‘Are you all right? Did they hurt you?’
She tried to think, but her mind and its answers were halting. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Only the shock and the-’ Her eyes met Craig’s. ‘Where is Uncle Max?’
‘He’s fine, better than ever. He’s probably at the Ceremony now.’
‘I-I forgot-I’m mixed up.’
‘Rest.’
‘Andrew-why are you here? How did you-?’
‘Never mind. I’ll tell you later.’ He studied her. ‘You’re sure they did nothing to you beyond the shot?’
‘No, they-yes, I’m sure-nothing. Papa was so kind.’
‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘Try to sleep again, let the drug wear off. I’ll be right back.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Don’t worry, Emily. You’re in the bedroom of a motor cruiser-’
‘I am?’
‘-and you’re safe now. I have to take care of something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘But Uncle Max-Papa-what will-?’
He placed a finger on her dry lips. ‘It’ll work out. Now-sleep.’
When he withdrew his hand, her eyes were closed. With love, he remained standing over the innocent face, so much now a part of him, and when the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts beneath the sweater told him that she was soundly asleep, he left her.
The door behind him had been softly opened, and the diminutive physicist, holding his top hat, gestured with it for Craig to come into the other room.
As Craig approached, Krantz said, ‘I have explained everything. Professor Walther Stratman will see you now.’
Craig hung back for a second, trying to organize his thinking. He had struggled hard for this meeting, and now that it was here, he had no idea what he would say. He knew what he had intended to say, but at once it seemed less possible. All that he was positive of was that the meeting was in some way necessary and critically important. But then, as he started towards Krantz, he wondered: important for the sake of Emily and Walther and Max Stratman, or important, selfishly, for himself?
He passed before Krantz into the main stateroom.
It was a good-sized room, luxuriously furnished with a wardrobe that had sliding doors, a dresser, a blond Swedish desk, a lavatory on the starboard side, and a brightly covered cot. Drawn up to the cot was a small round table, and behind the table, seated on the cot, was the hunched figure of a red-faced, big-headed elderly man with thin white hair neatly combed. He was in shirt-sleeves with old-fashioned armbands, the shirt striped, its collar open, with the stringy maroon tie knot drawn down. When he stood, bones cracking, his trousers, open at the belt, became baggier.
Krantz had guided Craig to him. ‘Professor Walther Stratman, this is Mr. Andrew Craig.’
Walther’s left hand held a half-filled glass, but his heavily veined right hand was extended. ‘So you are the formidable Nobel winner from America. I am proud to meet you.’
Craig shook hands awkwardly. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir.’ He could see nothing of Emily in this weak old man with the prominent nose. Rebecca, he thought. Emily must the image of her mother Rebecca.
‘Draw a chair, sit down with me,’ Walther was saying, as he settled on the cot once more. He held up his glass-too rapidly, for some of the drink splashed and spilled on his trousers, and Craig, seasoned in such matters, guessed it was not his first drink-and then he pointed to the bottle on the table.
‘I am celebrating my freedom,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Vodka. Not so potent as what I have known in captivity, but it will do. Have some, Mr. Craig-a little sunshine for the stomach, as my Russian friends like to say.’
For some reason that he could not fathom, Craig was perturbed by the sight of the alcohol and the idea of drinking at a time as critical as this. Then, out of fairness, searching himself further, he realized that his disturbed reaction was based on his personal guilt. In his own life, there had been so many times of crisis in recent years, and he had always avoided them by burying his head in a bottle. Now, with more sympathy for Walther, he had the urge to warn the old man of the consequences of this weakness-like all reformed drunks, he told himself-and at once he felt easier and more understanding.
‘No, thank you,’ Craig said to Walther. ‘I’m saving myself for the Nobel party tonight.’
‘Umm, party, yes.’ Walther looked up. ‘Dr. Krantz, do give our visitor a chair.’
Krantz obliged instantly, and then melted into the bench at the dresser and occupied himself with a metal puzzle, pretending not to listen.
As Craig took his place across from Walther, the old man swallowed his drink, hiccuped, and said loudly, ‘So-it is a pleasure to meet the good friend of my brother and the suitor of my only child.’
Something about this dismayed Craig slightly. Perhaps it was Walther’s unexpected exuberance. He had envisioned meeting a beaten and hollow derelict of a man, a slave and sufferer, one long yoked and broken by the Soviets, and instead he found himself confronting a hale and boisterous hostage. Craig realized that the façade of weakness he saw was one he had built in his own mind and imposed upon Walther. It had no reality. Craig felt cheated.
‘I’m not really a good friend of your brother’s,’ he found himself saying, ‘but I would like to be. We’ve only met here in Stockholm.’
‘But my daughter-ah, you will not deny that.’ Walther Stratman winked, and poured himself a new vodka.
‘No, I will not deny that, sir. I’m extremely fond of her.’
‘And she-what does she say to this?’
‘I don’t know.’
Walther grinned in a conspiracy of his making. Two gold teeth shone. ‘Well, we shall see. Once we are all in America-we shall see-you will have a friend in court.’
Walther’s reference to America dismayed Craig further. It anticipated and smashed his line of attack before he could launch it. He was left without an alternative plan.
‘-extremely pleased with her,’ he heard Walther saying. ‘She has developed as I hoped on that day we were torn apart. She is the pride of my old age.’
Craig nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. Max has done a wonderful job.’
Walther’s head came up from his glass. ‘Max, you say?’ He was about to make some comment, but appeared to recall it and alter it. ‘Max has done well, yes. But I hold heredity more dominant than environment. So-you will give me some of the credit?’
‘I certainly will, sir.’ Craig paused, and determined not to continue in this fashion. He must make clear the object of his visit. ‘You must have been extremely surprised to be brought here from Moscow-’
‘Leningrad.’
‘-from Leningrad, on such short notice.’
‘I was,’ agreed Walther. He stared at Craig, and at once his eyes filled and filmed, and his lower lip worked. ‘I had long ago given up hope of seeing Emily again. Or freedom, for that matter. I thought I would live out my years and die in that hell.’ He was thoughtful and sadder for quiet seconds. ‘How often, how constantly, my mind would go back to the happier days before the war, and then the miserable days when Max and I worked for the Nazis to keep Rebecca and Emily alive in Ravensbruck. Still, in the war days, there was always hope. But once the war was ended, all hope ended-there could be no hope. The decision I made, that night in 1945, to let Max go free-escape to the Americans, in my place-was both calculated and emotional. It was calculated because, at that time, Max was further advanced in his work than I was, and I knew he would offer more to the cause we both believed in. It was emotional, because Max was my younger brother, and I felt it my duty to see that he survived. After that, when the Russians had me, I thought they would punish me with death since they suspected I had aided Max. But then they had my records, and decided I would be more useful alive. They are a most pragmatical race, the Russians, with no emotional foolishness or waste as in America.’ Walther sipped his drink. ‘They sent me seventy miles away from Moscow to the place called Dubna, where they have their Nuclear Research Institute. It was their intention that I resume nuclear work, but then, in examining me, they learned of an early scientific paper on the bubonic plague that I had once published, and they demanded that I become a member of their biological warfare research unit under Dr. Viktor Glinko. I found this abhorrent, and at first I refused. I pleaded that I was a physicist, not a bacteriologist. I told them I had only an amateur’s knowledge of bacteriology. They would not be put off. They said that I knew enough already, and that I would be taught mo re while I worked. I saw that I had no choice, so reluctantly I entered the project. During our first test, there was a tremendous accident, a blast, a fire, in the adjoining nuclear plant. Many on our project were killed or maimed. I was fortunate enough-as it turns out now-to survive. While I was hospitalized, the B.W. project was reactivated with greater funds. Once more, I saw that I would have to participate, but this time, shrewdly, I bargained with them. I agreed to do this work-co-operate, I said-if they, in turn, would bring me some news of Rebecca and Emily, my links to sanity. The Russians obliged, and I then co-operated, and have been forced to do the work ever since-despite my hatred of it-under the name of Dr. Lipski. The name was given me in the hospital, when we made our bargain-a political nonsense-so that those in the Western world, who knew of my old paper, could not put two and two together, and deduct that experiments were being made to develop a mutant type of disease.’ He stopped, and fell to reflecting on what had happened, and then he swallowed his vodka. ‘So-I have served my sentence, and here I am.’