Several minutes later a man about Jeffrey’s age wearing white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt approached and motioned for him to follow into the depths of the building. Jeffrey did so, relieved that nobody had asked him for identification — that was the only part of his plan that he had no solution for, and the best he had was a lost wallet explanation, if pressed.
They arrived at a large common area, where a number of the residents were sitting in easy chairs or at tables, chatting in German or staring at the television, a few of them gazing off into space. His guide walked up to an ancient man in a reclining chair and leaned toward him, speaking loudly so he could hear. The man nodded and gestured for Jeffrey to come nearer and have a seat across from him, and the white-clad orderly then moved to a group of women who were playing cards at the other end of the room. Jeffrey took in the frayed tweed jacket and button-up dress shirt, the clothes obviously expensive at one time. The old German’s form now barely filled them out, like a scarecrow that had been outfitted at a haberdashery.
“I was wondering when you would come,” Schmidt said in good English, his words somewhat slurred. Jeffrey studied his face and saw the tell-tale drooping of the left side. “Yes, I’ve had two strokes over the last year. My time is short, which is just as well. Can you imagine being in this hellhole for eternity? Surely death is better than that. Anything is.”
“Thank you for seeing me. I appreciate it.”
Schmidt waved it off. “I always knew you, or someone like you, would come. I’d just about given up on it, and then you called. In a way, it’s a relief. It’s about time that the world knew what has been done to it.”
Jeffrey was taken aback by his words. “What’s been done to it…” he repeated.
“Of course. By me. And people like me. Working for the Nazis, and then the Americans and Russians.” Schmidt’s voice was little more than a rasp, and he glanced warily to the side as he spoke, his eyes taking on an air of reptilian cunning before settling back on Jeffrey. “Don’t worry. The only one of these fossils that speaks English is Helga over at the card table, and she’s deaf as a post.”
Jeffrey hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. He’d been expecting to have to drag any information out of the old Nazi, and instead found him eager to talk. Jeffrey was wary of a trick, but couldn’t see one, other than the man lying — but to what end?
“Where should we begin? Would you prefer if I ask questions, or do you just want to tell me what you have to say at your own pace?” Jeffrey asked.
“You’re not much of a reporter, are you?”
“I don’t usually do interviews. I’m more of a research journalist. Forensic investigation, that sort of thing,” Jeffrey lied.
“If you’d waited much longer, you would have had more use for your forensic talents. I’m old, and I don’t have a lot of life left. I think all the doctors are amazed I’m still breathing. Sixty years of smoking, booze, womanizing, and everyone I know is dead, but I’m still here! The devil takes care of his own, they say…”
“The devil. Yes, well, you’ve certainly lived a long time,” Jeffrey echoed, wondering where Schmidt was going with the discussion.
“Too damned long. But I’m not going quietly. I won’t sit by and watch my secrets go to the grave with me. I’ve come too far. Too far…” he said, his last words drifting off as he seemed to turn in on himself.
“Then maybe we should start at the beginning. Or as close to it as you think would be relevant.”
“Relevant? Mein Gott, it’s all relevant. The problem is knowing what to leave out. I could sit here for days with what I know, and barely scratch the surface.”
“Well, then, perhaps just the most important parts?” Jeffrey suggested.
“Important. Fine. Maybe we should move back to my room. This is going to take a while,” Schmidt said, giving him a sly look from under hooded lids, reminding Jeffrey of the way a fox looks at chickens.
“Certainly. Is that permitted?”
“Of course. This isn’t a prison. Don’t worry. I haven’t fashioned a shank out of a spoon. If I had, I’d have used it on myself long ago.”
“Very good. Do you need help?”
“Only to get up. Then take your hands off me. I hate people touching me.”
“Haphephobia,” Jeffrey recalled, his mind automatically indexing for the disorder.
“No, that’s fear of being touched. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything at this point. I… I just don’t like it.”
Jeffrey extended his hand. Schmidt gripped it with surprising force and pulled himself to his feet, his body slight, almost nothing but skin and bones.
“That’s enough of the shared intimacy. Follow me back to my lavish suite. Come see what you have to look forward to if you outlive your usefulness,” Schmidt spat as he shuffled out of the room. Jeffrey trailed him as they moved into another corridor. “I call this ‘death row.’ Needless to say, my fellow prisoners don’t share my sense of humor. Pity. They’re all fools. As far as I’m concerned they can’t die fast enough. But some, like me, linger on forever, like radioactive waste.”
Jeffrey elected not to comment, and struggled to maintain a professional demeanor — as he imagined a seasoned journalist would. At the moment that consisted of following a mildly demonic troll back to his living quarters to hear… what, he didn’t know.
“Can you tell me what this is all about, Dr. Schmidt? I mean, I know the broad outline, the cattle mutilations, rumors of experimentation, but not the details…”
Schmidt slowed and then cackled, ending with a wet cough as he moved towards a door on his right. He turned slowly to face Jeffrey, whose blood froze in his veins at the old man’s next words.
“The details, eh? Well, my boy, today’s your lucky day. I’m about to give you the scoop of the century. In the old days, we called it germ warfare. Now, it’s bio-warfare, but it’s all the same thing. It’s about silently killing millions, using nature to do it. It’s all about forbidden fruit, and playing God, and boundless power. It’s about the genocide business. And you can call me Alfie. Everyone does.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Alfie
Schmidt’s room was actually more akin to a tiny apartment, with a separate bedroom and a small living room that barely accommodated a sofa, a faded brown La-Z-Boy lounger, a coffee table, and a small circular dining table with two wooden chairs in the far corner. The German stepped into the room and made straight for the lounge chair, and Jeffrey took a seat on the couch and extracted a notepad from his laptop case — a prop to add to his journalist demeanor. He leaned forward and placed a small recorder on the table that he’d bought at an electronics store adjacent to the station in Paris.
“Do you mind if I record this?” he asked, and Schmidt shook his head.
“Absolutely not. I don’t want anyone thinking that you made it up.”
Jeffrey switched the tiny device on and then announced the date and Schmidt’s name with officious sincerity. Once he was done, he hesitated at how to begin, eyeing the old man as he continued speaking.
“Well, then. Rather than asking questions, I’ve asked for Alfred Schmidt to tell his story in his own words. The next voice you will hear will be his,” Jeffrey said, and then sat back, waiting for the German to begin.
“I originally started working on biological weapons for the Nazis in 1942 after graduating from Justus Liebig University in Giessen. We were weaponizing foot-and-mouth disease, and spent much time on cholera as well. Some of our work was sent to the Japanese, who did widespread testing on the Chinese during the invasion and occupation of China — about half a million dead, but you’ll never hear about it. Unfortunately, the research was never able to reach its full potential due to wartime constraints on resources. Those were dark times, with the party coming apart and the Allies attacking on all fronts. Anyway, that’s ancient history, and everyone agrees that the Nazi party was guilty of atrocities that make anything we did on the biological side meaningless.”