Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘You know the colonel?’

‘We’ve spoken on the telephone.’

‘Peter and I were like brothers, yes…’

‘Has the professor spoken to you of his programme?’

‘That is for you to do,’ interjected Troester. He looked ill at ease.

Nadolny gave him a reassuring, at-your-service smile. ‘Yes, of course. Doctor Dilger, please,’ and he gestured to a table in front of the windows. The Count took the chair opposite, with the dying light of the winter day behind him.

‘I know a good deal about your family, Doctor. Your father — a distinguished soldier on two continents — and both your brothers-in-law are at the Front?’

‘Yes.’

‘You could be of great service to Germany too…’

‘I’m doing what I can. A Red Cross hospital…’

‘A volunteer surgeon, yes.’ The Count leant over the table, his hands together. Dilger noticed the blood-red intaglio signet ring on his left hand — lest anyone doubt his place in the first rank of society. ‘But there is more important work,’ he continued. ‘Work that will help us to win the war…’

‘I’m a doctor.’

‘And a good one, I know. But we have need of soldier-scientists too.’ The Count sat back in his chair again, dragging his fists across the polished mahogany. ‘Forgive me, but before I say more, I must ask for your word as a gentleman that you will not speak of what you hear or have seen at the hospital today.’

‘You mean the patient?’ Dilger glanced at the professor. ‘I was surprised… a rare condition.’

‘He was working on our special programme… a lesson to us all to be careful, but a clear demonstration of the possibilities too, don’t you agree?’

His question was put with the everyday informality of one proposing guests for a dinner party. It took Dilger a moment to grasp his meaning.

‘Can we be clear?’ he said stiffly. ‘You work for Military Intelligence and you want me to work for you — this special programme ?’ Nadolny smiled but said nothing, so Dilger continued. ‘I’m sorry, Count, I have no experience, nor do I wish to.’

‘You served in the Balkans — I’ve read your paper on battlefield infections. I’m not a scientist but—’

‘Very fine, very fine,’ Troester cut in. ‘Many valuable insights, and…’

‘You see,’ the Count said firmly, raising his hand with its stamp of authority, ‘praise from the professor. You’re a specialist in tissue cultures…’

‘There are scores of doctors in the Empire who know more, and I really…’ Dilger hesitated. The Count’s sharp little brown eyes didn’t leave his face for a second, turning, turning the signet ring between thumb and forefinger. ‘There are doctors who know more than me,’ he added lamely.

‘Young men like your nephew, Peter, are giving their lives for the Fatherland. It’s important at such times that all of us do what we can.’

‘Yes, yes, but this is a matter of conscience too.’

The professor coughed, removed his pince-nez and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief. Voices in the outer office filled the silence at the table and, from the street, the distant jangling of an ambulance’s bell.

‘Cigarette? They’re Russian.’ Nadolny reached inside his morning coat. ‘No?’

‘It isn’t very patriotic to smoke Russian tobacco, Count,’ Troester observed with a tense little laugh.

Nadolny ignored him. ‘You must understand, this war is like no other, Doctor,’ he said with quiet emphasis. ‘The choice is either victory or destruction. Victory will be secured by those who prove the fittest — an old struggle but in a new, unforgiving age.’ He paused to draw reflectively on his cigarette. He reminded Dilger of a patient fencer, feinting, parrying, probing for a perfect hit. ‘Germany will win only if each and every one of us dedicates ourselves to victory,’ he resumed. ‘We must bend our thoughts to this task. If necessary, think the unthinkable. Everyone is a combatant. Everyone. But we bring different skills. Perhaps there are better scientists in the Empire, better doctors than you, but this is your duty…’

‘I’m clear about my duty, Count. It is to heal.’

‘Your duty, Doctor, is to the Fatherland, your family — to Peter.’ There was a new firmness in Nadolny’s voice. ‘There is no one better suited to this task.’

‘I don’t understand — there are others…’ He was angry at the Count’s presumption. ‘Why is it my duty? Why me?’

They let him go with a promise that he would speak with them again. His sister’s house in Charlottenburg was dark but for the candle of remembrance burning at a first-floor window. Something wet touched his face as he was collecting himself on the step. The first snow of winter. Lazy flakes were falling on his clothing, expiring in the dark wool, from something into nothing. Christmas Eve tomorrow.

The colonel’s old batman answered the door, took Dilger’s hat and coat and, with bowed head, informed him that the mistress had retired to her chamber. Colonel Lamey was still at the Front. A stuttering fire in the drawing room had barely taken the edge off the chill. The burgundy curtains were closed and had been for days, the room harshly lit by new electric wall sconces. In Dilger’s absence, his sister had stopped the large mantel clock. The silence was complete. Through the prism of grief the house was taking on a subtle new aspect, sad memories clinging to familiar objects like a film of dust. A few months before, his nephew Peter had perched on the couch by the fire with a glass of champagne.

‘A toast to victory!’ the colonel had said, his hand on his son’s shoulder. Cheers for the young soldier, good-humoured teasing, tears on the cheeks of his mother, Elizabeth.

The parcel with Peter’s personal effects was lying on an occasional table between the windows. Elizabeth was refusing to touch it. With small, light steps lest he make a noise that she would deem in the madness of grief to be disrespectful, he walked to the table, picked up the parcel and tore it open. Peter’s service revolver, a pipe and tobacco pouch, some leather gloves, his green silk scarf — a present from his mother — and some mud-stained letters and photographs. One of the photographs had been taken on the farm of Dilger’s father in Virginia. Peter had an arm about Anton’s shoulders, his head thrown back in laughter. Like brothers. Dilger’s gaze drifted to the pier glass above the table. They had the same high forehead and long face, and the strong Dilger jaw with the curious dimple in the chin. He picked up Peter’s scarf and pressed it to his face. There was still a trace of his sister’s perfume. What would my father, the old cavalryman, have thought? he wondered. He would have been proud of his grandson, Peter. What would he have wished of his son? The course Dilger had plotted to this point in his life had been easy. But his family’s grief, this Count — Nadolny — he had been snatched up in the confusing current of the times, inclination, duty, conscience pulling him to different shores.

‘Anton, what are you doing?’

His sister Elizabeth was watching him from the door.

‘Thinking of Father. I opened this…’ and he showed her the scarf. She looked at him, wide eyes ringed with shadow, then turned her face to the side and he could see that she was on the point of breaking. He moved quickly to her and held her shaking shoulder and she took the scarf from him. ‘Anton, what will become of me… how can I… oh God, why…’

As she sobbed against his chest he asked himself again: ‘Why me?’ But he knew the answer: ‘Because you are an American.’ The Count had slipped from German to speak the words very precisely in English, leaning forward with his gaze fixed on Dilger’s face, elbow on the table, right hand balled in a fist. ‘You are a German and American doctor, but we need you to be an American.’