by Joseph Kanon
“Meetings?”
“Where Karl saw you.”
Eisler smiled slightly. “What makes you think that?”
“Karl had a good memory. He recognized someone else from the meetings in Berlin. He recognized you too.”
“You interest me. I wonder whom he saw.” Connolly didn’t answer. “But for once your method has failed you. I never attended meetings. I was in a secret chapter. From the start.”
“Then where did you meet Karl?”
“He was a messenger. Just once, but he remembered.”
“A messenger? For you?”
“Yes, he did some work for us. A good Communist. He must have been sent to meetings to—well, to observe.”
Connolly looked at him in surprise. So Karl had had his secret too. “Karl was a Communist? I thought the Nazis had made a mistake.”
“The Nazis rarely made that kind of mistake, Mr. Connolly. I told you, it was always a war between us. That’s why many of us had to work in secret. Otherwise, they always knew. A mistake—is that what he told your people?” He seemed almost amused.
“But later, in Russia—”
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Eisler said seriously. “A terrible time. He was foolish to go.”
“As a good Communist?”
“As a Jew. Do you think it was only the Germans—” He stopped, his eyes moving away to the past. “The revolution doesn’t always move in a straight line. It moves and then there are dark times. It was madness then. Shootings. Thousands of people, maybe more. Friends. People informed on their own friends. Yes. You’re surprised I would tell you this?”
“Yet you did all this for them.”
“The idea is right. The country is sometimes flawed. Do you not feel this about your own country?”
“You’re not Russian.”
“The idea lives there now. It doesn’t matter where.”
“So you want them to have the bomb.”
“Don’t you? Have you thought what it will mean to be the only one? Do you trust yourself that much?” He paused. “But, I admit, that is in the future. A philosophical point. I was thinking of this war, nothing more.”
“The war’s over.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “So, we were wrong? That’s for you to say. My work is over too.”
Connolly stood up, annoyed. “Your work,” he said heavily. “Murder. That’s what we’re talking about. My God, how can you live with yourself?”
Eisler looked up at him, not answering.
“Why?” Connolly said, his voice almost plaintive.
“Mr. Connolly,” Eisler said, “may I suggest we confine our discussion to what—how, if you prefer. The why is my concern. I make no apologies. I did what was asked of me. I could not do anything else. Not now. I was—useful. I don’t think you can know what that means. An obligation. No, even more than that. I would never have refused. But my motives are irrelevant now, so let’s speak of something else.”
His tone, soft and reasonable, seemed a reproach.
“Why tell me anything at all?” Connolly said.
“Why? Perhaps I want to explain myself. Perhaps I am curious.”
“Curious?”
“Yes. To see if the Oppenheimer Principle works. To see what you know.” He paused again, gathering his thoughts. “I like you, Mr. Connolly. Such a passion for truth. You want to know everything. But to understand? I’m not so sure. They’re not the same thing. So this time maybe it’s different. I’ll make you understand. My last student.”
Connolly looked at him, thinking of Emma at Bandelier, then turned to pace in the room, as if he had a pointer in his hand. “So let’s start at the beginning, wherever that is. Your wife, I think. She didn’t just walk down the street. There was fighting all right, but she was part of it. I assume she was a Communist too?”
Eisler nodded. “That is correct.”
“Possibly even before you were,” Connolly said, a question, but Eisler didn’t answer. “Possibly not. But afterward—you were committed then. You had to carry on the fight, or anyway carry on the memory.”
“Mr. Connolly, please. This is psychology, not facts. What is the point? Let us stay with what you know.”
“But you want me to understand it. What was she like?”
Eisler grimaced, looking straight ahead. “She was young. She believed. In what? A better world. In me. Everything. Does that sound foolish now? Yes, to me too. But then it seemed perfectly natural to believe in things. I loved her,” he said, then paused. “It’s too simple, Mr. Connolly, your psychology. She may have been the beginning, yes, but she was not the cause. For that you had to be alive in Germany then, to see the Nazis come. It was bad and then worse and worse. How was it possible that no one stopped them? Did you even know about those things here? What were you, a boy? Can you remember Nuremberg? There must have been newsreels. I remember it very well. The Cathedral of Light. Even the sky was full of them. So much power. They would kill everybody, I knew it even then. And no one to stop them, no one. What would you have done?”
“We’ve been over this before.”
“Yes,” Eisler said, stopping.
“So you worked for the Communists. That must have been lucky for them. A prominent scientist.”
“I was not so prominent then. But it was useful, yes. I knew many people. Heisenberg. Many.”
“So your bosses knew them too. Then you had to get out. And you kept doing the same thing in England.”
“In Manchester, yes.”
“How did it work there?”
“Mr. Connolly. Do you really expect me to tell you that? I made reports. I met with people, I don’t know who.”
“And you told them about Tube Alloys.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Connolly, would you please sit down? You’re making me anxious, all this back and forth. You can smoke if you like.”
“Sorry.” Connolly sat down, feeling reprimanded, and lit a cigarette. “You don’t mind?”
“It’s Robert’s hospital,” Eisler said with a small smile.
“Then you came to the Hill early last fall,” Connolly continued. “Karl would have known right away. He’s probably the one who got your file—he took an interest in that. But there wasn’t anything there. It’s what isn’t there,” he said aloud to himself. “And Karl knew. You’d done some work together in the good old days. So he asked you about it—he couldn’t resist that—but he kept it to himself. Why, I wonder. Or was Karl still a Communist too? That Russian jail just another story?”
“You are too suspicious. The mirror in a mirror? No, the jail was real. You had only to see his hands. He was never the same after that—certainly not a Communist. He renounced everything. It was not so much—” He stopped, searching. “Not so much what they did to him there, as perhaps the feeling—how can I say it?—that they had renounced him.”
“And the pain didn’t help. A disillusioning experience all around.”
Eisler glanced up at his sarcasm, then looked away again. “Yes, it must have been.”
“So you made him think you felt the same way.”
“Yes, that was very easily done,” he said with a hint of pride. “A matter of the past. You know, Mr. Connolly, when you stop loving a woman you can’t imagine what anyone else might see in her.”
Connolly was jarred by his tone. In the lamp’s small circle he felt, absurdly, that they might be swapping stories around a fire.
“So you’d both seen the light. But nothing in the file—he wouldn’t like that. That’s the sort of thing that would worry Karl.”
“You forget there was nothing in his file either. He could understand not making a point of it here. In a place like this. People are not so understanding—they don’t know what it was like there. Would he have kept his job? It would be natural to let the sleeping dog lie. For both of us. I assure you, he was—sympathetic.”
“Sympathetic enough to put the bite on you.”
Eisler looked at him, puzz
led.
“You gave him money, didn’t you? What was that for, old times’ sake?”
“Oh, I see. You think he threatened to expose me? No, no, it was not like that. Karl was an opportunist, but not a traitor. If he had really thought I was still—active, nothing would have stopped him. Certainly not a little money.”
“But you gave him money. Not a little. And he kept your secret. And it wasn’t blackmail.”
Eisler waved his hand. “You insist on this term. It’s not precise. What do you think he said to me? Thirty pieces of silver for my silence? This is a fantasy, Mr. Connolly. Be precise.”
“Well, why did you give it to him? Six hundred dollars, wasn’t it?”
Eisler looked up, pleased. “Very good. A little more, but that is close. How did you know?”
“What did he say it was for?” Connolly said, ignoring his question.
“He appealed to me. He had the chance to buy members of his family out. There are such cases, you know. How much for a life? And he had very little.”
“His family’s dead.”
“Yes, of course. It was much too late for such arrangements. That was all in the past, when they were letting people out. But that is what he said. I did not contradict. I knew it was—an opportunity for him.”
“Did he know you thought that?”
Eisler shrugged. “I can’t say. I didn’t question him. I was generous. Perhaps he felt our past was a bond between us, that he could approach me this way. Perhaps he enjoyed seeing how far he could go. A game. He could trust me not to say anything. It was very strange. I think, you know, he felt I was the only person he could trust.”
“Maybe the first time,” Connolly said, picking up the story. “But after—it was too easy. He asked for more money and you gave it to him. And then again. Why? He’d be suspicious. So he started following you—where you went. Especially off the Hill. He liked driving around. Were you aware that he was tailing you?”
“No.”
“So you never saw him at any of your meetings?”
“There was only one other. He wasn’t there.”
“How did you set them up?”
“The first had been arranged before I came. The second you know. I already had the date; I would be contacted about the place. The book arrived and I knew.”
“And this time Karl was there.”
“Yes.”
“And he saw that you were passing information. There were papers?”
“Yes.”
“But he was suspicious before that. He followed you down. You probably didn’t see him that time either—he’d be a good tail—but I imagine you drove around Santa Fe for a while, just to be sure. Standard procedure for meetings. Then out to San Isidro. But you wouldn’t want to stop there until your man was already in place, you wouldn’t want to risk being seen waiting in the alley. So you drove past, and then again, until the car was there, and by that time Karl knew something was going on. How many times did you go around?”
“Is that important?” Eisler said. “A few. It was as you say. You seem to know everything.”
“Except who you were meeting.”
“I don’t know the name. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“No. But it’s useless to pursue this. I do not know.”
“What if you couldn’t make it or had to postpone the meeting? How could you contact him?”
“I couldn’t. Another meeting would be arranged.”
“How?”
“That I don’t know either. That was not my affair. But it’s of no importance. I was there. And Karl—Karl was there too. Foolish, foolish boy,” he said, shaking his head. “It was impossible. We could not allow—” He stopped. “So. He was there. And now I am here. I think I’m a little tired now, if you don’t mind. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Who killed him.”
Eisler looked up. “I killed him, Mr. Connolly.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Eisler looked at him quizzically.
“It’s a popular murder,” Connolly said. “Everybody wants to confess to it. We’ve got one guy in prison, and I don’t believe him either. You bashed Karl’s head in, then dumped him in the park and drove on home? I don’t think so.”
“You do not have any choice in the matter.”
“I still want to know. Karl was killed in that alley all right. We have the blood samples to prove it. And you were there—I don’t doubt it for a minute. You might even say it was all your fault. You’re so eager for blame, fine, take some. But you never killed him. Your contact did that. Right there. Were you shocked? All that blood. What did it sound like when his skull cracked? That’s not in your line at all. You must have had a disillusioning experience yourself. Which is why you’re here. What I don’t know is why you still want to protect him.”
Eisler bowed his head, staring at his hands. “We were alone, Karl and I,” he said quietly. “The other was only a messenger—already gone.”
“No. He was there. Did you help clean up and shove Karl in the car, or did you just leave right away? That must have been some trip back. Lots of time to think.” He paused. “I know he’s here.”
“Here?” Eisler said, looking up, confused.
“What did you do with the car?”
“The car?” he said, thrown by the question.
“Karl’s car. You didn’t leave it there.”
“No, no. On the streets,” he said, improvising. “Not far. Perhaps it was stolen.”
“No. We found it. It’s in a canyon, just down the road from the west gate.”
Eisler fumbled, his hands nervously picking at his trousers. “I don’t understand.”
“Somebody drove it there. Your friend. You didn’t know? You had to hightail it back here, get away from San Isidro as soon as possible. The usual way, I would guess, through the east gate. It’s closer. Shall we go back to the map? Your friend has to dump the body. He was seen, it turns out. Just him, one man, not you, so I figure he was on his own. You were probably safe and sound back home by then. No risks, just in case. Then he drove Karl’s car up the back way and stashed it close enough so he could walk in. Unless you waited around to give him a lift, but I don’t think so. Why chance it? But you see what this means. You see why I can’t let it go? He’s here.”
“I’m tired,” Eisler said again. “It’s enough.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not possible.”
Eisler sighed wearily. “It is possible, Mr. Connolly. It’s necessary. Surely you see that. To us it’s just a contact, not a person. We aren’t supposed to know. In case—well, of something like this.”
“An interrogation, you mean.”
“Yes. If you are forced. I could not tell you even if you tortured me.”
“We don’t go in for pliers here. That’s your people,” Connolly said.
Eisler looked away. “Please go now. It’s not enough for you, all this? You have your answers. I compromised the project, yes—it’s done. And Karl, that too. You don’t believe in my guilt? It was enough for God. He has already punished me.”
“You were the one playing God. I was there, remember? That’s suicide, not punishment.”
“So,” he said quietly, “you know that too. Maybe I was just helping him.”
“The way you helped the Russians.”
“If you like. I make no apologies. It’s done now.”
Connolly stood up to go. “No apologies. You want to be guilty for everything? That’s just playing God again. Wipe the whole thing away in some—what? Sacrifice? You’re right, it’s not enough for me. You want me to understand. What? How everything was justified? But what was actually done? ‘Compromise’ the project? What is that? Betraying Oppenheimer, an old friend. Betraying your colleagues, all the work they’ve done. Do you know what hell this is going to make for them? Do you think it end
s here with you? Prometheus, for Christ’s sake. They’ll have to live with all this shit, the secrecy—the war will never end for them. And Karl? A conniver, a snoop. ‘So unfortunate. We couldn’t allow—’ So you know how they found him?” He saw Eisler wincing now, almost cringing in his chair, but he couldn’t stop. “His head cracked—you knew that. Did you also see him get his face smashed in? Or did your friend do that later, a little goodbye gesture? A kick—several kicks. The poor bastard. They couldn’t recognize his face. But I guess that was the point. Pulp and blood. And his pants yanked down, with his dick sticking out so that everybody would think—So that’s how Karl ended. That’s the way it goes down in the books, one kind of disgrace he had no right to expect. Let’s not even think about the future, all the bombs and God knows what. I just want to know, did you see his face? And for what? Some cause? Your big idea? Your wife? All this. Was it worth it to you?”
Eisler raised his head, his tired eyes filled with tears, as if he were being beaten.
But Connolly couldn’t stop. “Was it worth it?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Was it?”
“I don’t know,” Eisler said, a whisper.
It was the only outburst. He saw Eisler’s face in the night, floating through his sleep like a plea, old and uncertain, and felt ashamed. In the morning they went on as before, a couple who’d had a spat, careful and polite, eager to put things behind them. Connolly couldn’t let go. The radiation poisoning had created a deadline, firm and immediate, so that he felt himself in a race, like the men at Trinity, who worked too fast, with no time for consequences. When had he left the Hill that day. Were they alone at San Isidro before Karl arrived. Describe the contact. Had Karl mentioned anyone else from the early days. How had it been left. Was another meeting scheduled. Were there people in place at Hanford, at Oak Ridge. Describe the contact. But Eisler deteriorated with the meetings, the pain coming swiftly, knotting his face, and Connolly found himself fighting the drugs now as well as time. The lucid periods, fencing with remembered details, became a kind of martyrdom, some final struggle for Eisler’s soul.
They were alone. At first Oppenheimer refused to see Eisler at all, devastated by the betrayal, but Connolly couldn’t ask about the science and there was no one else. But his visits were erratic, stolen time. It was Connolly who kept the vigil. He welcomed the isolation, away from the others’ questions, sealed off from the rest of the Hill. Holliday, Mills, even Emma had to be content with promissory notes. Not now, not yet. He couldn’t leave. One evening, when the pain was very bad, Eisler gripped his hand, and he was startled at the touch, bony, desperate to make any contact, and he felt, oddly, that he had become Eisler’s protector. In the close, sour-smelling room, he was tormentor and guardian, Eisler’s last thread.