The Virus

by Stanley Johnson

  Frankfurt airport itself was a gleaming antiseptic place. A smiling freckled girl rented him a car at the Hertz counter. Less than half-an-hour after landing, Kaplan was on his way.

  He left the autobahn twenty minutes out of Frankfurt to drive up through the vast forests of the Lahn region. He twisted through sleepy villages and crossed bridges over clear sparkling streams. He could not help contrasting the magic of the scenery with the nature of his errand. Somehow it seemed so far-fetched, so implausible. Here he was, looking into something that had happened over fifteen years earlier in a small town in Germany, an incident that was unique in medical history. Twenty-three persons infected; twenty-three persons dead. No other disease had such a fatality rate. Not Lassa. Not Embola. Not even the bubonic plague itself. Yet the extraordinary thing was that so little was known about the Marburg virus. Somehow a wall of silence had grown up around the episode and its aftermath. Why? That was the question.

  He checked in at the Waldeckerhof, a modest hotel near the station. In the afternoon, tired from the long flight and the drive, he slept for a couple of hours. Then, towards evening, with the bells of the famous church of St Elizabeth — Elizabethkirche — ringing out for Evensong, he set out on foot.

  He had been given a map at the desk of the hotel, but he didn’t need to use it. The Landgraf Schloss, once the seat of the ruling princes of Hesse, towered 900 feet above the town. Kaplan made his way towards it, through narrow streets with overaching houses and up mediaeval staircases which connected one level to another.

  As he climbed, Kaplan had the distinct feeling that he was walking back through history and that he would eventually find himself in another century. Ducking under archways, twisting round corners as he followed the cobbled path upwards, he had a vivid sense of what towns like Marburg must have been like six hundred years earlier. He could smell the stench of closely packed humanity, the halt and the blind populating the streets, the insanitary conditions and, above all else, the fear of disease. The mediaeval towns of Europe were no strangers to the cry “Bring out your dead”. They had been ravaged by the Black Death, and they had been ravaged again by the Plague. Marburg, unlike other cities of similar antiquity, had had a third visitation. Looking at the passers-by in the street — some clearly visitors like himself, but others equally clearly locals — Kaplan wondered how many of them recalled the 1967 incident or realized what a close call it had been.

  Where the road began to skirt the ramparts of the castle, he saw a sign saying Alte Universitet, and realized that he was nearing his destination.

  Professor Franz Schmidtt’s residence was a solid affair, suitably professorial in character, set in a large, leafy garden just outside the edge of the campus. From the stag’s antlers mounted, Bavarian fashion, above the front door to the heavy shutters which guarded the Schmidtt family privacy, the house bore all the marks of bourgeois success. The manicured lawns with their picturesque gnomes, the neatly gravelled drive, the sweeping view over the roofs of the old town to the river meandering in the distance, all testified to Professor Schmidtt’s status.

  In fact, Franz Schmidtt was a heavyweight in more senses than one. When Kaplan first met him, they had been students together at Yale Medical School. Schmidtt, Kaplan recalled, had had a reputation as an athlete and as a dab hand with the sabre. Kaplan doubted that the Professor would be lithe enough to perform such feats now. He had thickened considerably about the waist and his complexion was markedly florid. But there was no mistaking the genuine warmth in his welcome.

  He came out onto the doorstep followed by his wife, a tall, rather beautiful but strained-looking woman with straight grey hair swept back from her forehead.

  “Lowell! Wonderful to see you. Come on in. Such a surprise! I couldn’t believe it when I got your cable.”

  “Franz, Heidi! It’s fantastic to see you both. How marvellous you look! You haven’t changed in years!”

  Kaplan shook the Professor’s hand warmly and gave Frau Schmidtt a kiss on both cheeks before following them inside.

  They sat with drinks in the living-room. Kaplan realized that the Schmidtt family was incomplete.

  “Isn’t Paula joining us?” Lowell asked.

  “So you remember my little Paula?” Schmidtt sounded pleased.

  “How could I forget her? Remember, you brought her with you last time you came to Washington on an N.I.H. Conference. We had a great time. I guess she was around sixteen then.”

  “I guess she was. Well she’s Head of Medical Records at the Clinic now. She takes her work seriously.”

  “But I imagine she has time for some fun?”

  It was Frau Schmidtt’s turn to answer. She looked faintly disapproving.

  “Marburg’s a difficult place to be young in. There are so many . . .” — she searched for the right word — “so many different influences. A girl can be swept this way and that. Remember, Paula grew up during the great radical movement of the late ’sixties. That was when the young people thought they were going to change the world. I’m not sure she’s ever recovered.”

  Heidi Schmidtt had no time to say more. The front door banged shut and a slim, dark-haired girl in her early thirties entered the room somewhat breathlessly.

  “I got held up,” she said in German. Then she noticed Kaplan, and her face lit up with pleasure. She rushed over and threw herself into his arms.

  “Lowell!” she cried, switching to English. “How tremendous to see you!”

  Kaplan blushed. It was a long time since an attractive young girl had given him such a welcome. Fleetingly, he wondered whether Paula’s gesture was not just a little over-exuberant, a little false, but the thought passed almost as soon as it occurred.

  “What are you doing here?” Paula asked, disentangling herself from Kaplan’s arms.

  “Didn’t your father tell you?”

  Franz Schmidtt interrupted. “I didn’t see her this morning. Paula was in Berlin for the week-end and she went straight to work when she got back.”

  “In Berlin? What were you doing there?” Kaplan asked with interest.

  “Oh, just staying with friends,” the girl replied vaguely.

  She sat down and had a drink with them. Later, when she had left for a “meeting” in the town, Kaplan said: “I hope I’ll have a chance to talk to Paula properly. I have always thought there’s a lot to her.”

  “There certainly is.” Frau Schmidtt spoke with feeling, indicating that she had tangled with her strong-willed daughter more than once in the past and had come off second-best.

  She went off to prepare the supper.

  Over the meal, Kaplan came to the point. “Franz, you were here throughout the late ’sixties, weren’t you? I’m right in thinking that you came straight back to Marburg after Yale?”

  “Yeah.” Franz dug deep into the large pile of boiled potatoes which took up half his plate.

  “And you were at the University Clinic, weren’t you?”

  “Sure, all the time. I’d just begun in toxicology. I was working out the first protocols for the animal-testing of new drugs. Bonn took it over later, and now they’ve written it into the rules. Why do you ask?”

  Kaplan looked at his hosts, two earnest, kindly Germans, the one a respected pillar of his profession, the other his house-proud wife.

  “Franz, Heidi,” he said. “Not long ago, I was desperately ill. In fact, I almost died. If I am here today, it’s thanks to the grace of God together with a little bit of the devil’s own luck.”

  “But what happened to you?” There was real concern in Franz Schmidtt’s voice.

  “Yes, tell us,” echoed Heidi. “This is bad news. Are you still ill?”

  “No, I’m fully recovered. But it was a close thing.”

  Kaplan began at the beginning with Diane Verusio’s death in New York, followed rapidly by Reuben’s sickness and the other fatalities. He described the symptoms in some detail.

  Professor Schmidtt and his wife listened to him with obvious fa
scination.

  “And did you discover the cause?” the Professor asked when Kaplan stopped speaking. “Do you think it was an outbreak of Lassa fever in New York? Some of the symptoms seem similar.”

  Kaplan lowered his voice. “No, it wasn’t Lassa. It wasn’t Embola. We’re sure of that. We ran an E.M. on serum and tissue culture from the first case and from all subsequent cases. They all pointed to the same thing. An outbreak of . . .” he paused “. . . Marburg virus. We kept it as quiet as possible. We didn’t want to start a panic. But it was Marburg all right.”

  He watched his old friends closely as he spoke and was quick to catch the cautionary look which Heidi flashed her husband. Franz, who was about to speak, pulled himself up. After an awkward pause, he said in a deadpan, give-nothing-away voice:

  “Marburg virus? I’m not sure what you mean, Lowell. This Marburg? Marburg on the Lahn? We have no virus here.”

  His wife pushed her chair back in such haste that it almost fell over. “Coffee, gentlemen,” she interrupted. “I think we’ll take it into the sitting-room.”

  For the time being, Kaplan decided not to press the point. Somehow, he would get Schmidtt on his own later. He followed his hosts into the hot, overfurnished sitting-room, where they sat together over coffee and liqueurs. Their talk was strained. An awkwardness had descended on them, as though the mere mention of the Marburg disease could itself create a blight on the surroundings. At last, Franz Schmidtt suggested that they might take a walk round the old town.

  “The Schloss looks superb when it’s floodlit, and there’s nothing like a walk to clear the head. It’s too hot in here anyway.” He laughed heartily and turned to his wife. “Heidi, are you coming?”

  Frau Schmidtt seemed in two minds. It was clear to Kaplan that she was anxious not to let her husband too far out of sight, but a look of resignation suddenly passed over her face.

  “No, you two go. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired. Try not to be late.”

  Schmidtt and Kaplan walked together through the town. Even though it was past eleven o’clock, the steep narrow streets were still crowded, and from the bars and wine cellars came the noise of students.

  “The university is still in session,” said Professor Schmidtt. “They’ll be breaking up for the summer in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, they’re getting in some drinking before they go.” He laughed again. “We may join them eh, Lowell, old friend?”

  The sound of singing blared up from one of the cellars. Kaplan recognized the tune. “Isn’t that the old Horstwessel song? I thought it had been banned in Germany since the fall of the Third Reich.”

  Schmidtt looked a bit embarrassed. “These things tend to creep back, you know. In any case, the Horstwessel song was never officially banned. It just wasn’t sung. We in Germany prefer not to be remembered of the Nazi era.”

  Schmidtt’s English — or rather American — was normally so perfect that Kaplan was surprised at the grammatical mistake: “remembered” for “reminded”. He hoped his host had not been too rattled by his reference earlier that evening to the Marburg virus.

  He put his hand on the other man’s arm as they walked. “Franz, I hope you didn’t mind what I said. I didn’t mean to upset Heidi. You know me well enough to know that.”

  “Of course, I realize that.” Franz half-turned as he walked to look his friend in the face. “But you must be aware, Lowell, that even though some things have crept back, like the song you just heard, there are other things we still prefer not to talk about. What happened here in Marburg in 1967 is one of those things.”

  “Can you tell me about it now?”

  “Later. I want to show you something first. I think it will help you to understand.”

  They ducked under an archway and climbed down half-a-dozen steps. The street was so narrow that three people could not have walked along it abreast.

  “This is the oldest part of the old city. It dates back to the earliest part of the Middle Ages. The university’s clubs have always met here. Remember that the university is almost as old as the town itself. They have grown up together. Each one needs the other. Ah, I think we have arrived.”

  Franz Schmidtt gave three short knocks, followed by three long knocks.

  “Is that a code?”

  “Yes, of a sort.”

  The door opened. A young bearded man confronted them, and Schmidtt said something to him in German. The man laughed.

  “What’s he saying?” Kaplan asked.

  “He’s saying you’re never too old. Once a Hessenkraut, always a Hessenkraut.”

  “And who or what is a Hessenkraut?”

  “Literally, a cabbage from Hesse. Actually, it’s the oldest fraternity in Marburg. And the most famous. The Chancellor himself is a member, and so is half the German cabinet. They’ve all been at Marburg University at one time or another. They were all Hessenkrauts.”

  “As you know, we have Phi Beta Kappa in the States. Is it the same kind of thing?”

  Franz Schmidtt smiled. “I have several friends who are Phi Beta Kappa, but I’m not sure how they would make out as Hessenkrauts.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Wait and see.”

  They went inside. A wave of sound hit them. Wreaths of smoke obscured the interior, and visibility was poor. Groups of students were sitting at tables, drinking and talking. There was a great deal of laughter.

  They sat down at one of the tables and ordered beer. While they were waiting for their drinks to arrive, Schmidtt explained: “We will all be going upstairs in a few minutes. Drinking is downstairs; upstairs is . . .” he paused “. . . er, the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  Before the Professor had time to reply, there was a general movement to the stairs. One or two of the students greeted Schmidtt as they elbowed their way up.

  “Good evening, Herr Doktor. It is not often we have the pleasure of seeing you here.”

  “I like to keep in touch.”

  The room which they entered at the top of the stairs reminded Kaplan of a mediaeval refectory. Long oak tables were ranged along each wall. At the far end was a dais, raised about two feet above floor level. From the high roof whose rafters had been blackened by centuries of smoke hung a variety of shields, spears and other weaponry. Students were packed into every corner. Some were drinking and talking; others were clustered about a green baize card-table where an official of the club, whose rank was denoted by the golden cabbage which dangled from a chain around his neck, was clearly taking bets.

  Schmidtt thrust forward through the crowd to the edge of the dais and Kaplan followed him. They found chairs and sat down.

  A few seconds later a uniformed figure stepped smartly through the door onto the dais. Kaplan took in the clear features and flaxen hair of a youth who could not have been more than eighteen years old. In addition to a gold-embroidered pillbox hat which sat askew on his head, he wore a frogged jacket with high tasselled epaulettes.

  The youth raised a trumpet to his lips. A short spatter of notes produced a sudden silence in the room. At the same instant, from either side of what Kaplan now saw was effectively a stage, other uniformed officials entered the room. Each of them carried a razor-sharp sword which, with a well-rehearsed gesture, they proceeded to hold out to the crowd.

  A roar of approval went up. Glasses clinked as more beer was downed. Some of the gathering banged impatiently on the heavy tables calling for the show to begin.

  The point of it all dawned on Kaplan at last.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Are they going to duel? I thought duelling disappeared from German universities years ago.”

  “It didn’t disappear,” Schmidtt answered. “It just went underground. You can’t wipe out a tradition like duelling overnight. It’s in the blood. There have been duelling fraternities at Marburg University for four hundred years, and I think the tradition will continue as long as the university itself continues. The object is to wound, of co
urse, to scar the face, not to kill. The bout will be over as soon as that has been achieved. One of the contestants will be marked for life. Perhaps both will be. But they will carry their scars proudly.”

  Before Kaplan had time to comment, the youth who had first appeared on the dais blew another blast on the trumpet. At this signal, two other uniformed young men sprang from the wings to join their seconds on the dais. Each was presented with his sword and with a pair of metal goggles.

  “To protect the eyes.” Schmidtt’s voice had dropped to a whisper because by now a hush had descended on the room.

  “Of course.” Kaplan understood the purpose of the goggles but he couldn’t help feeling that they added an incongruous touch to the ensemble.

  The club official who had been sitting at the green baize table now rose to his feet and walked over to the stage to inspect the contestants and their equipment. He handed a blue sash to one and a green sash to the other.

  “Blue and Green are the traditional colours of the Hessenkraut Verbindung — student fraternity. This is also a Schlagende Verbindung — a Fighting fraternity — because its members are obliged to fight with swords.”

  Schmidtt would have gone on to explain the finer points of the fraternity system when he was interrupted by the umpire who had begun a solemn address to the participants.

  “He’s telling them that there is a maximum of thirty rounds in the fight with five blows each per round,” Schmidtt explained. He gripped Kaplan’s arm, communicating his own excitement to the American.

  “Seconds, stand back!” the umpire called. “On your guard, gentlemen! Fight!”

  The first hit came within seconds, as Green aimed a slashing blow at Blue’s face. The point of the sword neatly caught the top of Blue’s left cheekbone and sliced it three clear inches in a diagonal line towards the corner of the mouth.

  The whole room exploded with a roar of enthusiasm at one of the best and earliest strikes seen for years in a student duel.

  “First hit to Green,” the umpire shouted. “Stand back!”