Chapter 15 Über Alles
Author's Note: Thanks and praise to excessivelyperky, for her inexhaustible store of knowledge on just about every subject in the world, and for her help in keeping this story rocking along! My apologies for my mongrel Latin. -DN
The kettle began to whistle. Waldemar Jaeger – Herr Doktor Waldemar Jaeger – put his glasses up on top of his bald head and limped over to the small two-burner stove. Carefully, he lifted his Dresden teapot down from a shelf, and then opened a tin of tea. He carried tea and pot over to the stove, and using two hands, poured a little of the boiling water into the pot. Meticulously, he swirled the pot, warming it, and then poured the water into the sink next the stove. He measured two spoons of tea leaves into a small wire basket, put it into the teapot, and poured on the boiling water.
"So," he said to nobody in particular, "what shall we have with our tea? A lovely slice of Schwartzwalder Kirschtorte, perhaps? Apfelstrudel mit Schlag? Or maybe just a little toast, with jam?" There was no pastry. There was no cake, and there might or might not be bread for toast. If there was not, no matter: a cup of tea was always a comfort on a cold afternoon. And cold it was; his lodgings were cold, small and mean, and he occasionally forgot to buy matches so he could light the burners on his little gas stove. No matter: he had his warm sweater, his favourite. If his hands were a little slower, no matter; his mind was clear, and he preferred to work slowly.
A thump on the door: "Mister Jaeger, I brought you some things, please open the door." It was only his landlady, a stupid and thick creature, but with a good heart. "Thank you, Mrs Alnezadshvili, you may leave the basket next to the door. I shall take it inside shortly." He rubbed his arthritic hands together. The mountains of Georgia were fiercely cold in the winter.
He carried his cup of tea over to his worktable. The grey half-light of afternoon fell over his books and papers, his Bunsen burner, his microscope – his one treasure; his retorts and flasks and pipettes, Petri dishes and racks of slides. He pulled his notebook towards himself, opened it and reviewed his last entry, written carefully in his crabbed, spidery handwriting:
"I have it! I have produced the prime serum, the blessing that the Master has asked me to create, and the means by which the purity of our blood shall triumph! Now I must subject this sublime substance to rigorous tests, ensuring its dependability. I am, as ever, dedicated to our Directive."
He was loyal, that was a given. Was it not proof of his value to the Reich that he should have been sought out personally for this critical effort? He was not clear on many things in the past, but he recalled word for word the many intellectual discussions he had with the Fuehrer and Öbersturmfuehrer Hess about the crucial effort to ensure Aryan supremacy and rid the world of its present glut of genetic trash. And when the Messenger came…
He drew a rack of test tubes over and studied the contents of the tubes carefully. "Another group of samples, now." Then, he took a slender pipette and some glass slides, and carefully deposited a drop from each of the tubes onto a slide, covering it with a thin cover-slip of glass. As he worked, he chanted, unconsciously: "Venens prohibitionem magii factus est; latum oscurum salvam sunt." The slides glowed briefly with a pale blue radiance; it flared and was gone. He marked the slides with a grease pencil, fitted them meticulously into a grooved carrier, and set it on a shelf. It had been a good day's work. He got up and limped over to his one armchair, carrying his tea. He would take a little rest, now, then return to the work.
"He will do. He's lost most of his reason, but he still has his technical skill, although he hasn't used it in years. He worked for Rudolf Hess, and when Hess was brought down, he was hidden away in Alfred Rosenberg's occupation of Russia. He was then reassigned to Himmler's organization, to work with the special SS task force that was trying to find, at the Fuehrer's insistence, the lost Ark of the Covenant and the Spear that had pierced the side of the Christ.
"He conducted some interesting experiments on various Russians during his Eastern Front days, and later on concentration camp prisoners. He announced that he had developed an immortality serum, which was brought to the attention of the Fuehrer. But his research kept killing people, although they kept giving him medals for it. He was reduced to experimenting on himself when he was placed in Soviet Georgia, mostly to keep him out of the way. He's 87, young for a Wizard, but his memory has suffered, and he is certainly crazy. Still, he is loyal to the Fatherland. I have considered numerous ways to gain his cooperation."
"How may I serve, my Lord?"
"He reminisces on his glory days as a colleague of Mengele and Hess, and the times when the Fuehrer looked on his work with favour. He is utterly devoted to the Aryan ideal. Hess is gone; Mengele is gone, and I have had no success in animating their shades to communicate with him, although it is certain that he would follow their instructions faithfully."
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named flexed his talon-like hands and shifted on his throne. "Approach, my loyal son." He grasped a lock of the wizard's white-blond hair in one claw and tugged on it playfully.
"There is a disturbing trend these days; pureblooded Wizards are keen to intermarry with Mudbloods, sullying our line! There are altogether too many Wizards these days; they breed like rabbits. No, it is time to cut back on this exploding magical population. The general Wizarding population cannot be trusted to keep the bloodlines clean. The only ones to be trusted are my own, my Death Eaters, pureblooded champions of the true Wizarding heritage!
"What shall I do for you, my lord?"
"You, my dear, shall go to the Herr Doktor. You might be the veritable 'Aryan Poster Boy,' the triumph of racial purity. Go to him and tell him that the Fuehrer's last wish was that he continue his efforts to rid the world of mongrel blood. He shall devise an infection that will divest Wizards of their magical ability. Those who are Muggleborn shall suffer most. But be sure to tell him that I do not want my faithful to be harmed. My Death Eaters shall remain immune to the scourge; they will populate a new world.""
The tall Wizard bowed and knelt at Voldemort's feet, kissing the grimy, crusted hem of his robe. Then he stood up and bowed again. "It will be my holy mission, my lord. At last, an end to the plague of Mudbloods." He bowed himself out of the room, smirking.
Dr Jaeger drowsed in his armchair, thinking of the Messenger's first visit. An unsettling experience, to be sure; he had awakened, in the deep pit of night, by a soft voice calling to him: "Herr Doktor! Herr Doktor Jaeger, awaken! I bring good news!"
He sat up in bid and turned on his bedside lamp, then groped for his spectacles. A golden light bloomed out from the dysfunctional fireplace in his bedroom: he put his spectacles on his nose and blinked. His heart hammered. "Who are you? What do you want?"
A soft voice, as gentle and smooth as honey: "Do not be afraid, Herr Doktor. I am a messenger; I bring you a message from Öbersturmfuehrer Hess."
"Hess? Isn't he dead, didn't he die? Everyone's dead," the old man mumbled bitterly. "Only I, I alone, left alive in this freezing place…"
"You are not alone, Herr Doktor," the soothing voice continued. "Yes, Öbersturmfuehrer Hess has passed on, but he has given me a message for you." A figure stepped out of the beautiful light and approached him.
Dr Jaeger caught his breath. The most beautiful angel stood in front of him, a young man in the fresh bloom of strength and health, with shining white-blond hair, blue eyes like bits of the sky above Mainz, an austere and noble countenance. He wore the glorious uniform of a Kapitan of the Third Reich!
"What – who are you?"
The vision took off his cap, clicked his heels smartly and bowed to him, then sat down companionably on the edge of his bed. "Herr Doktor, I am but a messenger from the lofty reaches of Heaven, where the fallen heroes of the Reich live on in honour. The Fuehrer looks with sadness on the world today, and asks for your help in carrying out his greatest dream: making the world safe and secure for the Aryan nation. As for me…" the man smoothed his dazzling blond hair, "I am a vision of the pureblooded world to come. See, here is my family, with my heir, the next generation – if you help us to save the world for him."
He held up a small photograph. In it, the handsome Kapitan stood next to a beautiful blonde woman with the face of a Madonna. Between them was a young boy, also blonde, with his father's features. The old man took the picture in a shaking hand, and as he did so, the three images smiled at him and saluted him: "Sig heil!"
Venens prohibitionem magii factus est; latum oscurum salvam sunt: The poison to prohibit magic is made; the Dark Mark is saved.