Kyle Mills
The Utopia Experiment
Prologue
We’re running behind schedule. I can’t be responsible for the weather.”
Christian Dresner nodded and continued to gaze through the Trabant’s dirty windshield. Outside, everything was hung with ice. Decayed houses glistened on either side of the narrow road, tangled power lines sagged with the weight, and the cobblestones glared blindingly in their headlights.
“We should go directly to the rendezvous,” the driver continued nervously. “It’s almost midnight.”
“You took our money,” Dresner said. “Now you’ll do the job according to our agreement.”
The man leaned over the greasy steering wheel, scowling as he tried to coax a little more speed from the car without losing traction.
A quiet rustle came from the backseat, followed by a voice barely audible over the sickly, communist-made engine. “Christian?”
Dresner twisted around and looked at the thin man clutching a briefcase to his chest. At twenty-six, Gerhard Eichmann was two years his senior, but his physique and manner made him seem perpetually trapped between adolescence and adulthood. Despite that impression, though, he was a brilliant psychologist — something highly valued by Soviet politicians obsessed with controlling every aspect of their people’s lives. More important, though, Eichmann was a true friend — a rare treasure in a world full of zealous apparatchiks, secret police, and desperate informants. Perhaps the frail man would be the only friend he would ever have. But it didn’t matter. One like him was enough. More than most people could hope for.
“Don’t worry, Gerd. Soon, we’ll wake up in a warm bed in the West. We’ll be free to do what we wish. To become what we wish. I promise you.”
Eichmann gave him a weak smile and held the briefcase tighter. It was the only thing they were taking with them, the only thing they possessed of value. It contained records of the research done at a remote facility they’d been all but imprisoned in for the past four years. The currency they would use to start their new lives.
The vehicle slowed and Dresner faced forward again as they started up a winding road, the moderate slope of which quickly proved too steep for the car’s bald tires.
He stepped out before they fully stopped, finding his footing on the ice and starting forward as the falling snow swallowed up Eichmann’s panicked entreaties.
The building began to reveal itself as the slope leveled — the cracked and faded arches clinging precariously to the facade, the peeling tower that sagged like everything and everyone around it.
A dim light coming from the upper window looked exactly as it had the day he’d been taken away but he averted his gaze, afraid that it would pull him into the past. That the frightened, desperate child he’d been would return and overwhelm him.
The gate he remembered was gone now and he felt his breathing turn shallow as he passed through the empty space where it had been. The swing set still stood, trapped in the frozen mud of the yard along with a teeter-totter snapped in the middle and a set of climbing bars. In his childhood, they’d still had paint clinging to them — patches of bright red and yellow that recalled the days before the war. Before the Soviets. On rare clear afternoons he’d lose himself in their glow, trying to transport himself to a time when children with homes and families clambered over them laughing.
Now even that was gone, swallowed by rust or obscured by the soot from coal fires people used to beat back the cold.
He pulled his coat closer around his neck and walked across the silent yard, stopping at the front door and pounding on it with a bare fist. When there was no reaction, he grabbed the shovel leaning against the railing and used the handle to hammer the unyielding wood. The fog of his breath obscured his vision as he continued to attack the entrance, years of repressed anger, helplessness, and hate resurfacing so easily.
A light came on inside and he stepped back, gripping the shovel in a shaking hand.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t the man he’d come for. It was the woman who had seen him off more than fifteen years ago. Her bowl-cut hair and puritan style of dress were unchanged, but now the skin hung loose from her chin and her eyes had trouble focusing.
“Hello Marta.”
The recognition came quickly, followed immediately by the fear he had been too consumed to anticipate. Dresner had no desire to inspire that in her and he suddenly felt ashamed. She had never been an evil woman. Just weak. And numb.
He brushed by her, the cold not dissipating at all as he passed in front of a broad staircase leading to the second floor. At its top, the orphans imprisoned there would be hiding in the shadows, just as he had every time an unexpected visitor came. They would be perfectly still, holding their breaths, telling themselves that this time it would be a long-lost parent or cousin or sibling. That it would be someone who would take them away.
He plunged into the darkness, avoiding scattered furniture by memory and starting quietly up the spiral stairs that wound their way up the tower. The door at the top was framed by gray light flickering from the gap around the jamb and he stood in front of it for a few moments, trying to separate the sensation of being there at that moment from being there before.
“What do you want?” he heard from the other side of the door. “You’ll get out of here if you know what’s good for you!”
Instead, Dresner reached for the knob and went through, feeling the warmth of the kerosene heater that they had all known about and dreamed of. At first, he ignored the bulky, half-dressed man on the sofa and looked around at the room illuminated by the glow of a small black-and-white television. He’d never been inside — none of them had — and their imaginations had built it into a palace of gold and jewels and candy. In reality, it was just another disintegrating relic of a Germany that no longer existed.
Finally, Dresner’s eyes fell on a cane in the corner, still black in places, worn down to bare wood in others. He wondered how much his own back was responsible for the polished gleam of it. And if the broken tip was a relic of the eight-year-old girl who had slipped away in her bed, a victim of a beating she’d received for knocking over an old lamp that had never worked.
“Who—” the man said, pushing himself to his feet with the same anger he’d had so many years ago, but not the same speed or vigor. Recognition wasn’t as quick as with Marta.
It was understandable. Dresner’s eyes, slightly magnified by thick glasses, were the only things that remained unchanged. The other researchers at the facility had been perplexed when he’d insisted on subjecting himself to many of the same protocols as the athletes they trained. He’d told them it was in the interest of science, but it was a lie. It had been entirely in the interest of this moment. His frail, half-starved body had been replaced with something more fitting for the occasion.
“Christian?” the man said, wet eyes widening as much as the half-empty bottle of vodka sitting on the table would allow.
Dresner nodded silently. Despite so many years planning for this day, he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to say.
“You’ve grown strong.” The man thumped his drooping chest. “I made you that way. I made you strong.”
For the first time, fear was clearly visible in him. And why not? He was just a broken-down soldier drinking himself to death in a forgotten orphanage. But Dresner had been embraced by the party. He was one of the generation who would show the world the superiority of communism and the Soviet system. He was the future and this old man was part of a distant, irrelevant past.