Worse, her thoughts and memories seemed to have been scattered to the periphery of her mind, and recalling the way to mouth a certain phrase or spell common words became a chore.
The men around her—the guards and fellow researchers and craftsmen of the Nordhausen munitions factory—now looked at her differently. She heard whispers and caught smirking glances.
As a woman she’d felt that her power at Nordhausen had always been in question; this new and damnable disability was sapping what little influence she’d once wielded.
The factory labor—hollow-faced Jews shipped over by Koch from Buchenwald—still regarded her with fear, and she cursed herself for finding comfort in that. After all, their fear was misplaced. She’d never harmed one of them. In fact, she’d quietly protested the banning of the Jews from the University back in’38, at risk to her own life. The unearthing of this fact had almost prevented her from receiving her development position at Nordhausen, but in the end the intellectual prowess and value of Minna Konig’s mind had proven too valuable to the Führer’s project.
Now Minna wondered how much more time she’d be allowed to complete her work. She’d been sequestered to the harsh terrain of the Harz Mountains for years now, toiling at Nordhausen to develop an un-manned flight craft that could accurately deliver bombs to the territory of their enemies.
The factory itself, aside from its attendant development offices, was a rough place. Parts of the weapon production and storage area were being built into the mountains themselves, and the laborers that toiled at this task were dying at a rate Minna found surreal. These dead men were carried out on carts, and were quickly replaced by new skeleton-thin workers.
About two months back a laborer had attempted to sabotage the massive steel press, one of the few machines too large to fit into the mountain-side tunnels. The normal punishment for this, for anything outside Nordhausen’s rule of law, would be to hang the man in the gallows beside the factory. These hangings took place daily, sometimes for what seemed like hours. But the soldier in charge of the man must have grown bored with the noose.
Minna heard the story later, how the saboteur had been forced at gunpoint to wedge the upper half of his body into the press. How after the machine had done its work the other men who attended to it were forced to scrape the remains away and return to work, sliding steel plates into the maw of the blood-slicked machine.
Minna avoided these parts of the factory as often as she could. Instead she stayed in the research office, toiling away for hours with her pad and pen. It was hard work for Minna but initially she’d reveled in the language of it. Angle of attack, curvature, mass, all of it rolling like honey on her tongue as she formulated trajectories and wingspans and frame designs. Even when Jakob had passed, she refused to acknowledge the reality of what she was creating.
The ends are not important, she told herself. The universe will work in exact order, as it always has.
She knew she was being seduced by a chance to speak The Beauties, and to do so with greater authority than she had been able to at University. But this was knowledge that she held in utmost restraint and it only crept into her mind on long nights when she could not find sleep. It was then, as the cold winds of the Harz Mountains howled against the small frame of her house, that she allowed her mind to be over-run with thoughts of Jakob, and the terrible way the men at Nordhausen treated their labor, and the effect that her love affair with her visions might one day have on the flesh of the unsuspecting.
She could only clear these terrible thoughts by whispering the name of her son.
Garin.
Garin, please come home.
They said that a miracle had saved Garin during the American’s attack on Maidanek. A bullet had glanced from his high cheekbone and proceeded to tear off a substantial portion of the left side of his skull. Somehow a field doctor had managed to escape with Garin’s unconscious body and had sealed shut the wound, suturing the flap of skin and hair that had been torn loose by the gunfire.
The piece of skull lost in the injury had never been recovered, but Garin still survived the trauma. He fought a fever that peaked at one hundred and five degrees, and his body staved off an infection that threatened to creep right up to the vulnerable soft concavity where Garin’s skull used to be.
Once he regained consciousness he managed to speak his mother’s name. Minna was well known among the higher ranking officers, who wanted to respect Garin’s apparent request.
Looking at him now, slumped forward in his wheelchair with a thin string of drool running from the right corner of his mouth to his shoulder, Minna guessed that they just wanted to be rid of him. And deep down she loathed herself for feeling the same way.
He’s finally here, but he’s never coming home.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to be here to help me.
She looked at her dead arm, saw how loose and separate it was from what she felt was her body.
I need you now. You can’t need me.
She hated herself for thinking it.
Minna wondered if he was in there somewhere, thinking and struggling to speak just as she had done ever since her last fit. She hoped his mind might be healing, growing stronger.
Her eyelid was drooping less than it used to. Perhaps he was on the same slow road to recovery. In her brighter moments she believed that this was the truth and it allowed her to find her own words more easily. She’d discuss her job with him, she’d reminisce about Jakob. She even, for the first time in her life, tried to explain her vision of The Beauties to him, but gave up when her tongue couldn’t find a way around the ideas.
She settled for gently washing Garin’s wounds and combing his hair on the side opposite the injury. She’d tried to bathe him the week before but with one arm it had been too difficult to shift his body. On top of that, she’d noticed he’d become aroused when she’d tried to wash his groin. While Minna hadn’t been disturbed by it, Garin had emitted a low moan and started to cry. As best he could, he’d tried to shake his head from left to right.
No, Mom. No.
She respected his wishes but worried that her inability to completely clean him would let infection creep back in.
Her work at Nordhausen had slowed to a near standstill. She felt a strange relief at the fact— This weapon won’t help anyone. It won’t help Garin.—but knew how dangerous it was to be of no use to the men of Nordhausen and the Reich.
How long will it be until they bring in someone like Reinholtz to continue my work?
And the jokes at her expense were beginning to feel more like threats. She heard comments about the “worthlessness of the feeble-minded,” the curse of the “useless eaters” and “life unworthy of life.”
Minna tried to return to her work full force, although she could get none of the men at Nordhausen, not even Kuntzler, to help attend to Garin. He was a reminder that none of them could tolerate. But Minna knew that her weapons work was the only way to return to the status quo.
If I can get this craft to fly, if we can get a few dry runs to clear the right distance, then they’ll know I should remain here. Perhaps they’ll even increase my wage and I can bring in an outside doctor to help Garin heal.
She worked for two days straight, coming home only to feed Garin soup—chicken noodle was his favorite but she had to make do with a thin tomato puree—and to make sure he knew he wasn’t alone.
Minna prayed for another fit, something to strike her down so she could rise again and know exactly how to make the Nordhausen project a success. She focused on finding the right words and calculations until sweat dripped from her wrinkled forehead.
Her renewed efforts were working.
She designed a new wing flap that would allow the craft to stabilize even over sharp mountain winds. She perfected her fuel equation to maximize distance. She recalled bits of her work with Wuerzberg and proposed ways to equip the weapon with radar guidance.
The effort exhausted her. She
requested a soldier to shuttle her home from the factory.
Her driver didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t speak a word.
This is wrong.
She’d had the thought so many times before—when she’d stolen from her mother to buy hard candy, when she’d tossed a book which Goebbels had banned into the pyre at University, when she’d buried Jakob, when she’d thought about all of the destruction her project might create.
But none of those moments had felt as wholly wrong as when she’d read the letter that had been delivered to her residence.
Minna had hoped that the letter might tell her that a doctor had finally been assigned to come help Garin, as she’d been requesting. Instead she’d received notice that both she and Garin were going to receive “the finest care” at the Reich Work Group of Sanatoriums and Nursing Homes.
As a scientist she was supposed to be insulated from the daily goings on of the war. But she’d heard of the Reich Work Group, and understood the nature of their “healing.” Even if she could convince someone that she and Garin were becoming healthier, she was sure her University protest from ’38 would resurface. She’d be shunned—they might even declare her insane for once having favored Jews.
The Reich had clearly decided, with the utter finality the Work Group represented, that Minna and Garin no longer represented the best interests of the great race.
We must escape.
As soon as she had the ridiculous thought and her mind tried to put together all the permutations of the idea, there was a knock at her door.
Kuntzler entered and in a few acidic, boozy breaths, explained that the requisition had already been filed, that they were patients in his care, and that he would personally supervise their transfer to Work Group tomorrow.
He did not hesitate to add that an armed guard would be standing outside the door to her house all evening. To protect her security in this time of transition, of course.
The guard was kind enough to listen to her. Her words, her promise, and the banded bundle of cash she placed into his hands assured that he let her and Garin pass.
Minna had difficulty moving Garin’s wheelchair in a straight line. With only one arm to steer she had to lean the weight of her hips against his back and felt the heat of his body through the chair.
During the long, slow slog to Nordhausen she stopped occasionally to look up at the stars, or to kiss the tops of Garin’s hands. She’d been doing so since he was an infant. He had delicate, beautiful hands, and she forced herself not to imagine the work they may have done at Maidanek. Rather she let herself feel his pulse and heat through the thin skin of her lips.
They can’t have us, Garin.
All the chaos was reduced to this simple truth—the huge steel press machine in which she cradled her son was made to exert monumental amounts of pressure at an incredible speed.
This pressure had already proven its potency on flesh and bone.
That Jew died trying to destroy this thing.
Feeling the immense power of the apparatus that held her and Garin, she realized what a fool’s errand it was to try and break it. Some things were too large, too immutable. There were forces around them which would not slow against resistance.
She’d toured the main floor at Nordhausen many times; she knew from watching the star-marked laborers that it took about a minute for the machine to build up to the explosive release of the vast black panel above.
Minna used that time to speak her husband’s name with love.
Jakob, please forgive me. We had to escape.
She whispered kind words to her only child and ran her fingers through the still thick hair on the right side of Garin’s head.
The building sound of the great machine began to fill the empty factory.
Minna was ready. She placed her lips to Garin’s, closed her eyes, and waited for The Beauties to complete one last equation.
Mandy Vasquez let the sun soak in, hoping to retain the day’s heat when cold, wet night rolled in and left her shaking. She’d begged up enough cash to score tonight, so at least there was one guaranteed warm evening ahead of her.
“Listen, lady, do you want some money or not?”
“Oh, sorry…” Mandy hobbled over to the blue sedan, maintaining a delicate balance on mismatched prosthetic feet (the left—a curved spring meant for disabled athletes, the right—a regular foot with fake skin that swelled on rainy nights). She snatched the cash from the woman’s hand, caught the smell of a new perm.
Gotta stop zoning. I’d be out three bucks if that light would have turned green.
Mandy stepped back to the curb thinking this new intersection was working out fine. She’d only been in Portland for a few days, but they seemed pretty free with the cash. She made sure her sign—DISABLED, WAITING ON SSI, PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS!—was upright, then flinched as a streak of pain ran through the sole of her non-existent right foot.
That was the worst, the terrible pain in feet she didn’t even have. Like being forced to give birth to a kid you weren’t allowed to keep. Hurting for nothing at all.
That’s why she got high—it killed the ugly feeling that ripped through her missing heels, like hooks driven through meat, tugging ever upwards. The dope let that agony sluice into the gutters and trickle to nothing.
Another shock of pain hit the space where she didn’t exist. She held back tears and lifted her sign higher.
Martin Vasquez hated the drive home. Early summer weather had him cooking. Run the A/C—kill the ozone. Open the windows—fill your lungs with exhaust. No conscionable way to avoid roasting.
Today was worse. March 14th. Mandy’s birthday.
She’s thirty-one today, if she’s still alive.
March 14th meant pounding booze and pretending the wreck never happened. Pretending that he’d stayed awake, that he’d buckled Mandy in. Wishing he and Estrella hadn’t been so young and poor when Mandy needed them to be rich and mature and strong. Wishing that he had it all to do again, to never abandon his crippled four-year-old in the fruit section of a Shop-Rite.
Mandy had such beautiful brown eyes, with flecks of gold in them. He still saw them, some nights. Stupid dreams.
He rounded 13th and his fresh-bought bottle of SoCo rustled in its paper sack.
You talkin’ to me, buddy? Let’s get started.
Martin twisted the cap loose, let it click to the plastic floor-mat beneath his feet. Quick cop-scan, then he knocked back two stern slugs, let the burn spread.
He pictured the calendar in his kitchen, today’s date reading “Mandy 31.” Easier to swallow another shot, let his focus go soft.
Martin pulled up to a four way intersection and spotted movement to his right.
Mandy wished the man would let go of her hand. The light would go green soon, people would start honking. This guy was interrupting the flow of her grind.
“I’ve seen your eyes in my dreams,” he said.
“That’s dreams for you. Now let go of my hand and get the hell out of here.”
You had to be stern with the freaks.
The man flinched at her words, shook his head.
“Yeah…sorry…” He dropped his gaze to the bottle in his lap. Mandy pulled away quickly, happy she still held the twenty he’d waved at her.
The light turned green and after a moment’s pause, the man drove on.
Mandy hardly noticed. She was thinking of tonight’s score and the liquid pleasure that would roll through her limbs and calm the screaming phantoms haunting the places where she’d died.
We’re on the reservation now, so the blasting bass from the stereo goes into silent mode and the car drops to exactly whatever speed it says on the road signs. You come through here calm and quiet, especially if you look like me. The Kah-Tah-Nee rez is mostly Paiute and there isn’t an Indian alive that’s going to give the look of love to a ginger-haired white dude with a mohawk. Not on a sweat-river-down-your-back heat-blast of a day like this. Not in this place, where the met
h and the booze have jacked-up and sludge-brained the populace.
The Kah-Tah-Nee rez is a charmer. Greatest frequency of drunk driving accidents—affirmative. Highest child mortality rates in the state—every year. Corrupt cops—big old check. Some punk kid like me caught a bullet to the face last year during a traffic stop. Spooked witnesses said the kid wouldn’t kick up any bribe cash. Got uppity. Got his brains plastered to the tempered glass behind him. Cop caught a temporary suspension, then got pinned by the Feds for meth traffic while on that little vacation.
You drive the exact speed limit through here, hold your breath and pray to the Gods of Invisibility. Dear Gods, Please let me and my lovely girlfriend Sage pass this gauntlet until we are among a group of people that our ancestors didn’t attempt genocide against. Let no tire pop. Let my speed remain a smooth constant. Let my presence go unknown. Amen. The impulse is to speed until you clear the rez, to rush towards the comforting sight of the next concrete Wal-Mart behemoth. But don’t. It’s not worth it. Picture bits of your own skull stuck in the upholstery, that nice tan bucket seat turned dark red.
Slow down. Enjoy the drive. Sage looks beautiful in the seat next to me. Five years together and she’s still a stunner. She’s reading a Glamour magazine so she can get angry at it. She’s one of the new breed of feminists that likes to constantly decry the effects of the skinny, blonde, big-breasted, All-American Beauty Myth, while, of course, trying as hard as she can to look exactly like the girls in the magazines. Awareness, even awareness coupled with anger, isn’t always power. Not that I’m complaining; I get nervous when her armpits start to show stubble. I tell her otherwise of course, because I admire her attempts at personal growth, but when it comes down to it I prefer the shaved-and-primped porn star look. I don’t really want to stick my dick in some idealistic, earthy Sasquatch.
We Live Inside You Page 11