The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories Part 32

"I also feel for dogs," I said, squeezing a round into the back of his head. He lay still, free of life's metaphysics.

I holstered my revolver and nudged his body forward. It sprawled next to Lenin, then rolled down to the next landing. The people from the church came up, paused around Vladimir Ilyich, then looked up to me.

"Vladimir Ilyich's a.s.sa.s.sin is dead!" I shouted. "The counterrevolution has failed." A breeze blew in from the sea and cooled my face. I breathed deeply and looked saddened.

Reilly was hung by his neck in his hometown, but I was the only one who knew enough to appreciate the irony. Fishermen sailed out and towed his seaplane to sh.o.r.e.

Lenin's body was placed in a tent set up in the harbor area, where all Odessans could come to pay their last respects. Trotsky and I stood in line with everyone else. One of our wars.h.i.+ps fired its guns in a final salute.

10.

We sent the news to Moscow in two carefully timed salvos.

First, that Reilly, a British agent, had been killed during an attempt on Lenin's life; then, that our beloved Vladimir Ilyich had succ.u.mbed to wounds received, after a valiant struggle.

We went north with our troops, carrying Lenin's coffin, recruiting all the way. Everywhere people met our train with shouts of allegiance. Trotsky appointed officers, gathered arms, and kept records. He also scribbled in his diary like a schoolgirl.

I knew now that I was Lenin's true heir, truer than he had been to himself in his last weeks. I would hold fast to that and to Russia, especially when Trotsky began to lecture me again about the urgent need for world revolution.

In the years that followed, I searched for men like Reilly to direct our espionage and intelligence services. If he had been turned, our KGB would have been built on a firmer foundation of skills and techniques. He would have recruited English agents for us with ease, especially from their universities, where the British played at revolution and ideology, and sentimentalized justice. I could not rid myself of the feeling that in time Rosenblum would have turned back to his mother country; he had never been, after all, a Czarist. I regretted having had to kill him on that sunny morning in Odessa, because in later years I found myself measuring so many men against him. I wondered if a defective cartridge or a jammed revolver could have changed the outcome. Probably not. I would have been forced to club him to death. Still, he might have disarmed me . . .

But on that train in 1918, on the snowy track to Moscow, I could only wonder at Reilly's naive belief that he could have altered the course of Soviet inevitability, which now so clearly belonged to me.

The Einstein Gun.

Pierre Gevart.

Right now, pen in hand, I'm well aware that what I'm about to do is probably of no use whatsoever. Yet it seems to me that I ought to write this memoir, even if n.o.body ever reads it; even if I myself, at some point, lose the ability to remember the events I'm describing! Even if all of this has never actually been.

My name is Otto-Abram Siesienthal. I was born in Gloggnitz about 100 kilometers south of Vienna, where my father was a watchmaker. However, this n.o.ble profession didn't appeal to me. I preferred to study history at university in the capital. Thanks to the old Emperor Franz-Joseph, I won a scholars.h.i.+p and obtained my diploma in 1913. A year later, I had the great good fortune to follow my supervisor Albrecht Finnmayer as head of Modern History in Linz, before returning to the University of Vienna three years later.

What changed my life radically - and the lives of millions of others - was the ill-omened 6 February 1934.

As the century wore on, increasingly dominated by uncertainty caused by the financial crisis which began seven years earlier, that very same 6 February saw the French aviator Georges Guynemer become the first person to complete a transatlantic crossing by airs.h.i.+p. Everybody had thought that Von Richtoffen would win the race. In Berlin they were getting ready to celebrate; they'd hung up paper lanterns and decked the streets with bunting. A fervent supporter of the Germans, poor Albert was almost sick at the news of the Frenchman's victory. An exceptional fellow, Albert, very wide-ranging in his interests!

Of course nowadays there's only one reason to remember that date. The election to the Diet had taken place three weeks earlier. That very day, the Emperor named a new Chancellor, who was supposed to figure out - at last! - a way out of the political crisis. Franz-Ferdinand was definitely less gifted and diligent than his predecessor Franz-Joseph. He also had some scary notions. His support for the Czechs during the second decade had slid bit by bit into wholesale antipathy towards the Slavs, which quickly shook hands with the new Chancellor's gut-instinct anti-Semitism. For long enough the Emperor had been lending an all too willing ear to all those extremists who unhesitatingly blamed the Slavs or the Jews for being at the root of the crisis. As though the crisis wasn't incurably global, tied up with the excesses of free trade politics; or at least in my opinion.

This Adolph Hitler didn't tick the box for me at all. For years he'd hung around the disreputable world of would-be artists in our capital before he found his vocation as an orator. He created an opposition group and, during his time in jail after a failed attempted murder, he even wrote a book called My Protest. You'd think a book with a t.i.tle like that would go nowhere, but you'd be wrong. Hitler's star was forever on the rise thanks to his masterly use of the timeworn cliche of the scapegoat. Well, a double-headed goat in this case: Slavic and Jewish. So long as. .h.i.tler only had a few deputies in the Diet, that didn't matter too much. But after the Great Crash in '26, "Black Friday" on the Budapest Stock Exchange, and the explosion of unemployment that followed, his const.i.tuency swelled with every election.

The date, 6 February 1934 remains a sad day in all our memories: after Hitler had allied with the Liberals and the Conservatives, who were under pressure from the Emperor, he was appointed Chancellor.

Surprisingly, Albert didn't seem to pay much heed to this. You'd think his attention was all taken up by his own research - and by Guynemer. That was so Albert: one day pa.s.sionately defending a righteous cause and the next day getting ail wrapped up in the products of his mighty brain.

That was also the very day when Albert decided to reveal the results of an experiment to a close circle of Viennese intellectuals from various backgrounds. I was among the guests as much due to my friends.h.i.+p with Albert as my status in the Faculty of History'.

As soon as the maid shut the door behind me, Albert welcomed me with words which I recall precisely: "Otto, I do believe we're well on our way to a third of those things!" I didn't need to ask what he meant. I knew he was implying a third n.o.bel Prize!

"Watch this clock", he carried on without troubling to introduce me to the other guests already present, most of whom I knew in any case, such as Freud, the doctor who strove to a.n.a.lyse the human mind; and from abroad there was an Italian scientist I'd met the previous year at a conference in Trieste - he'd constructed in the science labs of the university some kind of atomic pile, as he called it. Fermo? Fermi? Many other eminences were present, as well as various artists and journalists. However, Albert seemed to have forgotten their very existence, and insisted I focus my attention on a pendulum clock standing on a lab bench next to something covered by a piece of old cloth. The clock seemed nothing out of the ordinary - unless somehow it worked by atomic energy, which might explain the presence of the Italian, he of the atomic pile! By now there was a similar experimental pile in Vienna, on which the Italian may have been advising. If I recall aright, Fermi's pile - that was his name for sure -required something the size of a swimming pool and all we had here was a little clock. But I bided my time. I knew that Albert liked a joke, yet this didn't seem on the cards at such a moment.

"Yesterday this clock and its exact duplicate were set in exactly the same way in the presence of Herr Zacharius, Watchmaker to His Majesty the Emperor, and of Dr Dummliebe, who kindly agreed to seal the two clocks." While Albert was explaining to us what was presumably the prelude to some scientific experiment, the two men in question rose to take a bow. Zacharius acknowledged me with a friendly smile, since he'd been my father's apprentice. Somehow I felt unsettled. This seemed like a magic act in some variety show. Albert placed his hand on the cloth. "And here is the second clock!" he declared in a tone which I thought frivolous, and whisked away the cloth to reveal that second sealed clock, which looked identical . . . except that the time it showed was three minutes faster.

Albert made us take special note of this fact. Whereupon Freud responded that, so far as he was concerned, he had better things to waste his time on. Still, he pulled out a notebook and scribbled a few lines. An officer whom I didn't know declared his amazement that clocks made by Herr Zacharius could fall out of line in such a brief period. The Imperial Watchmaker angrily retorted that his clocks never ever . . . The officer retorted that nevertheless . . . Somebody got up and departed without a word of goodbye. Albert rapped the side of the bench with a piece of metal to call for silence.

"Herr Zacharius' clocks are in perfect synchrony. The second one simply benefitted by spending three minutes in the future. What you have here in front of you is proof that it's possible to travel in time, provided that the necessary energy is available."

This was greeted at first by a leaden silence. Then came an outburst of protest. I myself rebuked Albert with having confused 6 February with 1 April and departed, slamming the door; and I don't believe I was the only one. It has to be said we were all of us preoccupied by Hitler's rise to power, and with all that that might imply.

Time flew faster than we cared for. Franz-Ferdinand rushed into force the Laws of July, and Albert left for Paris. He was heeding President Pergaud's call (only the French could elect a writer to be their Head of State) and was appointed to the chair of the recently deceased Madame Curie. I had no chance to see him again before his departure.

As for me, I tried my best to hold on despite the July Laws. Since I was Jewish, I must yield my chair of modern history to a Hungarian. From now on, only non-Jewish Austrians, Magyars and Czechs had the right to teach at the university. Nevertheless I tried to get as much joy as I could from my new job as history teacher in high school.

After the Laws of July, came the decrees of May 1936. While the socialist revolution triumphed in France, with the French granting equality to the inhabitants of their far-flung colonies, and making Dakar the second capital of their nation, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was making its subjects increasingly unequal. Like many others, I had to bow to a total ban on Jews teaching anywhere, and be satisfied with a post as a clerk in the city archives. Many of my old colleagues preferred exile, but I was too fond of Emma and her parents to go to such an extreme. In 1939, we even lost the right to be public officials and I needed to live from hand to mouth while putting up with hara.s.sment from groups of self-styled "Young Aryans".

It was at this point that the Network contacted me.

I'd been aware of the existence of a mutual aid a.s.sociation for the victims of persecution, but I'd preferred to keep my distance. For one thing, such an a.s.sociation might be used as an excuse to validate some of the accusations that the powers-that-be made against us. Nevertheless, I agreed to join, if only in the hope that they might be able to help me leave the country if things turned really nasty.

About then, I received a letter from Albert, asking me to join him in Paris. The departure of many professors for the new universities set up in Africa or Indochina had resulted in vacancies, which meant interesting teaching opportunities for me in France. Albert also asked me to fetch him some papers he'd left at the university, which would be languis.h.i.+ng in a cupboard.

This brought home to me how much things had changed for us Jewish people. I'd never really thought of myself as Jewish until I lost my right to teach. What's more, I was enc.u.mbered with an internal pa.s.sport bearing a huge, reddish stamp which I had to show at almost every street corner; not to mention being obliged to wear a yellow star since 1938. In fact I couldn't even enter certain premises, as I found when I went to the university for Albert's papers. I think it was only that day when I became fully conscious, after a long time in the doldrums, of the extent of my humiliation and decided that I had to do something to stop this government from destroying us all. How well I recall the gate I'd gone through so many times in the past, and the policeman, belonging to the Party, disdainfully handing my pa.s.sport back, barring my way, and advising me to make myself scarce before a gang of Young Aryans spotted me. It was true enough that former Jewish professors and civil servants were often beaten up or jeered at in the streets before the indifferent gaze of pa.s.sers-by. And of course when the imperial police turned up, they merely dispersed the aggressors but never arrested any of them.

That very evening I decided to visit Rolf and Gertrud Oppenheim. They'd been good colleagues, almost friends, though I hadn't seen them since my expulsion. They admired Albert and certainly wouldn't refuse to help him.

They were still at the same place, a smart apartment in Franz-Josef Stra.s.se. Outside their door my worn-out clothes, so often mended, and my old shoes made me ashamed. Of a sudden I imagined myself to be giving off the same tramp-like odour of misery and filth as had disgusted me in the past.

I rang the bell. A servant girl whom I didn't know opened the door. From within came the chatter of voices and then familiar music: one of those wonderful Schubert lieder. Evidently they were holding a reception, so I'd arrived at a bad moment. The servant girl took my card disgustedly, wrinkling her nose. "I'd be surprised if my master ..."

But her master did come. Rolf had changed. He seemed older and fatter than since I quit the university. I too had altered for sure in the twenty years since that wonderful 1916 when both of us had journeyed across half of Europe from one railway to another!

Rolf seemed distinctly unthrilled to see me. He forced a meagre smile and darted an anxious glance along the hallway before letting me in. He didn't take me to the music room but to a closet where he would deal with tradesmen. Briefly I explained the help I needed; his features creased even as I spoke. Peals of laughter resounded; I thought I heard Gertrud's voice.

Rolf sighed. "No, Otto, I can't. Truly I can't." Just at that moment I noticed his Party badge, half-hidden by the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

"I understand," I said disappointedly. "How's Gertrud?"

"She's fine, thanks, and very busy with our guests."

Without asking after my own family or offering any other courtesy, he gripped me by the elbow and steered me to the door, which he shut smartly behind me.

I felt like vomiting.

I could have given up and told Albert that his papers had gone missing; but, I'm not sure why, it seemed vital to persevere. I tried to get help from two other colleagues, one of whom refused, wringing his hands and looking scared sick, while the other threw me out on the street before I even got a chance to explain the aim of my visit.

So I turned to the Network - whose first reaction was lukewarm. Albert's reputation was wobbly, and as for me, I'd only just joined them. They did appreciate that Albert hadn't lent support to the new regime, and wouldn't have dreamed of doing so, but at the same time they were scathing about him being so bound up in his research rather than taking an active stand against the political developments which the Emperor was condoning.

I first mentioned the matter of Albert's papers at a meeting following Hitler's speech in Salzburg, where he made his intentions crystal clear: to rid the Austro-Hungarian Empire of all resident Jews and restrict the Slavs to menial occupations. "It goes without saying," he'd thundered, "that Aryans aren't savages," and he'd specified that he personally would oversee the emigration of the Jews with full respect for rights and justice and especially "with no violence". As if exile from one's homeland wasn't the worst sort of violence.

Isaac Levinsky, the co-ordinator for our sector, adopted a defensive stance and my request was rejected. But as I was heading away from the meeting, I heard the quick patter of footsteps behind me. A young woman, whom I'd noticed earlier, though barely so, was trying to catch up. I stopped to wait for her.

"What are those papers you want to recover for Mr Einstein? You seem to think they're very important for our cause." She was short of breath and hadn't even bothered to introduce herself. Once I pointed this out, she said, "Pardon me. I'm Countess Ester Egerhazy."

"Are you Jewish?"

"Does one have to be Jewish to fight injustice?"

I couldn't help but smile at this reply, which seemed a bit theatrical. She smiled too. What a superb woman this Ester was: in her thirties, with skin like milk, big almond eyes underlined with a touch of make-up, hair black as jet tied back in a bun on the nape of her neck, revealing single-pearl earrings dimpling her lobes.

"I can help you."

"I beg your pardon?" For a moment I'd forgotten all about my quest, but her offer yanked me back firmly to reality. What a sad contrast between this elegant, perfumed young aristocrat and the filthy vagabond I'd become.

"I can help you," she said again. "I attended your final course."

"At high school, you mean?"

"No, at the university. I'm older than I look. I can always get into places. If you'll tell me exactly what you're looking for, I can get it and give it to you."

I felt hesitant. The imperial secret police were well known for their efficiency. There was a high chance that Ester was one of their agents, now on a mission to gull me into revealing what sort of papers Albert was so keen to get back. What the h.e.l.l. I'd have given anything for the chance of another tete-a-tete with Ester. So I described precisely what the papers were and where they ought to be.

A week went by. Anxiety and impatience gnawed at me. Emma willingly believed this was only due to the mission with which Albert had entrusted me.

On the appointed day, Ester was there. Discreetly she slipped me a package neatly wrapped in brown paper, and we strolled along together.

"Are you going to meet Mr Einstein?" she asked innocently, and I failed to answer yes because I remembered of a sudden that my trip ought to be kept secret.

"No, no," I mumbled, "I'll just have this sent to him."

"Maybe I might dare suggest. . . ?"

"Suggest what?"

"No, never mind. I was merely thinking that my husband has just been appointed Second Secretary at the Imperial Emba.s.sy in Paris. I could take charge of... "

"Thanks so much, but that's too much trouble to go to."

I'd hated her mentioning her husband. But equally, it came to me that I'd have a chance to see her again in France. I'd heard that President Pergaud loved to hold big receptions with a mixed guest list of intellectuals, diplomats, artists and politicians ... I took Ester's hand and was about to kiss her fingers, but she stopped me and instead she hugged me and kissed me swiftly on both cheeks.

She blushed in embarra.s.sment. "I really loved your style of teaching..."

Then she turned on her heel and vanished away into the night.

Two months later, I reached Paris at last, for mine had been a tough journey. If I'd left Austria officially, no one would have hindered me; I'd even have been given an emigration allowance so long as I gave up forever the right to return. I wasn't prepared to do so.

Some nights, while I was s.h.i.+vering in the mountains, I imagined high in the sky the huge airs.h.i.+ps which could make the journey in a couple of days, airs.h.i.+ps such as Ester and her husband must have taken. Sometimes I heard trains rumbling through the night.

That was just a nasty memory by now. I was safe, enjoying the comfort of the sofa in the lounge of the posh apartment on the Avenue du Maine where Albert lived with his family. While the maid served me a gla.s.s of port, Albert hastened to check the contents of the package which I'd had with me all that while.

"What's in there has something to do with the clock experiment, right? One of the clocks sent into the future ..."

"Ah, you haven't forgotten... So many things have happened in the meantime ..."

Of course I knew what was in those papers. I wasn't so daft as to transport that package halfway across Europe without the least idea what this was all about. I must admit that, apart from some pages referring to the experiment carried out on 6 February 1934, I couldn't understand much - except that this surely wasn't a hoax, and that Albert was one of the most brilliant minds in human history, so therefore there was a chance that travel through time was possible. I waited until the maid had left the room before asking what I was dying to know: "Albert? Time travel? Do you believe it can happen?"

"Of course, since I sent this clock into the future, even if like everyone else that day you thought I was cingle."

Albert had said the word for crazy in French. He seemed to have mastered the language marvelously. Now that he'd obtained French citizens.h.i.+p and been admitted to the Academy of Sciences, I wondered if one day he'd be a member of the Legion d'honneur. But that wasn't my main concern.

"And the past, Albert, do you think it's possible to travel back into the past too . . . and return?"

"In theory, that's no great problem. But in practical terms..."

My heart skipped a beat.

"What's the practical problem?"

"Well actually, what you're describing would take more energy because you'd need to send a second machine to accompany whatever you sent into the past, in order to allow retrieval. A second machine, with enough stored energy to power it. So frankly I don't think time tourism is on the cards any time soon."

I felt shattered. During those long nights spent under the stars or in some risky refuge, I'd gone over my notion again and again, considering every angle. But it would only work if travel into the past was doable. Now Albert had flat out squashed the idea. I decided to level with him.

He listened to me attentively, as was his way, and needless to say brilliance sparkled in his eyes, but I couldn't say that the basic idea enthused him. That his discovery could be used to shed blood didn't please him one bit. And yet he had to agree that what I was suggesting might be the best solution. But the problem of the energy source remained. In Vienna he'd used the energy produced by the prototype pile, and that only sent a clock weighing a few hundred grams three minutes into the future. As for what I envisaged . . .

Of a sudden he exclaimed, "We shan't be able to transport a person any time soon, Otto - but, short-term, there's an option you're neglecting! You don't need to go there yourself. All we need to do is open a window - quite a small one will do - and exchange the two objects, B for A. As for returning object A, I believe we could handle this with, well, let's call it an auto-glider."

"Meaning-?"

"Meaning it moves with its load and its own power unit, like an automobile."

"Can such a thing be made quickly?"