Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  Does she really believe that? I’ve heard the chancellor spout such nonsense at rallies, but to hear the words from my sister’s mouth…

  “Pure in blood.” It’s hard to repeat that without feeling sick. “Is that how you see yourself, little sister?”

  Irene laughs in my face. “Little? Little?”

  She stands upright, literally looking down at me. Irene’s only fourteen, but already a full foot taller. Her thighs are as thick - and strong - as steel lampposts, and she could arm wrestle for prize money if they allowed girls to compete.

  “You’re smaller than me,” she boasts. “That makes you little.”

  Irene slips on a short black skirt, and tightens her leather belt. She places a matching tie around her neck - the final piece of her uniform.

  “I thought the German maidens were all about cooking and cleaning,” I say. “Being good mothers. How does a strong, pure blood tomboy fit in?”

  “A childhood dream. Most people grow up.” There’s venom in Irene’s voice. That was a deliberate slur. “You stay with Doctor Ernst, and find the giant metal woman. I have a new family now, one that actually cares about me. Goodbye, little sister.”

  I lie down on my quilt as she leaves. At the time I wasn’t overly concerned. Irene had made these impassioned speeches before, and always come back. My sister had never called me that before, though.

  When I wake from my snooze, it’s past midnight. There’s no smoke on the horizon, only steam. I speed up time and watch the morning whiz by. Then the afternoon and evening. Gustav’s working late at the academy, Irene’s still missing, and I’m alone in the house. There’s no happy reunion coming, so I return to the present.

  Most Germans remember that day for the Reichstag Fire Decree, the first step on the road to Nazi dictatorship. For me there’s a more painful, personal memory. I haven’t seen my sister since that night, and we didn’t part on good terms.

  My mouth’s open. Was I in the middle of saying something?

  “Your visions are becoming more frequent,” Gustav observes. “You clearly have a strong and traumatic connection with that particular event. Love, loss, perhaps guilt. Merely thinking about your sister is enough—”

  “Stop!” I snap. “Stop talking about Irene!” Why did I tell Gustav about my memories? He’s been analysing my mental state ever since.

  “Do you think I am responsible for your sister running away?” he asks. “You were the one she trusted, Edith.”

  “Guten Tag, Doctor Ernst.” The quiet, wheezy voice makes me jump.

  The man who’s come in is charcoal-haired, with thin, rectangular spectacles perched on his hawkish nose. He’s dressed wholly in black: leather jacket, trousers, fedora. And he carries a sturdy briefcase to match. The visitor couldn’t look more sinister if he tried.

  “Helga,” Gustav says hastily. She’s an imaginary niece of his. A stupid, obedient girl who lets him do all the talking. “This is Doctor Zennler, from the College of Arts.”

  I shake Zennler’s gloved hand, careful to address him in German. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You as well.” Zennler squeezes my fingers tight, greeting me with a toothless smile.

  “Did you bring it?” I sense apprehension in Gustav’s voice. Nerves? Excitement? He’s definitely not as calm as usual.

  Zennler holds the briefcase level, gently lowering it onto the workbench. He flips the two brass catches open, and eases up the lid. The sole item inside is tubular, pale brown, and smells like wilted flowers. What is that? Paper? It’s coarser than the sheets I use for writing, rolled around a brittle clay spindle. I don’t need a historian to tell me it’s an ancient relic.

  “Papyrus,” says Zennler. “First century BC. Our experts believe it was once part of the Great Library of Alexandria. I traced it to a private collector in Thebes. He claimed he bought it from an Englishman. Twelve years ago. This is the scroll Lord Clayton found.”

  My heart skips a beat at the mention of Father’s name. I act disinterested, fiddling with a test tube.

  Dry, grey powder trickles from the spindle as Zennler unrolls the papyrus. It’s in poor condition. The scroll’s edges are curled, and the ink - probably black originally - has faded to light purple. The lines are extremely narrow - thinner than any I’ve seen - and it’s only when Zennler holds up the papyrus I realise what they are. Symbols. Sets of overlapping squares, large and small, all tilted at different angles. The patterns are arranged in six rows of three, each drawn within a frame.

  But if Zennler knows about those symbols, does he also… Gustav turns the metal ball so the moving patterns face away from us.

  “You can stop pretending, Doctor.” Zennler looks up sharply. “We know about the metal sphere. When you first came to us last year, we were not interested. There is no connection between Egyptian relics and the Germanic people. So why waste valuable resources to track down a single scroll?”

  Sunlight reflects off a silver badge pinned to Zennler’s jacket: an emblem with a sword, ribbon, and text etched around an outer circle. Deutsches Ahnenerbe.

  “Nazi archaeologists,” I mutter.

  I’ve read about this group. They go round the world on digs, searching for artefacts to prove Germany is the cradle of European civilization. Aryan blood, master race nonsense. My sister would fit right in.

  Zennler reaches behind Gustav and takes the vessel. He watches the symbols change, more satisfied than surprised. “But solid metal that can alter its shape,” he says, fingering the square patterns. “That is of great value to the Reich.”

  Two soldiers walk in carrying machine guns. Heavy weapons fixed to shoulder straps, fitted with oversized, side-mounted magazines. The men assume guard positions, one either side of the door. Both are beefy with short necks, and wear earth-grey uniforms instead of regular Wehrmacht green. They’re Schutzstaffel. SS, the German security service.

  “You told them about the vessel!?” I scream at Gustav.

  He shakes his head, as astonished as I am.

  “Relax, Fraulein Clayton,” says Zennler.

  He knows my name. The laboratory suddenly seems very small, with nowhere to run.

  “I’ve heard stories about a girl who does not grow old,” Zennler continues, walking closer. “A girl with magical healing powers. Outlandish fantasies I’m sure, but my superiors will expect me to run tests.”

  “Magic?” Gustav says. “You cannot possibly believe—”

  Zennler snaps his fingers. One of the SS bodyguards aims his machine gun at Gustav, frightening him into silent submission. Zennler advances toward me, rolling the vessel from hand to hand. His men are itching to use their weapons. Spray my body with bullets, and see whether I get back up… Is that what they mean by tests?

  I feel my back bump the workbench. “Gustav’s spent twelve years trying to read those symbols!” I shout defiantly. “That scroll’s useless. You’ll never find the tomb.”

  “Tomb? Interesting. We have a lot to talk about.” I can’t tell if Zennler’s bluffing, or if he really didn’t know and I just let him in on Father’s big secret.

  I close my eyes and freeze time. I’ve had a lot of practice since Lydia attacked me at Liverpool Street, and the skill comes naturally.

  Zennler is two feet away, lips fixed in a smirk. The metal ball is in mid-air. Zennler’s about to grab it, and soon he’ll grab me, too. I need to escape, but how? The door’s too well guarded, so that leaves the windows. We’re on the top floor of the academy. Too high to jump without breaking something in the fall, and the Wehrmacht troops on parade will capture me before I heal.

  I turn back the clock several minutes, stopping as I look across Gendarmenmarkt. There’s a long, vertical Nazi banner to the right of the window, hanging from an iron ring. It should hold my weight, but what about the papyrus? If there’s any chance Zennler can read…

  Time’s moving forward. I’m not ready!

  “Settle down, Fraulein Clayton,” says Zennler. Softly, like he’s s
peaking to a pet dog. “Me and my men will take good care of you.”

  Zennler’s too close. He’ll intercept me before I can get the scroll. I need a distraction.

  “Gustav, no!” I yell, aghast.

  Zennler spins round. The two SS soldiers aim their weapons at the bewildered Gustav. Without looking, I grab the papyrus scroll from the bench behind me. I sprint to the window and vault onto the brick ledge.

  “No! Don’t shoot!” shouts Zennler.

  One of the SS soldiers opens fire before he finishes. Fortunately his aim is off, and the bullets miss me, shredding the curtain instead. The Wehrmacht troops in Gendarmenmarkt stop parading. The commanding officer shouts in alarm, pointing up at me.

  I panic, tripping over my dress. The scroll slips away from me, papyrus flapping as it falls. Weighed down by the spindle, it only takes a second to reach the ground. The clay rod strikes the pavement and breaks apart into tiny chunks.

  Footsteps from behind. Zennler’s men are coming! I leap from the ledge, hands flailing at the Nazi banner. My fingers slip down the cloth. I plummet three feet before I’m able to get a grip. The soldiers in the square below stop to stare. They must think I’m insane to try this. I press the flag between my knees and descend. Slowly, but I can’t move any quicker.

  Zennler leans through the window. “Stop her!” he yells.

  The soldiers look at each other. Then Zennler’s SS muscle men come into view behind him, and the Wehrmacht troops start running toward the academy. I need to get down to the ground. Now.

  I release the banner, drop another five feet, then grab it. Abrasive cloth burns my fingers. I only manage to slow my descent, not stop it entirely, but that’s enough to land without serious injury. The Germans raise their weapons. All at once. It’s a well practised drill.

  “Take the girl alive,” Zennler shouts. “Get the scroll. Don’t shoot. Don’t damage it.”

  Whispers spread through the Wehrmacht ranks. Soldiers exchange puzzled glances. Zennler issued too many instructions, and the Germans aren’t sure what to do. I take advantage of the bad communication to pull the papyrus off its shattered spindle.

  “What are you idiots doing?” Zennler cries, shaking his fist. “Detain her!”

  That order was clear and concise. The German troops spread out and form a straight, impenetrable line between me and the Konzerthaus. I’m about halfway between the French and German cathedrals, the two churches that border the square. Both are too far away to reach.

  There’s only one way to go: back through the academy. There! An open window. Thank goodness for the summer heat. And that Zennler ordered the troops not to shoot.

  I climb through into a meeting room. Cushioned chairs face a blackboard. A white coated scientist gives a lecture. Or was doing before I interrupted. Bearded old men leap from their seats, murmuring in protest at my intrusion. I run around them, heading for the marble framed doorway on the far side. Behind me I hear stomping boots, chairs being knocked over, and irritated Germans shouting at scientists to move.

  I’m being hunted. At least the soldiers don’t have Alsatian dogs with them. After a two minute chase through laboratories and corridors, I come out behind the academy, on one of the main streets.

  Banners are draped from clothes lines: alternating Nazi swastikas and Olympic Rings. Wehrmacht soldiers are posted along the kerbside, policing a crowd of excited Berliners. Nobody’s interested in me yet, but they soon will be. I’ve been lucky so far, but I’m outnumbered, being chased by an army of Germans. They’ll catch me for sure.

  I need to destroy the papyrus. I tear the scroll in two, then four. It’s no good. I could rip the sheet a hundred times, but they’ll just put the pieces back together.

  “She’s there!” Zennler shouts. He’s right behind me!

  From down the street I hear a loud cheer. Two motorcycles approach, the vanguard for a small group of runners wearing white vests and shorts. The lead man holds aloft a flaming metal torch, a dazzling beacon that sparkles under the afternoon Sun.

  I’ve seen it before, in newsreel footage. This is the relay that started in Greece. A month long journey across many countries, finishing at the stadium here in Berlin, where the cauldron will be lit to open the Olympic games. More Nazi master race symbology, but I can use it.

  I sprint along the street, looking for a gap – any gap - in the crowd. The motorcyclists ride past. I duck between two Wehrmacht soldiers. Before they can react, I’ve breached the security cordon. I run straight for the stunned torch bearer, and thrust the papyrus in the open flame. My hands burn, but I don’t let go until all four pieces are alight. The athletes stop running. I spin round, waving fire to disperse the two men brave enough to approach.

  A burly Wehrmacht soldier grabs me from behind, knocking the blackened sheets from my hands. They flutter to the ground, and fall apart into tiny, flaming pieces. I did it. Apart from the occasional line, the symbols are illegible.

  Zennler steps through the shocked onlookers, followed by his SS men. His smirk’s finally gone. “Fraulein Clayton,” he says as I struggle in vain. “You will come with us, and we shall see whether you heal as your sister claims.”

  I can’t contain my excitement. “Irene! Where is she?”

  A rifle butt slams into my temple, and I lose consciousness.

  Chapter Eight: The Hidden Truth

  Sweat, cheap beer, and rotten meat. It’s a stomach-churning mix of aromas that makes me want to puke. The bratwurst and scrambled egg I ate for breakfast won’t stay down. I sit up and swallow the partly digested food, trying my utmost to forget the foul taste.

  I’m not in a garbage dump - as I first thought - but a military truck hauling human cargo. A few starved wretches give me wary looks. I think they’re Romani, though it’s hard to tell with their faces smeared in dirt. There’s a girl sat opposite who can’t be older than sixteen. Her brown hair is coated in greasy oil, and her malnourished limbs are bony and fragile. Like everyone else around me, she’s dressed in filthy, flea-infested rags.

  Olympic visitors would be horrified if they saw this, but the Nazis have hidden us away behind forest green canvas. Zennler’s thugs sit at the rear end, covering the only exit with their machine guns. The truck shakes violently as we travel over bumpy terrain, giving me indigestion and a headache on top. I could freeze time and find a way to escape, but Zennler mentioned Irene. Either he’s holding her prisoner, or she’s working with him. I have to know which.

  The truck comes to a lurching halt, and one of Zennler’s men draws back the rear canvas. We’ve stopped in a large, barren field. Its hard to gauge the distance to the city outskirts, but we’re roughly a mile from Berlin.

  “Out! Quickly!” shouts the soldier repeatedly. He must have a limited vocabulary, because those are the only words he uses.

  Nobody hurries to obey his instructions. I’m the second last to step out, with only the thin girl behind me. Now my view is unrestricted, I realise the fields aren’t so empty. There’s a ramshackle village of wooden huts to my right, with a church and cemetery in the distance. Some of the graves may well be recent.

  Romani labourers are worked to the point of exhaustion. Most can barely walk, let alone smash granite or reap crops. Soldiers patrol the fields, shouting and spitting. When those methods don’t work, they resort to brutal beatdowns. There’s no reprieve for women or children. Everyone here is treated the same: inhumanely, like slaves I’ve read about in history books.

  The loud SS soldier digs his gun barrel into my chest. “Wait here!” he commands.

  The other thug escorts the latest batch of prisoners away. Were they all snatched off the streets? I’ve heard rumours of the Nazis cleaning up Berlin for the Olympic Games, but I never thought they were true. It’s hard to believe this is the same city. There are no television cameras here, only watchtowers. Some labourers erect fence posts, while a group of elderly women uncoil barbed wire with bare hands. The Germans are forcing them to construct the walls of
their own prison.

  “Move!” the soldier orders.

  A hefty shove tells me which direction to go: toward a windowless, flat-roofed, concrete building away from the main camp. The ground is uneven, with lots of little mounds and ditches. My boots sink into soggy mud that reeks of manure. It’s hard going. When we finally get there, I’m ready to collapse. Then the soldier opens the barred steel door, and I see her: a muscular, blonde woman strung up like a butchered pig.

  The captive’s wrists are bound in dirty hemp, with the rope suspended from a rusty meat hook on the ceiling. She’s been stripped to her underclothes. Scars and fresh cuts criss-cross her bare lower back. The steel bucket under her feet is full to the brim with bloody water. She’s facing away from me, but not many women are so tall. Or resilient enough to endure such torture.

  “Irene?” I say, half afraid of getting no response.

  “Edith?” the prisoner croaks. “Is that you?”

  Her voice is quiet, dry from thirst. But she’s alive.

  “Your sister’s a strong woman,” says Zennler.

  A switch clicks, and bright light shines on my face. I shield my eyes and turn to face him. Zennler’s behind an antique varnished desk in the back corner. His table lamp is fitted with a mirrored silver shade designed to focus an intense beam in one direction. And right now, I’m the one in the spotlight.

  “Untie me,” Irene suggests. Gritty and defiant, more like the sister I know. “I’ll show you how strong I am.”

  Zennler leans forward, interlocking his fingers. “Irene was so promising. Tireless, devoted. The ideal German maiden. Until we found out she’d been lying to us.”

  Zennler nods at a tattered newspaper clipping spread flat on the desk. It’s an article about a furniture auction at Clayton Manor, with a photograph of me, Irene and Father taken in…1923? I think that’s when it was.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” Zennler says. “But your sister isn’t so young any more. Or pretty.”