‘Child’s play,’ interrupted Stratman. ‘He wrote that silly paper when he was in his twenties. Disasters of history were a hobby with him, and to have some fun, a small sensation-oh, possibly because he wanted attention, his vocation was so routine and dull-he applied the scientific attitude to the bubonic plague of 1348. Such child’s play is one thing. But to bottle black death for the Russians is quite another, and I will not accept it.’
‘His so-called child’s play was a bit more lethal,’ said Eckart insistently. ‘The Russians saw that, and so did I, when I read Walther’s paper. I do not refer to the history-all the detail about the bubonic plague killing off one-third of the population of France and England. I refer to Walther’s prophetic speculations on the possibilities of one day compounding biological agents to produce artificially the same epidemics as those once produced by the buboes-type plague and the pulmonary-type plague.’
‘I repeat-juvenile strutting. It was his only weakness. Walther was far too kind and good-’
‘Be that as it may. It is useless to labour the fact further. But you will not deny this, my friend-Walther did work on nuclear fission with us throughout the war.’
‘Of course, he worked on nuclear fission, as I did. We did it because we knew that the programme was so depleted of funds, so hamstrung by Hitler’s politics, that Germany could never have an atom bomb before the Reich was defeated. If there had been any other possible outcome, Walther and I would have died in Hitler’s ovens before co-operating. And Walther would have let his wife and daughter die, too.’ Stratman snorted with anger. ‘As it was, Walther’s wife died in Auschwitz anyway, and for nothing.’
Eckart quickly wore his mask of mourning. ‘That was a pity, a cruel mistake. I agree it was for nothing. I deplore that tiny Nazi gang as much as-’
‘What do you mean-tiny Nazi gang? The guilt was national, all Germany ’s guilt, not the mere madness of a small political party.’
‘Come now, Max, you cannot believe that, no matter how bitter you may be. People are sheep. They go along. They have no idea what is happening around them. Each lives at his hearth, in his block, and no farther.’
‘It took thousands to shovel the bones out of those incinerators and millions to make up the Wehrmacht. To me, that is people. And the Russians are no better. So-now we have a lovely fairy tale to soothe the survivors. Walther was treated in a courtly way, and he died happily in the line of duty. Is that the news you have for me?’
‘I am sorry you will not believe it.’
‘I wish I could,’ said Stratman. He drank his beer, no longer having taste for the meal. ‘What is your source for the fairy tale?’
‘As you know, I hold many position of-of importance in East Berlin today. I have access to every record, all data. I made it a project to find out what happened to our old Kaiser Wilhelm Institute alumni. I thought I might bring them all together for peaceful nuclear researches.’
‘And you found Walther’s obituary?’
‘His entire history. And yes, his obituary, as you put it. You see, Max, for a long time, after we heard of the accident, the explosion at Dubna, near Moscow, and saw the list of dead and missing-many of our old colleagues were lost there-a few of us had unrealistic hopes that the missing had not been killed but had disappeared somewhere, possibly escaped, and we might one day see them alive. Unfortunately, it was not to be. As I say, it was unrealistic of us, this faint hope. For now I must tell you, among the papers I found were some recent untranslated ones-and one of these, several years old, declared Walther officially dead. So that is it.’
‘So that is your great find,’ said Stratman bitterly.
Eckart nodded solemnly, as if in reverence for one departed. ‘Yes, that and something more.’ He reached down beside his chair for his briefcase. Stratman had forgotten it. Briefcases were so much a part of German costume that one hardly ever paid attention. As he opened the briefcase, Eckart went on. ‘I understand Walther’s daughter is alive and with you in America.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Stratman quickly.
Eckart was all innocence. ‘I read the newspapers, Max. You are a celebrity, you forget. Well, now, I was able to locate-it was not easy-some of Walther’s personal effects. I had them returned to Berlin, because I am a sentimentalist like you. I had love for your brother.’
Stratman poked at the beef and was silent.
‘And when I learned his daughter had survived, the first thing I thought was that she might like these souvenirs.’
From the briefcase he had extracted a silver wristwatch, dented but recently polished, a worn Talmud, a yellow-brown portrait on stiff cardboard of Walther, Rebecca, and Emily at the age of two, and a chipped enamelled cigarette case initialled W.S., which Walther had received as a gift from his pre-war employers on the anniversary of his tenth year with them as an engineer.
Accepting the objects one by one-passing through his hands a dear and precious human being’s entire life-Stratman’s eyes brimmed with tears, and his heart felt near bursting. Slowly, he stuffed the wristwatch, small Talmud, cigarette case into his pockets, and the five-by-seven portrait he turned face down beside his plate.
‘I am sorry,’ said Eckart. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stratman sincerely. ‘Let us eat.’
They ate without another word for five minutes, until Eckart saw that Stratman had recovered his composure.
‘As you have said, Max, you have no affection for the past. So let us forget the past. We are alive in the present, and we have too much to do.’
Stratman nodded, and chewed his meat, and made no comment.
‘I am now the senior member of the board of Humboldt University,’ said Eckart. ‘Did you know that, Max?’
‘No.’
‘The future is in the hands of science, and I am a scientist. I am seeing that the university had the broadest basic research programme in the world. We are making a home for the leading minds of every land. Would you like to hear of some of our plans?’
‘Not especially,’ said Stratman. ‘For me, this is a vacation, not a business trip.’
Eckart, fork poised in mid-air, sat nonplussed. Again, he was not used to such offhand treatment. It was with difficulty that he remembered that Stratman, as a Nobel Prize winner, might consider himself his equal.
Uncomfortably, Eckart tried a chuckle. ‘Well, now, you are right. But I still have my curiosity. My only interest is science. That is my business and my pleasure. What are your plans, Max?’
‘About what?’
‘The field you are in. You have perfected conversion and storage of solar energy. That is what I read. What next?’
‘I will remain a servant of the sun.’
‘For peaceful purposes, I hope?’ inquired Eckart.
‘Who says the energy we now use to make rocket fuel is not for peaceful purposes?’ Stratman shoved his bifocals higher on his nose and squinted at Eckart. ‘I think my discovery will keep the peace. And work I plan for the future will doubly assure it.’
‘I cannot tell you how happy that makes me, Max-to know we are both working to the same end. This makes it easier for me to reveal a thought that has come to my mind.’
‘Yes?’
‘Max, I want you to keep an open mind about this. Hear me out.’ He paused, and then he asked, ‘Have you ever considered returning to the Fatherland?’
Stratman looked up. ‘What does that mean? Hans, your circumlocutions make direct conversation impossible. What are you talking about?’
‘A high position-the highest-in Germany-for you. You would be the most brilliant scientist at Humboldt University, among your own kind. We would furnish you a home, any home, of your choosing. A private laboratory building. And three times the salary you now make. All this, to bring you back to the land of your birth. For the first time, you would work for yourself, for us, and the devil take both our enemies.’
Stratman laid down his fork and knife. ‘You mean I should defect from the West and join the Communists?’