—What happened in Bad Saarow?
We had to leave Germany because the Tracker was getting too close. That’s what Mother always said.
—You should ask your mo—
—My mother’s dead.
Why did I lie?
—I’m sorry. She was… She was special.
What does he mean, special? Special to him? Special how? It doesn’t make a difference now that he knows who I am. This is a nightmare. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t be here.
—Are you okay, Mi’a? Is anything wrong? I’ll go get Bernhard. Just stay here, I’ll be right back with Bernhard. He’s an important man now. In this town, he—
—Don’t. Not now.
—What’s the matter, Mi’a? You remember Bernhard, don’t you?
That face, the way he smiles without smiling. I see… pain, sorrow. Did my mother do that to him? Did she break his heart in Bad Saarow? There’s still kindness in his eyes, though. Like that’s the one thing life couldn’t take from him. He cares about people, despite everything. He still cares, about my mother, about me. I don’t think I can do this.
—Why are you crying, Mi’a?
—I’m fine.
I’m not fine. Whom could he tell? He doesn’t know anyone… I wish that were true. He knows Bernhard. He knows the fucking SS. I can’t explain any of this. Our house burned down thirteen years ago and we haven’t been seen since. Don’t leave a trace. I learned that rule while I was here. I learned it while Didi and I were flying across the house. I… Please stop looking at me that way. I’m not even sure who he’s looking at. Me or my mother? What do his eyes say? Are those the eyes of a friend? A lover?… A father? Don’t think, Mia. Just get closer.
—I’m here, Mi’a. I’m here.
He’s hugging me. He must be twice my size. I feel… safe wrapped inside his arms. He has strong hands. He’s a worker now, not a thinker. This is a good man. It’s men like him we’re supposed to save. Only, not him. Not this man. This one’s guilty of knowing me, knowing us. Mother tried to prepare me for this. Here, let me hold your face, Didi. Let me be my mother for a minute. See her one last time. Feel her fingers running through your beard. Let her hold your head with both hands.
You won’t feel a thing, Didi. I promise.
7
God Bless the Child
I have been combing through intercepts of German radio traffic. There is no mention of von Braun, or my daughter. I did, however, stumble upon disturbing news from Berlin. There was an incident in Kreuzberg—war is a seedbed for euphemisms—at the tavern across from the house I grew up in. Nine people were killed, mutilated. Jews, or Roma, I assumed; German jingoism rearing its head with wonted cruelty. This was different. Half the victims were Brownshirts. One girl belonged to the SS-Helferinnen. Nine model Aryan citizens slaughtered. This was not the work of the SS or the Gestapo. The police have no suspect, but I do, and it makes my blood run cold.
For three thousand years, the Tracker has hunted us. Like us, he is one and many. Like us, he has survived the passage of time. Our ancestors called him the Rādi Kibsi. My mother called him Spürhund. Whatever his name, these murders could very well mean he is getting close. Thirteen years behind us is a heartbeat away.
It seems unlikely. We did not leave a trace. But we did not leave a trace in India, Morocco, or the Philippines. We followed the rules for three thousand years, yet the Ninety-Two lost her mother. We followed the rules, and the Tracker might be in Berlin at this very moment, just as Mia travels through Germany. I have never been one to believe in coincidences. I need to bring my daughter back. We need to disappear.
I have no way to contact Mia. She and von Braun are heading to Bleicherode and I cannot send a telegram to a German rocket factory. I did the one thing I could, played the last card left for me to play. It will cost me my job, but our time here is ending anyway. I only hope it works.
All I can do now is wait. That is something I am usually good at. Progress is inconspicuous, the world often perceptually still. Ours is a slow march towards something we will not see for ourselves. We plant the seeds; our daughters reap the fruit. Thus is the life of the Kibsu. My mother told me so many times, but now Mia is missing and every minute of every day feels like watching a pot that refuses to boil.
I thought I could keep my mind occupied with my mother’s research. I have been collecting samples, logging data from a dozen locations. It is tedious enough not to require my undivided attention—that is something I cannot give at the moment. The data we collected shows a rise in carbon dioxide, but I have no way to know if this is an exceptional phenomenon, nor can I isolate man’s contribution to this increase from that of the planet’s natural mechanisms. I find myself at an impasse in all matters.
I am restless. Mia has gone astray and there is no one to turn to. Without her, I am completely alone. I realize how deft I have become at avoiding relationships. The only one I keep is with a man I have met only once. I know our correspondence is not paramount to him—though he still makes it a point to write every month—but Hsue-Shen Tsien is the only person I would label as friend.
He came from China in 1935 on a Boxer Indemnity Scholarship. We met at MIT during a lecture on fluid dynamics. He was a brilliant student, but struggled mightily adapting to his new culture. Both of us stood out like sore thumbs. It was only fitting that we would share a table for lunch. I introduced myself as Sarah Moussa from Cairo. It is somewhat ironic that my truest connection began with a lie.
Through time, and a fair amount of serendipity, we ended up sharing a lot more than lunch. After his master’s, he moved to California to study with Theodore von Kármán. It was there that he struck up a friendship with a handful of bright budding rocket scientists. Von Kármán and this tight-knit group of students founded what they call the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. They attach rockets to planes to accelerate their takeoff.
After graduating, Hsue-Shen Tsien chose to stay. He found himself directing research on a small ballistic missile for the army. His rockets are light-years behind von Braun’s, but few people understand mathematics the way Hsue-Shen does. We have been bouncing ideas off each other for almost a decade, and I just wrote to him about my CO2 conundrum. I told myself he could shed new light on the problem, but what I really need is someone to share with, someone intelligent enough to comprehend. There are so many things I cannot tell him, but I can at least be candid about the science.
As for the rest, I confide to him in half-truths, overtones. “My dear Hsue-Shen, Please forgive my belated reply. My daughter is traveling abroad and the void she left behind gets louder every day.” Hsue-Shen is just as fluent in the unsaid. In the end I think he and I understand each other perfectly.
8
Hot Time in the Town of Berlin
—Eyes on the road!
Whoa. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving. I haven’t slept in two days. I can’t. We’re traveling at night now, trying to cover as much ground as we can while it’s dark. We’ve had some close calls. Allied planes are bombing everything that resembles the German army. Our VzBV convoy sure looks the part; we’ve gone out of our way to make it look important. I’m driving in the dark with the lights off. Von Braun and I are alone in the truck, and I’m helping him with his homework. The idiots at German command want to ramp up production of the V-2 rockets by September. The war will be over long before that, but they want the V-2 to be more accurate, and to stop blowing up in midair. Those aren’t entirely unreasonable demands, if we weren’t relocating a whole town while doing it.