Gene of Life

by Tetsuo Ted Takashima

  “It’s a match. Both the hand and the hair belong to Gehlen.”

  Feldman’s shoulders dropped slightly.

  “Now it’s your turn to answer my questions.”

  “Wait until we reach the office. This matter is quite complex.” Feldman turned silent. His hands clasped in his lap, he was deep in thought.

  About ten minutes later, the car reached the back road and stopped behind the building. This is where Max had gotten into the blue sedan to return to the laboratory last time. He went up the stairs into the hallway, and the two men seated in front of the door got up. After confirming Feldman was with him, they took their hands out from under their jackets.

  “All of the rooms in this building—which is to say, all six rooms—are for the exclusive use of our organization. Now that we’ve learned of the explosion at the research facility, we’ve become more vigilant. The enemy has drawn nearer than we imagined, though we in turn are closing in on the enemy.”

  Max entered the antique shop’s office and sat down on the sofa. Feldman took out a few letter-size photo enlargements from his desk drawer and put them in front of Max.

  “This one was taken a few minutes before the bomb went off at the neo-Nazi rally.” A group of about ten men and women were standing on the stage. “It looks grainy because this is a magnified version of a picture taken by a small hidden camera. Cameras were forbidden that day. Though everybody in the media sneaked some in anyway.”

  Feldman pointed to one man, and slid another photo next to it. It was an enlarged photo of the man he was pointing at. It was extremely grainy, but one could make out his face and physique. The man was in his forties, and was standing bolt upright wearing an elegant suit. From his lean and toned body and face, one got the sense he was tough and strong. Next, Feldman slid one of the photos from the day before next to the others. It was the sepia-tone photo of the Nazi soldier in uniform.

  “It can’t be!” Max was shocked. He had half-expected it, of course, but even when the proof lay before his very eyes, he still couldn’t believe it. The color of the photos, the hairstyles, the clothes, and the backgrounds were all different, but they were of the same man, down to his apparent age.

  “It’s Gehlen. All three of them are Gehlen. What differs is when these photos were taken. 1940, and this year.”

  “I thought you told me he was over a hundred years old.”

  “To be exact, 111.” Feldman opened a file and read it aloud: “Born in Memmingen, Germany, September 3, 1896. The eldest son of Otto Gehlen, an engineer at a chemical factory, and Anna Gehlen. After graduating from university, he joined the German Army, and then joined the SS as a major. Height six feet, weight 180 pounds, blond. Hitler’s ideal example of the German race. He was a cunning and cautious man.” Feldman handed Max the file. It described a timeline of major events. “This is everything we’ve come to learn about Gehlen. We also compiled as much information as we could on what he did after the war. As a close aide of the Nazi hitman Benchell, they always worked in tandem.”

  Max stared at the document while Feldman spoke. Eventually, he turned back to the photos. “But how?” Max was at a loss for words. He still couldn’t believe it. He picked up the two photos taken right before the explosion and looked at the face again. “There’s no way he’s any older than 50 here.” From the old-fashioned sepia photo and the modern color ones stared the exact same man: firm skin, hair trimmed short, a straight spine. His narrow eyes and faint, thin-lipped smile gave the impression of a man who was as strong-willed as he was brutal.

  “We couldn’t believe it either, at first. We figured he was either a look-alike or had plastic surgery to disguise himself. But our resident expert found no traces of such a thing. Computer graphics are quite advanced these days. With just one photo, you can construct an accurate 3D model of a person’s face. And yet these two individuals had not undergone plastic surgery, nor were they in disguise. To remove all doubt, the fingerprints are a match as well. That is why we wished to meet with you, Professor.”

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” Max muttered to himself, still holding the two photos.

  “I, too, would like to know the answer to that question. I know that you already had some inkling when you saw the photos yesterday. Otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to assist us. Or am I mistaken?”

  Max’s eyes were glued to the photos. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

  “We believe you are the one who can find the answer we are looking for.” Feldman stared straight into Max’s soul. Then he pulled out more old photos.

  All the men in the photos were wearing SS uniforms. Max’s eyes fell on one of the photos. In it, dozens of men were lined up in front of the Reichstag. It was some sort of ceremony. The man at the center of the front row had a distinctive moustache, a square chin, and eyes that stared defiantly. He was none other than Adolf Hitler.

  Feldman pointed to the man standing right behind Hitler, at the center of the second row. “This man is Reinhard Benchell. He would be 115 today. He was the most faithful executor of Hitler’s will.” Then in his late forties, he stood a head shorter than the others. “Devious, cruel, ruthless, odious, vile . . . every negative adjective you can think of.” Feldman showed him another photo, a magnified photo of Benchell. His moustache resembled Hitler’s, but he had a rounder face, and his forehead reached halfway up his balding scalp. He was an unremarkable-looking man with glasses. But something was off about him, too. “His rank then was major general. Compared to him, people like Gehlen come off as saints. He wasn’t visible at the front stage of history, but he always reigned as an aide among aides to Hitler. In fact, some historians posit that some of Hitler’s crimes against humanity were Benchell’s recommendations. The eradication of the Jews, the culling of the mentally handicapped . . . he was a great believer in the supposed superiority of the German people. And yet he never appeared from behind the curtain. That’s how devious he was. Eventually he was sentenced to death as a war criminal.” Feldman stood beside Max, his eyes fixed on the photos.

  Seconds passed in silence. Then Feldman pointed to a man behind Benchell. “Gehlen was Benchell’s loyal subordinate. He shadowed him wherever they went. They were like a snake and a scorpion competing with each other for the highest number of kills. One can only wonder which of the two killed the greater number of people, and which was the most brutal of the two. Gehlen had a leather wallet. When Benchell noticed it, Gehlen gave him the wallet and a bag, in return Benchell gave him a lamp shade. Gehlen invited Benchell to a meal. There was a comfortable chair in the room. You know where this is going, surely. You can guess what was stretched over that chair. What the lamp shade and the wallet were made of.”

  Max turned away.

  “That’s right. The two were using the skin of Jewish children for their art competition.”

  A chill ran down Max’s spine. “Was Benchell at the rally, too?”

  “All sixteen who died at the rally have been identified. That includes Gehlen. But Benchell wasn’t among them. It makes sense; he wouldn’t have wanted to take the risk of appearing at the rally. But Benchell is out there somewhere. And given that Gehlen did show up at the rally, there’s a strong possibility Benchell was close by.” Feldman let out a painful breath. “We once captured Benchell. It was in 1956, in Argentina. But as he was being transported to Israel, he killed two guards and escaped. We tracked him down again in 1962, in Europe. But we failed to catch him. Afterward,” Feldman stopped himself. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Never mind. Let’s not dwell on the past.”

  Feldman pulled out a chair and sank into it. He clasped his hands in front of his chest.

  Max stared at the photos. A beautiful woman was standing next to Gehlen on the stage. Unusual for a neo-Nazi rally, she wasn’t white. “Who’s she?”

  “We think she is probably a companion of Gehlen’s. We searched the scene, but we couldn’t find her. Only one of the corpses was female—a German TV reporter.”
/>   “Did you check the hospitals? Even if she survived, she must have been injured.”

  “We didn’t find anybody who could be her. Most of the injured were admitted to a municipal hospital, but some are missing. Many among them don’t want to be identified. They have an underground medical facility of their own, you see. They most likely went there.”

  “But she’s standing almost right below where the explosives were planted. No way she survived that.”

  “Then we’ll have to find out what has become of her.”

  Max stared at the photo again. It was too small to be able to read her expression. Then, a photo was thrust in front of his eyes. It was a magnified photo of the woman. It was grainy and blurry, but her face was clearly visible. She had dark skin, and if her facial features were any indication, she had some Latin American ancestry.

  “It’s computer processed. We’re desperate. We’ll do whatever we can,” Feldman said quietly. “She’s over 30. A little less than five feet, three inches tall and weighs about 110 pounds. There’s a small mole on the lower right side of her nose. Her clothes were made in France, and we’re searching for the manufacturer now. Two days before the rally, she arrived at Hamburg Airport from Lyon. Gehlen entered the country under the name Gugliermo Tinari and the woman under the name Maria Tinari. Their stated purpose was ‘tourism.’ Both are Italian nationals.”

  “Where were they before that?”

  “We’re looking into that.” Feldman put another photo on the table.

  “We had complete information on Gehlen. His physique, his personality, his tastes, all of his grades from elementary school to college, his family, relatives, and friends. To think we would find him no different from how he appeared sixty-eight years ago! It’s hard to believe he changed much at all—appearance included.”

  Feldman motioned to Jake to put a DVD into the player. The DVD wasn’t very clear. It looked like an open-air theater production. But this was no play. It was a neo-Nazi rally that sparked memories of the Third Reich rallies all those decades ago. A banner reading “The 1st International Schwarzes Kreuz Assembly” hung from the stage, and a flag bearing a cross-and-triangle symbol hung on the back wall. The symbol was a stand-in—it is illegal to display swastikas in public places in Germany.

  “We recorded footage of the rally with a 500mm telephoto lens. With a little effort, you can make out what they look like.”

  The shot zoomed in on the group in the center of the stage. It was difficult to make out what they were saying. Feldman drew Max’s attention to the person at the center of the screen. It was Gehlen, and he was shaking hands with another man, after which he returned to his seat and kissed the woman.

  “Gehlen was shaking hands with Schwarzes Kreuz Chairman Friedrich Heiper. That’s Vice-Chairman Erhard laughing beside him. Both died in the explosion.”

  “How old was Heiper?”

  “43.”

  “He and Gehlen really do look like they’re around the same age.”

  “Pay attention to Gehlen. Unlike me, when his body moves, it moves smoothly. The man is undoubtedly in his forties. You can tell not only by his face and physique, but also by his movements.” Feldman glanced Max’s way, but Max couldn’t take his eyes off the footage.

  “At the very least, he’s not over a hundred years old.”

  The video footage was shaky; someone’s palm covered the lens, and the video came to an end.

  “They spotted the camera and took it from us. Then there was the explosion. In the confusion the photographer managed to recover the camera before getting away.”

  Max looked up at him. “Are you asking me to help you hunt Nazis?”

  “Would such a thing displease you?”

  “I’m a scientist. I can’t play police investigator, and I certainly can’t do what you people do.”

  “No, but we do need your skills.”

  “Hardly.” Max tried to get up, but Feldman grabbed his shoulder.

  “If you recall the incident earlier today, you’re already involved. They want you dead. Besides . . .” But he stopped there. He drew in closer. “You can’t escape this case.” Feldman was staring at Max, eyes blazing with conviction.

  Max sat back on the sofa. It was exactly as he said. The faces of the Nazi war criminals were already seared into his mind. He could feel himself losing strength.

  “Nazi war criminals . . . they’re no concern of mine,” Max muttered. “But how can they be so young? They should be over a hundred years old by now, but from what you’ve shown me, they’re clearly in their forties.”

  “We can’t solve that mystery. Only you can. That is why we chose you.”

  “The hand’s been taken. Any other body parts we can use?”

  “Obtaining that hand was the best we could do. There were body parts and scraps of flesh from dozens of people, including from the injured, but those remains have already been cremated by local police, due to requests from both Schwarzes Kreuz and the bereaved. It’s summer, bodies decompose more quickly in the heat, and most of the people who died were Schwarzes Kreuz members. They must have pulled strings politically as well. The bastards are making inroads into politics, which was unthinkable just five years ago.” Feldman sighed. “The far-right party is taking advantage of the neo-Nazi movement to advance their anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant agenda.”

  “We must find the woman who was with Gehlen.”

  Feldman looked at the photos. “That will be difficult, but Jews from all over the world are helping us. We have the financial, political, and grassroots-level assistance of millions. Their hearts and minds are with us, too, of course. But they can’t help us on the field,” he stated, half to himself. “You will help us, won’t you?” Feldman looked at Max.

  Before he knew it, Max was nodding.

  Max left the office. He refused their offer to drive him to his hotel and took a taxi instead. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. His head was swimming—had he found what he’d been looking for?

  There was heavy traffic. The driver was humming a tune and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Max stared blankly at those fingers. By the time he arrived at the hotel it was after six. Three hours had passed since he’d left the research facility. He opened the door to his room. The air inside was different somehow. He almost called Katya’s name, but stopped himself. He noticed a bulge in the bed.

  Katya was sound asleep. Her chestnut-colored curls covered her forehead, and her bright white teeth peeked from between her parted full lips. Her tanned skin looked sleek and youthful to him. The blanket around her chest moved gently up and down as she breathed. He watched her face as she slept for a while, before sitting on the sofa. He spread a few photos Feldman had given him on the table. Max was now caught up in Feldman’s organization. His head started to throb. He closed his eyes and lightly rubbed his temples, and the mass weighing down on his brain receded.

  “A woman of mixed Latin American ancestry.”

  Max looked up, and Katya was standing in front of him. “I think she might be mestizo. I took an ethnology course as an undergraduate. We studied facial feature recognition by region.” Katya looked closer.

  “Can you tell what country she might be from by her facial features?”

  “Brazil, maybe? Could be Chile or Argentina or Colombia. Somewhere in South America, I think.”

  “A lot of Nazis fled to South America after the war.”

  Katya picked up the photo of Gehlen in SS uniform. “Professor,” her tone changed, and she frowned. “Who was in that car? They were the guys who pulled you into their van on campus, weren’t they? And then they asked you for a DNA test.”

  “They’re an Israeli organization. They’re hunting Nazi war criminals.”

  Katya stared intently at the photo.

  “I may be an American citizen, but I’m half-German by blood, and I’m proud of that. It’s true that the Germany of the past committed crimes against humanity, but modern Germany has wrestled with
those sins and is looking toward a brighter future. I was taught it’s our duty as Germans to make up for the mistakes of the past and to never make those mistakes again. I grew up in the US until I finished elementary school, but that’s how I feel too,” said Katya.

  Max filled her in on what had happened so far. He told her about Feldman, about the bombing at the neo-Nazi rally, and about the severed hand and the photographs. Katya listened with the occasional sigh, and appeared close to tears.

  “Was he a clone?” she asked.

  “That was the first possibility I considered. If he was a clone, that explains the DNA match. But if the Gehlen that appeared at the rally was 40 years old, that means he was born forty years ago. DNA manipulation didn’t exist then. The double helix structure of DNA was discovered by Watson and Crick in 1953. The world’s first clone was Dolly the sheep in 1996. There was no human cloning technology yet.”

  “But it’s clear through these two photos that . . .”

  “Say he’s a clone. Would their fingerprints be a match?”

  “Then how would you explain this?”

  “I don’t know.” Max recalled the hand floating in formalin. The whitish chunk of flesh from the man in that video shared the DNA of a man in a Nazi uniform in the sepia-tone photo. Max shook his head and cleared his mind.

  Max opened his laptop and typed in a few commands. The pattern waveforms appeared alongside the four-letter base sequences of A, T, G, and C. The top half of the screen displayed the DNA sequence of cells collected from the hand. Below that was the DNA taken from the hair kept by Gehlen’s mother. He carefully examined the two sequences. There was no mistaking it—they were identical. That could mean only one of two things—he was literally the same person, or he was a clone. Had the remnants of the Nazi regime already developed cloning technology so long ago?

  “It’s like something out of a dream, Professor.”

  “If this is a dream, it’s a nightmare. Or maybe . . .” Feldman’s face came to Max’s mind. There was something enigmatic about Feldman’s expression.