Panacea

by Brad Murray

  “Lars, throw me the ball!” she beckoned.

  The ball plummeted towards the earth. Lars extended his hands at the last possible second, saving it from the blow against the hard ground. He shot a quick look at his sister and rolled his eyes. He turned his back to her and tossed the ball back into the air, even higher than before.

  “Go play with your dolls,” grumbled Lars.

  Letta put her hands on her hips and huffed. Now he’d offended her. Sure, she liked dolls, but her brother seemed to be insinuating that playing catch was for boys only. While she had no use for it, she decided right then and there that she’d show him that she could handle herself.

  “Oh Lars, don’t be upset that I can catch and throw just as well as you,” she goaded.

  Lars jerked his head away from the ball in the sky and back towards his sister. The ball landed with a dull thud against the grass a foot away from his feet. A wry smile came across his face.

  “You’re a girl,” he laughed. “You catch like a girl and you throw like one too.”

  Letta extended a palm towards him, imploring him to throw her the ball.

  “Well go on, then. Throw it to me and I’ll show you just how a girl can throw and catch, even better than you.”

  Lars smirked before turning his back on her once again. Letta lowered her hand back to her side, letting her guard down. But in a flash, Lars pounced over the ball, picked it up and spun towards her. He fired the ball like a rocket right at Letta’s forehead. Letta swiveled and the ball blazed past, missing her head by mere centimeters. Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of broken glass crashing to the floor of their new home’s front room.

  Lars covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. Letta gasped as she moved away from the window and towards the far corner of the yard, distancing herself from the scene of the disaster and its culprit. The firm sound of high heels click-clacked across the wooden floor of the house. The pair could feel the anger in the click-clacking.

  Mother rushed to the door, hands on her hips. She looked the children over, top to bottom, turned and slowly picked up the ball from the glass covered wooden floor. Holding it in daintily in her hand, she regarded the dirty leather ball as if it were a piece of trash.

  “What have I told you, Lars,” she said, discarding the ball softly into the yard. “When your father sees the mess you’ve created…”

  “But Mother, Letta told me to throw it…” Lars started.

  “I don’t want to hear it! I’ve told you a hundred times…”

  A booming explosion somewhere in the vicinity of the camp cut her off. There had been explosions lately, but those were muted. Far away. This was close. It rattled the remaining window panes in the little house and the ground shook under their feet. Mother shrieked, instinctively covering her head for protection.

  “Mother!” screamed Letta, her body rigid with fear.

  Mother tore down the steps and into the yard, her expensive high-fashion skirt flittering in the breeze behind her. She scooped Letta up into her arms and shouted to Lars, pointing him to lead them in the direction of the camp.

  The family knew where to go; Father had prepared them for such an event. In recent weeks it hadn’t been a matter of if the Allies would overrun the camp, but when. The plan was that the family would huddle together and surrender peacefully. Surely the Americans would be less likely to harm a captured enemy who was surrounded by his wife and children. The only benefit to Father’s substandard role was that upon capture he would merely be a soldier - taking orders, not giving them. And for that, the family hoped, the Allies would be merciful. Perhaps they could even go back to their comfortable lives in Berlin.

  The three of them slogged their way from the little house across a muddy field and through the thick pines. They had begun to calm, their breathing slowing, heart rates returning to normal. After the initial explosion, which had been so very close, there had been silence. Perhaps the capture of Haasberg wasn’t quite as imminent as it seemed – inevitable yes, but perhaps it wouldn’t be today. In the clearing beyond the woods sat a tidy brick building on the back side of the camp. This was their rendezvous point. This was where Father would meet them and lead them into the camp, where there were a handful of buildings that offered reinforced concrete and a bunker to protect from bombs. That is where Father would take them to prepare for surrender.

  ***

  It was at this point that Letta’s “dark companion” would sometimes allow the dream to end - mercifully - just before the three of them had made their way through the forest and out into the clearing where the little brick building dwelled. Letta would kick awake, relieved that she had been spared from being forced to go further yet again. But, most of the time, her dark companion wasn’t so compassionate. The sense of dread in knowing what lie beyond the trees was haunting. And it was torture to have it replayed repeatedly – the same terrible series of events – over and over and over again. For it wasn’t so much a nightmare as it was a memory.

  ***

  Letta sat erect in her wheelchair, the physical presence of the man standing in front of her felt so surreal it was as if she was dreaming. But this would be a good dream.

  “You do know who we are, don’t you?” asked Letta. Much to her chagrin, she found her voice was shaking. Her throat was dry and it was catching when she spoke. She had wanted to depict coolness, self-assuredness to Brumeux. But unfortunately, her first face-to-face words with him were anything but; they were shaky and weak. She took a deep breath to compose herself, as if she could expel the anxiety away. Her brother sensed her apprehension, as he always did. He knowingly placed a calming hand on her shoulder. She instantaneously felt grounded again, reassured in her undertaking – their undertaking.

  She’d often imagined this moment – the moment when they would confront the leader of the Order. But now, the moment was far more grandiose than her imagination had ever allowed; for not only would they confront Benoit Brumeux, they would confront Viktor Schwarz. Today, they would drop the veil. Today they would reveal themselves and their identities; beyond their membership in the Alicante.

  However, Letta had always pictured the setting of this moment to be far – grander. She’d always imagined they’d be on Alicante soil, perhaps in Berlin or Munich, near where it all began. She never imagined that it would be held in such a drab venue – the dreary living room of an everyday rundown farmhouse in the middle of Nowhere USA. Certainly not what she had in mind but, she thought, it would have to do.

  Brumeux stood in front of the sofa next to the Porters, where Andy held Emma on one edge, arms wrapped around each other as if velcroed together. Jimmy was on one knee in front of them. Brumeux’s good eye darted from Letta to Lars to Minkowski, who still sat gagged and bound near the stairs. There was a sadness in his expression, Letta thought. Sadness in the comprehension that he - and the Order - had been beaten. And it was tremendously gratifying.

  “You are Letta, I presume,” he said, his expression becoming puzzlingly giddy. “And you must be Lars. I don’t know whether to feel honored or frightened that the most senior members of the Alicante have gone to such lengths to meet me personally.”

  Lars studied Brumeux carefully, not sure what to make of him. Letta clenched her jaw; there was condescension in Brumeux’s tone.

  “If I was you,” said Letta through her teeth, “I would lean toward the latter.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Brumeux. “I should be frightened of you then. I suppose I should not be surprised. As you are leaders of the initiative to destroy mankind, perhaps I should be afraid.”

  “My dear Mr. Brumeux, you have misjudged the Alicante. Our enterprise endeavors merely to maintain life.”

  “Maintain life? Curious statement given you are clearly focused on activities that eradicate life.”

  “You are misconstruing our initiatives. We are focused on the long-term survival of the human race. The Earth is dying, Mr. Brumeux. The population is expanding at a
n unsustainable rate, bringing about an explosion of pollution, food and water shortages, destruction of rain forests, rising oceans, extinction of animal species…I could go on and on. It has become painfully clear the only solution is for an adjustment to be made – a correction of sorts. A correction that will ensure the preciousness of life will continue.”

  Brumeux scoffed. “And you and the Alicante have appointed yourselves judge, jury, and executioner. How convenient for you to…”

  “We’ve not appointed ourselves Mr. Brumeux,” snapped Letta. “There are no appointments for a responsibility of this magnitude. This is a responsibility you are burdened with from birth. Only those destined to lead can fathom such responsibility.”

  “You are ordained by birthright to destroy mankind?”

  Letta’s face twisted up, her aged forehead’s deep-set wrinkles folding over on themselves. She turned a shade of red that her brother hadn’t seen in quite some time. Frankly, she wasn’t used to being spoken to like this.

  “It is you who is the scourge to mankind, Brumeux! It is you who is the manipulator - you and your precious Order. You care not for anything nor anyone but yourself. Our efforts, on the other hand, are altruistic. We are focused solely on the survival of this planet. We make the impossibly difficult decisions no government will make.”

  Brumeux shook his head incredulously.

  “Tell me, Letta, who will be sacrificed when this correction you speak of occurs? The poor? The weak? The infirm? Those you regard as inferior races? Tell me, Lars, will any of your family members, loved ones, or cherished friends be sacrificed?”

  Letta exhaled audibly and leaned back into her wheel chair. Lars decided it was time to shift gears, to steer away from a topic that was going nowhere in a hurry. The subject matter wasn’t a comfortable one to talk about in this particular room full of strangers. Not even the Sisters understood what was being discussed, and the last thing they needed was the Sisters turning on them. Besides, he was in a hurry to get to the real point – the reason he and Letta had risked venturing out from their Alicante-protected haven in the first place.

  “There’s no sense in debating the merits of the Order and the Alicante, dear sister,” said Lars coolly. “We’ll be here all night and find ourselves none the better for our exertions. I’m far too old and disinterested in playing such dead-end games.”

  “Well, there is something we can agree upon,” smiled Brumeux. “We are old. I’ve found in recent years that I have less and less patience for beating around the bush as they say.”

  Lars laughed heartily. “Yes, Mr. Brumeux. If patience is a virtue, then I am the least virtuous person I know.”

  Brumeux grinned, taking a brief moment to glance at Jimmy kneeling at the base of the sofa.

  “And yet,” said Letta, “on the other hand, Lars, we’ve been about as patient as can be when it comes to you, Mr. Brumeux. At times we were convinced you would never be found. We’ve been searching for you for decades.”

  “Decades?” pondered Brumeux aloud.

  “Yes, decades. Sixty-six years in fact.”

  “Sixty-six years?”

  “1945.”

  Brumeux leaned heavily to one side, his cane and the side of the sofa supporting his weight. It was as if he had been zapped of energy, the strength in his legs no longer able to support him.

  “You were hidden well by ODESSA,” said Lars.

  Lars could see Brumeux making the connection. It was written all over his face. He glanced quickly at his sister, who glanced back. There was glee in her eyes - actual glee! Lars tried to think back to the last time he saw such a twinkle in her eye – likely it had been over sixty-six years ago.

  “Let me take you back to 1945, Mr. Brumeux,” she said with graveness in her voice. “And to the day that changed everything.”

  ***

  Lars had stopped in the middle of the forest, turning to beckon them forward. Letta’s feet barely touched the ground, she was running so fast. Mother had let her down at the foot of the forest and discarded her heels. She was panting; exhausted from carrying Letta across the field from the front yard of their tiny home. The immense explosion had sent them scrambling to the back side of the camp, to the meeting point Father had specified. The explosion had rattled her young body to the core. Her heart had felt like it had jumped into her throat, and she had never in her young life felt such gripping fear. But it had been several minutes and there had been no explosions since - not even the single faint report of a gunshot. With each silent minute that passed, Letta felt a small amount of her fear evaporate. Her fears wouldn’t be completely alleviated until reunited with Father; only then would she feel safe.

  “Come!” motioned Lars. “This way. Follow me!”

  He darted back and forth between the trunks of the enormous pines. Lars had spent a considerable amount of time in the forest over the past couple of weeks. When he wasn’t tossing the leather ball around in the front yard, he could be found exploring the woods, building secret forts set amongst the thick floor of pine needles, flora, and rocks. He had memorized the path to the camp, and to the little brick building that awaited them.

  Letta scampered after him, Mother trailing just behind. They approached a wall of green bushes that looked too dense to pass. Just as Letta’s frustration welled up for her brother leading them to a dead-end, he disappeared through a clearing just wide enough for all of them to squeeze through.

  They scampered downhill, following the forest floor toward the banks of a small stream. Lars stood at the edge, scanning up and down the length of the stream. It was about ten meters across – too far to hurdle.

  “Where do we go, Lars?” asked Mother, panting heavily. “Are we going into the water?”

  Lars’ attention was upstream, where he was still scanning the banks. “There are some stepping stones somewhere…there!”

  Lars pointed to a collection of black, moss-covered rocks that topped out above the flowing river. He carefully traversed across the stream, one rock at a time.

  “Careful,” he said, turning to the girls once he’d crossed, “the rocks are slick.”

  Letta navigated her way across next, reaching the other side almost as quickly as her brother. Mother was last. She was much slower than her children, painfully cautious with each step. A mortar blast above the camp sent Mother sprawling. It shook the trees and the ground beneath them, as Mother slipped on the final stone and spilled into the river. She shrieked as the cold water rushed across her legs. Lars lurched forward and extended her a helping hand. He gripped her firmly by the forearm and pulled her out of the water and onto the bank.

  “Almost there, Mother,” reassured Lars. “It’s just a few minutes further. This way, follow me.”

  Lars led them around an unending maze of trees. The girls followed closely behind, slowing to pass through a concentrated area of thicket that scraped their skin and grabbed their hair as they passed. Mercifully, once they cleared the bushes, Letta could see the blue sky of the clearing just ahead. Lars was sprinting toward the sunlit grass that lay before him just beyond the pines. Letta watched her brother’s arms and legs pumping in front of her, and felt relief that their journey through the woods was coming to an end. But suddenly Lars’ foot caught on a hidden tree root, and he spilled forward, tumbling head over feet onto his back. Letta caught up with him and hovered over him, half expecting his face to be bloodied and bruised. But to her relief, she immediately could see in his eyes that he was uninjured.

  Another mortar blast in the distance sent the twins ducking for cover.

  “Lars!” cried Mother coming up from behind them. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m okay. We have to get to the camp!”

  Lars sat up, brushing the pine needles off his back. Another explosion rattled the forest. Whistles and Haasberg’s air raid sirens wailed in the distance. Letta screamed, fearing an Allied bomb would drop on them at any moment. Mother pulled Lars to his feet, a look of sheer terror fill
ing her face.

  “Let’s go children!” breathed Mother, pushing them forward. “We must hurry!”

  Lars resumed leading them through the forest to the clearing that signified the edge of the camp. Letta followed closely behind her brother, the howling screech of the sirens filling her heart with panic. They rounded a row of thick-trunked trees and saw it - the clearing.

  The camp was only moments away now.

  Suddenly, shooting out from behind a tree, something crashed into Letta, knocking her sideways to the pine needle-covered forest floor. Letta sprang up to her knees, her mind racing with thoughts of Allied soldiers combing the forest in search of their enemies. She half expected to find a gun in her face; to be surrounded and captured just yards away from the fenceline of the camp.

  But, as she turned on her knees to see the person with whom she collided, her eyes met the grimy face of a boy. A boy roughly her age. His hair was a matted mess and his face caked black with soot and muck. He wore the striped garments of the Jew. A Jew boy had escaped the camp. Letta’s jaw dropped, and for a moment the boy stared back her, his expression mirroring Letta’s astonishment. He shifted his eyes to Lars and then to Mother. And in a flash, he sprang to his feet and disappeared into the woods.

  Letta stood up, grabbed her mother’s hand, and together made their way towards the clearing. They did not speak of the boy - the only thing that mattered was reaching Father. As they approached the edge of the forest, Letta caught glimpses of red brick between colossal pine trunks. Her heart leapt – they were going to make it.

  They crossed the line from shade to light; from the shield of the cool pine canopy into the openness of blue sky and the warmth of the morning sun. They were out in the open now, no longer hidden by the forest. Instinctively, they slowed their pace, taking slow, cautious steps. Huddled together. Hand-in-hand. Air raid sirens blared. A panicked voice from a loud speaker shouted incoherent warnings. Soldiers scurried inside the camp in every direction, and in no direction at all.