I looked down at the way our hands fit together.
Perfectly.
Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb
Reflecting back upon an important lesson learned during the siege of Château Rochefort, my father writes:
Du Lac’s soldiers held Waldhart, myself, and Lady de Rochefort, whom they seemed afeared to harm. This fear they overcame when Du Lac himself arrived. Du Lac threatened Waldhart and myself before my Lady; she flinched not, neither did she reveal aught when they began to prick and draw forth her blood.
Helisaba, my little cousin, however, could not watch this unmoved. She came solid from her chameleon–safety. Our enemies did not notice. They merely saw a child appearing seemingly from nowhere, as children do.
Du Lac placed the blade at tiny Helisaba’s neck; still Lady de Rochefort revealed not whether her husband’s men would come by valley or by mountain. I did not, at that time, believe any of us in mortal danger.
In short, I misjudged.
Du Lac changed tactics and released Lisaba, placing the blade at my Lady de Rochefort’s own white neck. My cousin shrieked and could only be calmed by Du Lac insisting he had no wish to kill her lady–mother. Lisaba quieted and Du Lac asked her, upon pain of executing her mother, from whence would her father’s soldiers issue?
Helisaba held her tongue as we all had been taught. Du Lac rose, sighed as one who rises from a good dinner, and swiftly spilled Lady de Rochefort’s lifeblood. Lisaba whitened as though her own lifeblood ebbed with that of her mother. I ran, desperate to shield my little cousin, who fainted into my arms. For my weakness, we paid dearly.
Du Lac, sensing my affection for Helisaba, put the knife to her throat and asked me the question.
“Swear first that you will not harm her,” I demanded.
Behind the soldiers, Waldhart cursed my name, calling all manner of dire blights upon me should I reveal what I knew and upon Du Lac should he harm Lisaba. The soldiers clapped his mouth shut.
“You have my word,” said Du Lac.
I hesitated, uncertain as to the value of the word of a traitor. “Call down Heaven’s curse should you break your word.”
Du Lac laughed softly, straightened, and crossed himself. “May God damn my soul to the everlasting flames of Hell should I break my word and harm this child.” He crossed himself again. “But I swear she dies if you do not speak, boy.”
Helisaba, recovered from her faint, shook her head: No, Girard.
“They come by way of the mountain,” said I.
Du Lac released Lisaba and lifting me by my shoulders, he stared into my eyes. “Swear it by the same oath I invoked.”
This I could not do, for fear of my soul’s well–being. I spoke the truth. “By the valley, then, may God bar me from Heaven should I lie.”
By the frailty of my human heart, I had saved Lisaba. The battle, we lost.
I vowed never again to allow weakness to rule the day.
Chapter Eleven
PARIS
We departed the Loire Valley the following morning with translations of Helmann’s Nazi–era journals in hand. Sir Walter did not travel with us, promising instead to meet us in Paris. As I read the translated journal, I couldn’t decide which disturbed me more: the experiments Helmann had designed or his musings upon the results. I put the translation down after one quick read–through, but Mickie pored through it again and again, making notes in the margins. What would Sir Walter make of the journal we had stolen from Helga? I itched to know if we had wasted our efforts, but I had no desire to break my word to Will. So far Mickie had always accompanied us when Sir Walter showed up.
We arrived at our Paris hotel in time for an 8:30PM dinner at an Auvergnois restaurant where every last student opted for cheesy potatoes, passing on the dish involving intestines. Tomorrow would be our first of four full days in Paris, and Sir Walter said he’d join us, invisibly or solid, for most of our group field trips. Our fourth day, the French Club trip free day, he instructed us to reserve for a special day–long outing; his eyes twinkled but he refused to reveal our destination.
At the Hotel Georges IV, I received a closet–sized single room, which suited me fine, but Mickie’s room had been upgraded to a two–room suite.
“Gorgeous!” was how Mickie described the rooms she shared with her brother. “And yours is certainly … cozy,” she said upon greeting me at my door the next morning. “You should come stay with us. Save you from a few bruises. Will can sleep on the couch in the sitting room.”
“I’m sure he’ll thank you for that.”
She pushed the elevator call button. “He suggested it, so we can stay up together for late–nights with Sir Walter. And now that I’ve seen your doll–sized accommodations …” She shook her head. “What part of ‘elbow room’ do the French not get?”
After a hurried breakfast of crusty baguettes and strawberry jam, we stepped outside with our group. Sir Walter stood conversing in French with Madame Evans. A bright sun greeted us as we departed our Latin–Quarter lodgings and trekked to Notre Dame Cathedral. Following a ten minute introduction to the history of the cathedral, Madame Evans released us to explore on our own for an hour.
The sheer, monstrous size of the building overwhelmed us.
“How’d they do this without cranes?” Will asked.
“Impressive, is it not?” replied Sir Walter. “I always enjoy being in the presence of an older woman.” He chuckled to himself.
Mickie looked at him blankly and Will interpreted. “Notre Dame means ‘Our Lady,’ Mick. And she’s a couple hundred years older than present company.”
Present Company directed us to a quiet apse. “Did you find your reading enlightening?”
I nodded my head yes.
Mickie’s “Fascinating!” overlapped with Will’s “Creepy.”
Sir Walter continued. “The stories are familiar to me, from conversations with Pfeffer, but they make for disturbing reading, nonetheless.”
“Speaking of disturbing,” Mickie said, “You sent an article on Neuroprine deaths in France. We’ve seen something similar in the U.S.”
Sir Walter listened.
“So, do you have a plan to halt these occurrences?” asked Mickie. “‘Cause that’s pretty much number one on my to do list.”
“We fight a desperate battle,” Sir Walter replied. “Allow me to share some of our opponent’s past accomplishments.”
“Here we go with the history,” muttered Mickie.
“You recall the map I sent to you?” asked the French gentleman.
“Sure,” said Will.
Sir Walter asked, “Are you able to recall to mind the lands which were lacking in markings of red?”
Mickie and Will nodded. I couldn’t remember the map like they did.
“The markings indicate concentrations of known Helmann’s carriers. The areas lacking red are areas where Helmann was free to eliminate known carriers during the Nazi reign.”
“A genetic purge,” Mickie whispered.
Sir Walter spoke. “Yes.”
“Pfeffer kept us in the dark about so much,” Mickie said.
“No doubt he intended to keep you safer, knowing less,” said Sir Walter. “As you can guess, he and I disagreed upon that.” The old man sighed softly.
I used the pause to whisper a question. “Why did Helmann want a purge? Either time?” It was the question of a child who still needed to understand her mother’s death.
“Why, indeed? Can you think of no reason to eliminate such a trait from a population?” Sir Walter’s eyes drifted to the clerestory windows.
“There’s an obvious benefit if you controlled those who carry the trait,” said Will. “And if you eliminate those you can’t control, you could have a monopoly on invisibility. Or raise an invisible army.”
“Your supposition is correct. This goal drives my cousin. It has driven him for … let us say, a long while.”
Will shifted on his feet,
leaning in and lowering his voice. “So he plans to control anyone who has this ability …”
Sir Walter nodded. “And to reproduce additional controlled chameleons by all means available, genetic or conventional.”
Will spoke softly. “So, we know who’s behind the headlines we’ve been following, and we have a good idea of what he hopes to achieve. Is it time to call in Scotland Yard or the French FBI or something? You need us to testify?”
I nodded. “If we go to the media and explain how he operates by showing what we can do, the CIA or whoever would know what they’re up against. We take away his secret advantage.”
Sir Walter raised one tremendous eyebrow, glared at me. “No indeed, child. Think it through. Expose yourselves and how long do you think your family members have to live?”
I flushed, my heart skipping beats as I contemplated the fury I’d been ready to unleash upon Dad and Sylvia.
Sir Walter, pulling at the goatee upon his chin, sighed and continued. “You’ve both done well to conceal your true natures and keep yourselves hidden from Helmann. If he knew of you, you would be forced to follow him, or refusing that, he would consume you like the bloated spider he is. He has no tolerance for others like himself over whom he can exert no control.”
“He killed Pfeffer,” Mickie whispered. “Because he couldn’t control him.”
“Precisely,” agreed Sir Walter. “Imagine, if you will, the power and cunning of one who has spent his life, his considerable life, studying first–hand within the circles of popes, emperors, and monarchs such as those who created this cathedral.”
The arc of his gesture took in the whole of the impressive structure, and I felt off–kilter, as if by gazing upward, I receded, grew smaller.
“Imagine such a one without a moral compass beyond the need to dominate others; you already know that he has the ability to avoid undesired confinement; imagine such a one possessed of infinite wealth—”
“Stolen, no doubt,” Will murmured.
Sir Walter nodded as he led us back towards the entrance.
“He is protected beyond anything you can imagine by layer upon layer. His ability, he keeps secret from all but his inner circle. You must understand: he terrifies everyone who serves him. He always knows things he shouldn’t know about them; though many of his key employees have never seen him in person, yet he knows them intimately. He overhears conversations that he couldn’t possibly have been party to. He acts on this knowledge just often enough to keep his employees in abject fear of what he might do or say next.”
“He spies on them.” Will’s voice dripped contempt.
“He is rarely solid,” said Sir Walter. “As recently as sixty years ago, he appeared in visible form for an entire day every tenth day. Now, he averages one appearance of three hours only every fifteen and a half days.”
“Twice a month?” Will’s eyes grew large. “He’ll only age three days a year at that rate. For someone who doesn’t bat an eye about killing people, he sure is scared of dying.”
“Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes,” said Mickie. “Pfeffer used to quote that.”
Sir Walter smiled. “John Donne. I admired him.”
“As in, you knew him?” Will asked.
Sir Walter nodded and made to exit, but before leaving the cathedral, he dipped his hand in the basin to cross himself. Mickie followed suit, and Will, whispering to me that it had been awhile, also crossed himself.
I dipped fingers in the shallow bowl, crossing myself for the first time since Mom’s death, and hastily wiped my fingers dry against my jeans. The gesture was hollow: I felt overwhelmed by dark thoughts about Helmann.
Our group re–united outside Notre Dame, and we received a handful of Métro tickets for our Paris stay along with our daily five–euro lunch allotment. Then we descended together into the Métro, exiting at the Place Charles de Gaulle/Étoiles beside the Arc de Triomphe.
Sir Walter had disappeared at some point, but I’d been pre–occupied with thoughts of Helmann taking over the world, and I’d missed his exit. I recognized an old feeling: the way I could make the outside world muffled and dulled by pulling inside myself. I’d done that for years after losing Mom and Maggie.
Only, I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I grabbed for better memories. Me and Will, pounding the pavement early to beat the triple–digit heat of central California. Eating raspberries with Sylvia. Bear hugs from my dad. I found the part of myself that didn’t want to go back inside the grayed–out world of my childhood.
I found it and I held on, tight.
Taking slow, deliberate breaths, I forced myself to notice my surroundings as students gawked at the Arc de Triomphe. Burning brakes. Gauloises cigarettes. Fresh–baked baguettes. It felt cold. Moisture in the air. A steady breeze. Then a wash of warm and sooty air gusted up from a set of Métro stairs.
Someone nudged me. Will. “You kind of leave us back there for awhile?”
I lifted my gaze from the scuffed toes of my boots. “A little.”
His eyes, dark orbs, held mine.
“But I’m back,” I whispered.
“C’mon,” said Will. “Let’s go see the Eiffel Tower.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Will smiled and brushed fingers across the back of my hand as we crowded down the Métro stairs once more.
“Where’s Sir Walter?” I asked amid the clatter of trains and press of bodies.
“Said he’d meet us at the Eiffel Tower,” Mickie replied. “He needed to contact someone about the book.”
Once again, I felt a tickle at the back of my mind. We’ve got to tell Sir Walter about Helga’s book.
Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb
The Experiments conducted by my father during the 1930’s and 1940’s had a brilliant aim: the creation of a loyal army of chameleons. Some may criticize his methods, and whom better to respond to such a criticism than myself?
As one of his more successful experiments, I can attest that neither harm nor cruelty were inflicted needlessly. The strict regime under which I and my siblings were raised has only served to develop in us the ability to transcend ordinary human limitations. We are hindered neither by weakened emotions nor enfeebled bodies. We are the living proof of my father’s genius, should any such proof be deemed necessary.
Some might argue that his methods were crude. Certainly they were at times. It was war time, and in many things my father had to make do with what lay at hand.
But who today could design a more perfect way in which to ensure the indebtedness of one human to another? I still recall from my days of solitary isolation how the man I knew only as Herr Doctor told me I was special. Such words are powerful in a child’s growth. With kind attention and with food, he assured my loyalty. I became indebted and remain to this day indebted to the greatest Man of Science the world has known.
Crude his methods may have been; successful they most certainly were.
Chapter Twelve
GRAVITY
Upon exiting the Métro, we emerged in the shadow of the iconic Eiffel Tower.
“It’s freaking huge,” said Will.
Beside him, his sister nodded, her mouth falling slightly open.
It was the actual Tour Eiffel, just like on the cover of our French book. Our group dispersed—from here we were on our own. We three walked towards the tower, but it was like we never got any closer.
Will grunted. “Food. Smell that? You do the ordering.” Will nudged me to a sidewalk crêperie.
He was perfectly capable of ordering by himself. But I thought I knew why he’d asked: he wanted to keep me from pulling inside myself again. Warmth filled my belly.
The warm pancake–y scent of the crêpes, combined with cheese and maybe something chocolate, intoxicated us. We completely forgot about the Eiffel Tower.
“I want that.” Will pointed to a crêpe cooking on one of two burners, folded in half with
loads of melted cheese, sliced mushrooms and chunks of ham.
I summoned my inner French–girl. When our turn came, Will translated for Mickie, probably intending to annoy her and make me laugh at the same time.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” I said.
(“Good day, sir,” Will echoed.)
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said the crêpe–maker.
(“He told her ‘good day,’” said Will.)
I looked back and caught Mickie rolling her eyes at her brother.
“Je voudrais une crêpe fromage avec jambon et … Will—how do you say mushroom?”
“Champignons,” chorused Will and the crêpe–maker.
“Oui, s’il vous–plaît,” I said.
(“She said, she wants mushrooms, cheese and ham,” Will said.)
“Enough, Will, I’m not stupid,” Mickie snapped.
I laughed inside, keeping my face directed to the kiosk.
The crêpe maker flipped the large pancake over and then in half, dumping a truckload of cheese on top. Will grinned, shooting me a thumbs–up.
After a few minutes we sauntered away with a nutella crêpe for me and a spécialité de maison for Mickie, which involved strawberries en flambé. Mick also grabbed an espresso which came in a dixie–sized plastic cup.
“Looks like mud,” said Will.
Mickie smiled and drank it down in two gulps. “Tastes better.”
We finished our late lunch; my cell phone informed me that in California, my parents still slept.
“This is too weird,” Mickie said, waving her hand at the Eiffel Tower. “Before Sir Walter, I never imagined myself coming here, sitting in the shadow of that. Not given our … realities.”
“La Belle France is getting to you,” Will said, guffawing.
His sister merely smiled, too enchanted to bicker. Her realities had been harsh for a long time. Their situation hadn’t allowed her even the luxury of pulling inside herself when her mom died. She’d had a kid brother who suddenly depended on her for everything when she’d been maybe two years older than I was right now.
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