Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box

by Mystery Writers Of America Inc.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into, Davood?” his father asked. “There is going to be another war.”

  “Yes, but this time we are not the targets.” Davood smiled. “I can do this, Papa. We have survived worse.”

  “Germany is a universe away from Persia.”

  “I am ready.” Davood’s voice rang with what he hoped was confidence.

  Once he’d arrived in Leipzig and met Dr. Schröder, though, Davood felt less assured. Schröder wasn’t military, but with his erect bearing, blond hair, and starched collar, which bore an insignia with the rank of SS Hauptsturmführer, he might as well have been. And when the man gazed at him with his steely blue eyes, Davood realized he was of no more importance to Schröder than the boy who brought in biscuits and tea.

  Schröder had more important things with which to occupy his mind. He and his team had been asked to take part in the Uranverein, the Uranium Club. The club’s members were prominent German physicists trying to develop nuclear weapons to use against the Allies before the Allies did the same to them.

  This morning the lab, usually a quiet, placid place, was on edge. When Davood came in, the other assistants rolled their eyes toward Schröder’s closed door. Schröder was arguing with someone. Davood heard the sharp exchange as he went to his desk. He pulled out his equipment and picked up his work from the day before. He’d been studying the way uranium atoms behave under pressure.

  The argument persisted. Davood had studied German before coming to Europe, and he practiced with Julia when he could, but the quarrel was too fast and furious for him to understand. Schröder was agitated and spoke in a loud, raspy voice. The other man—whoever he was—talked in an urgent but incomprehensible mumble.

  There was an abrupt silence; then the door was flung open. A man in an SS uniform—Davood couldn’t see his rank—emerged, his cheeks crimson, his eyes tiny pools of rage. He stormed out the door of the lab and let it slam behind him. A moment later, Schröder came out, arms folded across his chest. He was breathing hard, his hair was out of place, and he looked as if he’d run a mile. He glanced around, flicking his eyes over his assistants. Each assistant looked down, suddenly absorbed in his work, but Davood wasn’t fast enough.

  Schröder’s glare settled on him, as if Davood were the cause of the argument. Davood froze, and his heart leaped into his throat. Then Schröder turned and stomped out.

  Over lunch, Friedrich, the chief lab assistant, explained. “The powers that be want us to move the lab to Berlin. Schröder doesn’t want to. He accused them of not trusting him. Of wanting to keep an eye on him.”

  “That’s what they were arguing about?”

  Friedrich tilted his head. “I keep forgetting your German is not fluent.”

  The knot of tension inside Davood began to loosen. “Why doesn’t Schröder want to go?”

  “Who knows?” Friedrich took a bite of sausage pie. “Maybe his mistress is here.”

  Davood flashed to the time he’d first met Julia. He had been in Leipzig about a month, and he was homesick. He’d decided to take a tour around the city as a distraction. European buildings, with their intricate stonework, spires, and formal facades, were so very different from the graceful arches, tiles, and bright colors of Persia. He’d ended up in Rosental Park on a bench, when the vision that was Julia passed by. Her brown hair swirled in waves, her blue eyes sparkled, and her skin looked as soft and pink as rose petals. Dressed in a plain white blouse and dark skirt, her body swayed in just the right way. Davood watched her as if in a trance. Most Persian women were veiled, and, though they could be beautiful, there was something about this woman—her poise, her air of freedom, perhaps—that made Davood drunk with desire. He remembered the first lines of a famous poem by Rumi:

  If anyone asks you

  how the perfect satisfaction

  of all our sexual wanting

  will look, lift your face

  and say,

  Like this.

  Still, he feared such a beauty would never notice him. He was acceptable, even handsome. But he was Persian. And a Kurd. He was an outsider. He didn’t have a chance. For some reason, though, she stopped, turned around, and studied him. The smile that slowly broke across her face was all he needed. They spent the rest of the afternoon on the swings, ignoring the frustrated cries of children who thought they were kings of the park. By the end of the day, he and Julia were in love. It was that simple. Rumi was right.

  But Schröder? Davood couldn’t imagine Erich Schröder ever feeling that way about a woman.

  “You have to be careful when you have a girlfriend, you know,” Friedrich said.

  Davood snapped back to the present. Was Friedrich talking about Schröder? Or him?

  “Of course, it might be something else.” Friedrich casually took another bite of his pie.

  “Such as?”

  “Have you heard of Deutsche Physik?”

  Davood frowned and shook his head.

  “The race for nuclear weapons makes strange bedfellows,” Friedrich said. “Years ago a movement emerged. Its goal was to practice science the German way. The Deutsche way. When the Nazis took over, it became the Aryan way. It started with a general suspicion of Einstein’s theory of relativity, which they called Jewish Physics. Over the years it became a way to discredit any scientist who didn’t go along. Many scientists left the country. The few who stayed realized it was utter nonsense, of course, and ultimately came to the defense of relativity and quantum mechanics. And now, since war has been declared, we are all friends, united in our work to develop nuclear weapons. Still, it is an uneasy truce.”

  Davood nodded. “Wasn’t Heisenberg one of the targets?”

  “Indeed.” Friedrich looked surprised that Davood knew.

  Werner Heisenberg had become a target when he wouldn’t denounce Einstein. Deutsche Physik advocates tried to strip him of his academic stature and called him the White Jew. Himmler himself had to step in, Davood recalled. Apparently, their mothers were friends.

  Friedrich smiled. “Now, of course, Heisenberg is Schröder’s superior.”

  Davood shifted. “But Schröder joined the SS. You can’t be more loyal than that.”

  “True.” Friedrich gazed at Davood. “By the way, have you joined the party?”

  “Me?” Davood straightened. “I’m Persian. They wouldn’t take me, would they? Despite the führer’s ‘special relationship’ with the shah.”

  “You might try anyway.” Friedrich chewed the last of his pie. “Being Persian won’t protect you forever.”

  A week later, Davood walked to the bakery where he and Julia had arranged to meet. Snow was falling, and every so often he spotted Christmas decorations in the windows, although the Tannenbaums and lights disappeared as he neared the Jewish section. It had been a week since he’d last seen Julia, and he needed to touch her, kiss her, run his hands through her hair. He waited at one of two wrought iron tables in the shop. He asked the time. Half past four. Julia was late. She was to have been there by four. He tapped his foot impatiently. He asked the proprietor if she’d been in. Perhaps left him a note. The man shook his head.

  Davood waited another ten minutes, then got up and walked around the corner. As Julia’s building came into view, he picked up his pace. He stopped when he reached the front door. It was open. His stomach lurched. The door was never open, especially in this cold. Davood looked up to see if the lights were on upstairs in their apartment. He couldn’t tell, but most of the residents had thick curtains on the windows, including the Goldblums.

  He deliberated for a moment, then went up to the third floor and knocked. There was no response. He remembered what Julia had said about her parents not opening the door. “Herr Goldblum,” he said softly. “It is Davood Sarand, Julia’s… friend. Are you there?”

  He knocked again. No response. It felt like the first time all over again. He peered over the banister. No door squeaked. No Julia rushed in with snowflakes in her hair. A
sense of foreboding came over him. He sat on the top step. Maybe she had been called away. Frau Goldblum was frail. Maybe they were at the doctor’s. Maybe they’d been detained trying to come home.

  But the premonition wouldn’t go away. Fear swept through him and twisted his gut. He stood up and knocked again. Nothing. He cried out. “Julia! Herr Goldblum. Please. Open the door!”

  He knew he sounded desperate. He didn’t care. He threw himself against the door. Nothing. Then again. A door opened on the landing above, and a quavering female voice called down. “Stop your infernal noise. They are gone.”

  “Where?” His voice was hoarse with fear.

  “Where do you think?”

  “When?” he managed to croak.

  “Last night. About two. They won’t be coming back.”

  “How do you know?” Davood rushed up the stairs. An old woman in a threadbare bathrobe stood at her door. He could see bald spots between tufts of white hair.

  The old woman squinted. “I’ve seen you before. You were courting Julia.”

  “You must tell me where she is!”

  “She is gone. And if you have any brains, you will disappear, too. People are watching this building. They have been for months. They know who you are.” She sniffed. “Even an Aryan like you.”

  Davood spent the evening crying, cursing, and pacing his small room. He had heard about the knocks in the middle of the night. The arrests, mostly Jews, but other enemies of the state, too. Homosexuals, Gypsies, Catholics, anyone who strayed from the Aryan path. Sometimes they were shot on sight. Sometimes they were sent to camps. Julia was young and strong. They would probably let her live. But her parents? He shivered, unable to finish the thought.

  It was late when Davood rose from his bed. He made sure the curtains were closed and locked his door. He knelt beside the bed and pulled out a bag that had been stowed under his mattress. He rummaged through an extra blanket, two towels, and the box of handkerchiefs his mother had made him pack and fished out a book. Leather-bound with faded gold lettering on the front, it had been used often at one time, but Davood hadn’t looked at it for months. Now he gazed around his room. No prying eyes were watching. Still, he opened the book cautiously and thumbed through its pages until he found the right passage. He started to read aloud. The rhythms and lilt of his childhood language came back as though he’d recited it only yesterday.

  Yis-gadal v’yis-kadash sh’may raba b’alma dee-v’ra che-ru-say, ve’yam-lich mal-chsay… ve’imru amen.

  He had barely finished when there was a sharp knock at his door. Davood jerked his head up. He snapped the siddur shut and shoved it underneath his coat on the bed. The knock was repeated. Insistent. Who was there? Had they heard him reciting Kaddish? Did they know his secret?

  A storm of thoughts thundered through his head. No one was supposed to know Davood was a Jew. Not even in Persia. Five years earlier, after his acceptance at Tehran University, his family had moved with him to the city. Given the times, they had left their religion in their remote Kurdish village. It was safer not to draw attention to themselves. Safer to behave like Muslims.

  The only person, aside from his family, who knew was Julia. He’d had to tell her. She would never have let him court her otherwise. He knew she would keep his secret. But he had never anticipated that she would be arrested. What if the Gestapo tortured her? Forced her to tell them about other Jews in Germany? He’d heard the stories. He was in danger. Now he understood why his parents hadn’t wanted him to go to Germany. Herr Goldblum was right. So was the old lady. He had been a fool. A young, arrogant fool.

  The knocking on the door persisted. Davood considered not answering. Pretending no one was there. But the light seeping under the door frame would give him away. He sat on his hands. Then he heard his name.

  “Sarand… Sarand… are you there?” a raspy voice called out.

  Schröder. Erich Schröder was at the door to his room. Panic lodged in Davood’s throat. What did his superior want? He moved to the door and opened it a crack. In the dimly lit hall Schröder stood hunched in a dark wool overcoat. His starched white shirt with the SS insignia poked over the collar. In one hand he clutched a pair of leather gloves; in the other, a briefcase. He peered at Davood with a curious expression.

  “I was beginning to think you were not at home. Are you ill?”

  Davood shook his head. He didn’t trust his voice.

  “I am not disturbing you…” Schröder said.

  Davood shook his head again. “Of—of course not,” he stammered.

  Schröder flicked his gloves toward the room. “May I—come in?”

  Davood swallowed and opened the door wider. “I apologize, sir,” he croaked. “My room is but a simple affair. Certainly not up to the standards of the Reich’s top physicist.”

  Schröder waved his gloves. “No need.”

  There was only one chair in the room, and it was covered with clothes. Davood wished now he had laundered them. The only other spot was the bed. Schröder sat on it, very close to Davood’s coat. If Schröder stretched out his arm on the bed, he would feel the siddur.

  “I want to talk about your work at the lab.”

  Davood tensed, immediately on the defensive. “Have I displeased you? How can I improve? Just tell me, and—”

  Again Schröder raised the gloves. “No. In fact, it’s the opposite. I have seen your records. And the recommendations of your professors. I think they—my assistants—are not using you to your capacity.”

  Davood unclenched his fists. His stomach started to settle.

  “You studied physics, with an emphasis on classical field theory—”

  “Yes, sir. I know it was not specifically nuclear fission, or relativity, but—”

  “Stop interrupting,” Schröder ordered.

  Davood shrank back.

  “You are familiar, of course, with Werner Heisenberg?”

  “Of course.” Davood felt a flush creeping across his face.

  “He is also a theoretician, you know. It is an honorable pursuit.”

  Davood kept his mouth shut. Where was Schröder going?

  “I saw your latest report. You mention the theoretical possibility of producing a chain reaction. Tell me what you have discovered.”

  Davood shrugged. “I am not sure, but I believe Leo Szilard was working with the wrong elements.”

  “The Hungarian scientist? He used beryllium and indium.”

  Davood nodded. “As you know, I have been working with uranium. And I believe the interactions between neutrons and fissile isotopes such as uranium 235 might be a better choice. At least, I believe there is a theoretical basis for doing so. It needs testing, of course. But it looks promising.”

  Schröder’s mouth twitched. “What would we need to test it?”

  “Probably as pure a sample of uranium as we can get, so we can study the release of the neutrons, their reabsorption into fissile materials, and whether—or when—it becomes self-sustaining.”

  Schröder rubbed his thumb and forefinger along his jaw.

  Davood frowned. Something was off. The leading physicist in Germany does not come to a student’s room—at night—alone—to quiz him on his work.

  “You are wondering why I came here to ask you about your work.”

  Could Schröder read his mind? Davood swallowed.

  “There is always such—competition at the assistants’ level. Even jealousy, given that we have been wrestling with the issue for years. It would be better if the others did not know exactly what you have deduced. We will keep this our secret for the present, yes?”

  Davood, still trying to figure out what was going on, nonetheless said, “Of course.”

  Schröder nodded as if he’d expected it and gathered his things. He had dropped his briefcase on the blanket only a few inches away from the hidden siddur. As he scooped the briefcase up, Davood held his breath. Schröder didn’t seem to notice.

  “Good. I want you to write up your anal
ysis. I want to know what you suggest as next steps. In fact, this should be your priority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Schröder stood. “Good. That is all.”

  It was a sleepless night. A sharp pain knifed through Davood when he thought about Julia, her parents, and the probability that he would never see them again. But he was plagued, too, by the chance that he had been identified by whoever was watching their apartment. And then there was the strange visit by Erich Schröder, just after he’d said Kaddish.

  He tried to make sense of the events, to weave together a pattern. Schröder’s visit was clearly a pretext. Why hadn’t he asked Davood about his work at the lab? Why make a special visit at night? Unless. Davood sucked in a breath. Schröder was SS. Did he somehow know Davood was Jewish? Or did he suspect it? What if he had heard Davood chanting Kaddish? Davood picked up the siddur and clasped it to his chest. He felt lost.

  The next morning Davood crept to his desk an hour late, hoping no one would notice. But when the same SS officer who had argued with Schröder last week returned, Davood knew he was in trouble.

  They knew.

  The officer went into Schröder’s office but after a brief moment came out and headed to Davood’s desk. Davood’s insides turned liquid. Schröder had been working with them all along. The same thing that had happened to the Goldblums would happen to him.

  The SS officer extended his arm. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Davood replied.

  The officer looked him over. “You are from Iran.”

  Davood nodded shakily.

  “You studied at Tehran University?”

  He nodded again.

  The officer sniffed. “Your academic record… how would I find it?”

  “I can give you names. References.”

  The officer grunted and folded his arms. “Why would an Arab… a Muslim like you… be wandering around a Jewish neighborhood, eh?”

  I am Persian, not Arab, Davood wanted to say. There is a huge difference. But he would be no better than a Nazi to make that distinction. He cast around for an answer. “I—I like the architecture. Art Nouveau. Especially in that area of the city. It—it is so different than my homeland.”