Inspired by a few things: Meet the Medic Makani's Mrs Medic (+ backstory) The realization that in order for the 2 of them to be any kind of the right age in 1968, the university backstory would have to happen during WWII. (yikes) Several sleepless nights worth of feverish planning and research later, and the story hardly resembled any kind of fanfiction at all. I mean I had to give them names, and he couldn't be that openly crazy if there were Nazis running around all over the place so his characterization is all weird... As such, I feel a bit strange posting this here, but when I mentioned the idea as an anonymous, someone requested that I let them know where I posted it when I eventually did. So here's the prologue, and the rest will be posted on a livejournal I created specifically for this purpose. And so without further ado, a piece of science fiction-y alternate historical fiction thinly disguised as a fanwork (enjoy): PROFESSOR HARDT'S APPOINTMENT. ALSO: THE ATTIC. (a prologue) Edmond Hardt's only complaint about religious customs, were the various burial practices and how difficult they made it for him to do his work. His obsession began in his pubescent years, when the discovery of his father's 1918 first edition copy of Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body held for him the same illicit thrill that those grainy pornographic postcards held for his classmates. Up to that point he'd had a fairly ordinary childhood – as ordinary as a childhood punctuated by the first world war could be. Edmond was born in Stuttgardt, Germany in 1912, and for the first few years of his life was taken care of in every possible way, given everything he'd ever wanted and surrounded by beautiful things. Edmond's father had been a wealthy banker's son, his mother a young lady renowned equally for her beauty and cold wit. When his father died fighting (as so many others had) his mother and grandmother did their best to raise him in his image. They scraped and scrounged every mark they had between them to continue sending him to the best schools. Even as a child he had a sneering disdain for the perceived stupidity of his peers which – coupled with the little round glasses he wore – gave him the impression of a tiny, arrogant adult. The other children did not like him. He took every opportunity to laugh with wild abandon at their quaint cruelties and playground politics. He always watched the others with a faint smile and an air of one who knows some delicious secret. And when the others found they could not beat the cruel laughter in his eyes into submission, they became afraid and left him mostly alone. The other children had no way of knowing that little Edmond was really observing them as specimens. Every tear, and scraped knee, every power-play and threat and fearful surrender worked together in his mind to create the human being and the skeleton of an understanding of human nature. He began to wonder what was at play within these ultimately flawed machines. What were the gears to the clockwork of the human body? His observations could only tell him so much. Then - as if by a miracle - he discovered his father's old book, and at 11 years old, Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body became his entire life. He memorized every name and function and the shape of every organ. He memorized the described textures and longed to touch them himself. The over twelve-hundred images cataloging the internal workings of the human race burned themselves hot and persistent in his mind until - like every boy his age - he couldn't walk down the street without thinking filthy thoughts about the body next to him. His first was a classmate of his: a Jewish boy his own age named Samuel Welstein. The year was 1926, and Edmund was 14. The boy had been a paradigm of athletic virility, handsome and tall; Edmund had longed to see what was inside him for quite some time. So when Samuel lost a quick and violent battle with scarlet fever, the entire school was shocked and saddened and demanded that everyone get vaccinated as soon as possible. While the other children were seized by the sudden horrible understanding of their own mortality, Edmund was seized by an amazing feeling of opportunity. Samuel was buried the day he died, and that very night, Edmund began his awakening. Edmund never knew his luck in stealing Samuel's body. Not only was it a particularly dark night, but the usual night guard had been out for the week visiting his cousins. With this knowledge, Samuel's concerned family had asked the boy's beloved uncle Fritz to watch his grave for the night. But uncle Fritz never showed up. Several hours before he his promised grave-duty, he had wandered into a bar prostrated with grief. He drank two drinks with the wrong sort of person and was brutally beaten for reasons of politics entirely unrelated to Samuel. So Edmond was able to dig up his classmate undisturbed. The digging took far longer than he had anticipated, and it was an absolute miracle that he managed to pry open the coffin and hoist the boy out of the grave without breaking something. And double the miracle that he had the remaining strength to drag the boy all the way to the graveyard's shed. The dissection was fumbling and furtive and messy. He was terrified of being caught, and trembled between pleasure and shame at what he was doing. He took out every organ, and tried to identify it, to see how closely his father's anatomy book had captured its essence. He tried to put them back exactly as they were, and found it couldn't be done. He didn't have the tools to isolate the brain, but he was able to remove Samuel's jaw, investigate teeth and tongue, hard and soft pallet, cutting down the throat to the esophagus, windpipe, the delicate little vocal folds, down to the lungs, held in place with the now-frail ribcage and a fishing net of veins. Each bone seemed so narrow rolled between Edmund's fingers, the tendons in his legs, the muscles in his thighs that had once been so strong were nothing but long slippery, and brittle ropes. He felt with his bare hands every secret that Samuel's body had ever held. On his table, this strong boy seemed a mere product of working parts, organs and muscles and arteries that had – in their day – pumped and pulsated and trembled him to life. Yet here he was, completely open and vulnerable, available to Edmund alone; Samuel, this beautiful machine, had completely succumbed to his ministrations. Finally – for he had saved it for last – he came to the heart. It was heavy and leathery and strong. Edmond was filled with a worshipful respect towards this organ, that had evolved into the perfect machine. He placed it back into the center of the boy's open chest cavity with trembling, bloodied hands and sank to the floor to catch his breath. His hour with Samuel would take on a glowing, almost religious place in his memory for years to come. After he dragged the body back to the grave (it took 3 trips) and unceremoniously dumped it back into the open hole his next memory was lying in his own bed at home shaking with a mix of exertion and excitement. He didn't sleep for the remaining hour of the night, but the next day he was refreshed and jovial. The other children noticed he was happier than they'd ever seen him. Adelaide was next. Only a week later, she died of the same fever that had offed Samuel. Families grumbled amongst themselves that the Welstein boy had been the plague-rat to bring the disease in, and wondered in exaggerated concern who would be the next victim. This time he brought a wheelbarrow to her grave to pick her up and again he was astronomically lucky that no one caught him. The night watch – having just returned from his week away three days prior – was dead drunk. The man had never had so much as a sip of alcohol before visiting his cousins that week, and couldn't stand the taunts he had endured at his pathetic inability to hold his booze. He had vowed to drink his cousin under the table next time they met and had fortuitously chosen the day of little Ada's burial to begin testing his limits. Investigating Ada was less pleasurable than Samuel had been. Her Catholic parents had insisted on (what Edmond thought) a rather unnecessarily lengthy wake, and so her body had been harder and colder than Samuel's, more difficult to inspect, but the internal workings were essentially the same, and her heart, while smaller, was beautiful: leathery and strong. Three weeks later, a classmate's grandfather died, and Edmond was thrilled at the idea of investigating the body of a much older person. Unfortunately for him, this time the night guard was not absent or dead drunk, and he had only managed to shovel out a few spadefuls of dirt when he heard shouting behind him. Abandoning his wheelbarrow and clutching his shovel to him like a weapon, he ran off at top speed. Later, the wheelbarrow was wrongly identified as belonging to a local, mentally ill shop assistant who was quickly imprisoned for the crime. Being a fourteen year old boy, Edmond didn't really understand or care about the larger implications of this false accusation, or his neighbors' ready willingness to accept it. He was just glad he had not been caught and saw this as a wake-up call: he wasn't going to stop he had to be more careful. He had to develop a system. The system he devised was very complicated and not all that important to the rest of his story but suffice it to say that it involved a mask, some chemicals, and that he was not above using his understanding of the human body to knock out any unwary night guards or passers-by. Also that he always returned the body (though usually not in the same pristine condition he had found it). Using this system, Edmond could dissect as many cadavers as he liked without raising any suspicion or any (significant) chance of being caught. After a few years, when the dead of Stuttgardt no longer held his interest, he told his mother he meant to study medicine at a proper university, and traveled Germany for a few years studying the dead of other cities. He studied those that had died of disease, and old age, farming accidents and murder, and was intrigued that no one seemed all that different from anyone else inside. He read books on medicine to expand his knowledge of disease dead, learned the concept of setting broken bones based on the reinforced calcium buildups on the bones of farmers and factory workers. He learned about vaccination from those who had old scars from diseases but died of something else. Every scar, sore, and wound told him a story, and if he learned anything about healing, or prevention, it was only a side-effect of his careful obsessive study. Meanwhile, all this time he had watched with vague indifference the rise of the Nazi party. He was not a political person, but living in Germany was like having front row seats at an Olympic game of politics; to ignore the action would have taken far more effort than he cared to expend on the subject. There was no master race, Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body had said as much. Not to mention his own research. Inside, everyone was exactly the same: just as magnificent, and just as fragile as everyone else. He could easily see that those sweeping, fear-mongering propaganda statements were nothing but pure nonsense. And so Edmond (though he was himself not a reasonable person), joined the ranks of the reasonable people of Germany who thought too highly of their neighbors and remained convinced – until it was far too late – that this Nazi nonsense would never last. In 1932, Edmond was 20 , and decided it was time to further expand his studies outside the strict realms of human biology(incidentally, the Nazi party had been the 2nd largest elected political party for the last 2 years). Over the next years, armed with the knowledge and experience gained from over 70 post-mortem dissections of human beings ranging in age, ethnicity, creed and color, he managed to convince some very smart people that he had been to medical school who then allowed him into exclusive, advanced research projects. He went to Switzerland and researched molecular structure, he went to Poland and researched electricity and the nervous system, finally he went to Frieburg and felt at home at the university. And in the year 1938, at the age of 26, he became an anatomy professor's assistant, just by applying for the job. The university set him up with a living situation just a short bike-ride away, and he moved in with the sweet elderly lady, Frau Fischer. His room was small and perpetually dusty, but the place was perfect because of the attic. Frau Fischer had long been unable to climb stairs, which meant she could never access Edmond's room. She was terribly apologetic that she could never clean for him and take care of him like she had taken care of her sons so long ago. But he assured her that he had long been capable of cleaning up after himself and fought his desire to grin, for it also meant that she couldn't get up the ladder to the attic. Within a week he had converted it into a den of science. Operating table (though it was far too risky to bring anyone up there, he lived in hope), refrigeration system, needles of different sizes and blades of varying sharpness and purpose, batteries and, of course, his latest project. At this point it was only a series of concepts, sketches and equations but now that he had a place to work he knew it wouldn't take long to bring the concept into the real world. At the University, Edmond had a talent for flying under the radar. For some reason people liked him when they met him, now that he was an adult; his good build and square jaw spoke of an athleticism that he didn't actually possess, and his antisocial tendencies were mistaken for the behavior of a man either with better things to do, or so much respect and deference that he couldn't handle your presence. He was quiet enough that he seemed intelligent to those who wanted him to be intelligent, and dull for those that needed him to be dull. No one ever guessed at the mad genius he had tucked away in his attic. Edmond's mentor, professor Strachey seemed to understand the human body just as thoroughly as Edmond, though with a clinically detached academic coldness that Edmond could not understand. For the one year he knew him, Strachey left a weak impression, but Edmond imagined they would be colleagues for years to come. He never had any desires or intentions of staying at Freiburg long enough to become a professor himself; Edmond saw his assistant position as a relatively easy job, and an excellent place to lay low until the political unrest in Germany (no to mention the brewing war) blew over and everything settled down again. Of course things would not go nearly as smoothly as Edmond would hope. “Edmond,†Strachey said out of nowhere one evening after class. “my sister in Riga has died. I'll be taking the first train to Latvia tomorrow.†“I'm so sorry for your loss.†“Yes well I need you to take over my classes while I'm gone. I've left the notes for the rest of the semester's lectures.†he looked Edmond in the eye and said with special emphasis: “Just in case.†“Of course.†“you know, Edmond,†he said seriously, “I've been waiting to make this trip until I knew there was someone I could trust to take over the class.†He was speaking as though he would be gone forever, but Edmond absolutely did not take the hint. “You've been... waiting for your sister to die?†Strachey ignored the stupid question and continued gravely “Edmond, can I trust you to take over my position? While I'm gone?†Edmond was puzzled at Strachey's seriousness, “How long is this funeral going to take?†he asked incredulously. Strachey raised an eyebrow, “Not long at all. Maybe a week if you factor in travel time...†he sighed at his obtuse assistant, “stay safe, Edmond. Good luck†Clearly this young man would need all the luck he could spare. Not surprisingly, Professor Strachey never returned to Germany. He had been writing an inflammatory book in secret that seemed to suggest that the truly evolved beings were not the Germans, but the Australians, and that it was a matter of pure chance (and exposure to a dangerous and rare mineral) not a matter of evolution. Somehow his manuscript had been discovered and there were authorities waiting for him at the train station, but he had never intended to take that train to Latvia. Instead he hid out in the Black Forest that surrounds Freiburg and stayed there for a week before crossing the border into France, where he caught a train to the coast and took a boat into England where he finished his book and lived out the war and the rest of his life, trying and failing to find a publisher willing to publish his bizarre theories. But in any case, this left the University of Freiburg short one anatomy professor, and since Edmond was an expert, and (most importantly) right there, he was grandfathered into the position. The administration jumped though all the requisite hoops to get him the professor title in record time. The year was 1939, and before the next semester began, the Nazis took Poland, and a 27 year old Edmond became a professor, among the very youngest at Frieburg, and certainly the least formally qualified. Of course by then, the education system in Germany had devolved into a system of he-said she-said, and the most important talent needed to succeed was the ability to know how to get the right people to like you. These were essentially the schoolyard politics Edmond had studied as a child, but with slightly bigger consequences. Whatever the circumstances, Edmond Hardt was now a full-fledged Professor. He taught 6 classes twice a week – varying levels of anatomy – and the occasional seminar on fridays. He even had his own office. Granted it was the size of a closet and only had one platter-sized window, but it was his own office. There he would stay, teaching for a solid three years. Resolutely unaffected by the political upheaval around him, and carefully constructing a solid shell around himself to hide the secrets in his attic.
Interesting, please continue
I felt that the previous chapter was much too long. So naturally this one turned out even longer. oof. But what can you do? I've already mentioned that this was inspired by Makani's Mrs. Medic, and this chapter features a direct quote from one of her sketches. If you know, you'll know. If not, hopefully you won't be able to tell. Also, thank you Chessolin for your interest. I certainly plan to continue, but it's also pleasant to know that continuation is not exclusively for my own pleasure. PETRA'S BOOKS. ALSO: THE SKIN OF HER HAND. (Chapter 1) In 1942, the war was in full swing, and everywhere there were victims and resistance fighters, armies and espionage, all struggling with end-of-the-world voracity inside their own little pockets of battleground. Soldiers with guns, planes with bombs, civilians with letters and smuggled food; Everyone was brave, and no one knew the whole story. As for Edmond, the intensity of the war made him uncomfortable. Just uncomfortable. He felt guilty that he didn't feel any more strongly about it, but politically, he wasn't sure where to find the right and wrong of it all. He just knew that he loved Germany, and had this persistent feeling that perhaps they weren't best representing themselves to the rest of the world – but he couldn't be sure because he didn't really know exactly what was going on. Hence: “uncomfortable.†These days Edmond's time was divided between teaching classes and the obligatory assistance in the war efforts. He taught less than he had before, and many of the classes left were glorified training courses for young nurses, as most of the college-aged men were busy elsewhere. These were mostly girls who wanted to get out onto the as quickly as possible to help the brave soldiers of Germany, so they could save some young man's life, marry and procreate as swiftly and abundantly as possible. It was expected. While very nice girls individually, they were of the propaganda generation and Edmond was genuinely afraid of them. They could not remember a time before, and their entire education had been mental drills and physical exercise. These were children who would not think twice of reporting their own parents for speaking negatively of the Chancellor at the kitchen table. To Edmond they were a faceless mob, waiting for him to slip up so they could devour him, and his ever-evolving invention in the attic. He had never been a good teacher, but in the years of the war, he became a terrible teacher. Luckily, the rest of the world was a bit too distracted to care. Petra Dietmar entered his class in the fall semester of 1942. In later years he would tell her that he'd noticed her immediately, but really it took him several weeks to even register that she wa different from her classmates, and only then because she never sat in the same seat twice. Students always kept the seats they chose on the first or second classes (he never assigned them) to sit among friends. However, Petra didn't seem to have any particular friends, and she switched seats every time the class convened. It was an interesting enough quirk that he began to pay attention to her. She had pointed, dark features. Her gestures were sharply elegant and when she spoke in class it was with a smokey, oddly personal voice, like she was speaking to the only other person in the room. She kept her long dark hair out of her face with a clip in the back, and though she was slight and narrow, she seemed to take up more space than she occupied. During class she looked squarely ahead, sometimes she seemed to pay rapt attention to the lesson, sometimes to him in particular. Her green eyes were sharp, and there was an almost smug, feline quality to the way she took in the world around her, like she knew something that no one else did. Then after class, she would pack up her things without a word to anyone else, and be long gone before the others had finished chatting and shuffling out. The only other girl he ever saw Petra with was Ilse Weiss, soft curves, pale brown hair and perpetually-worried blue eyes provided an interesting counterpoint to Petra's sharp, compact frame. But even they only spoke in the minutes leading up to class. By the time anyone else arrived, Ilse would already be back in her usual seat, and Petra would sit wherever she pleased with no indication that they had interacted at all. One day he entered to find the two of them deep in discussion in the back of the classroom. They hadn't noticed him enter, and he couldn't hear what they were saying but Petra seemed to be cooing words of comfort to a shaken Ilse. Petra settled herself on the desk in front of the girl whispering warm, unintelligible words and reached out to touch the other girl's face. Ilse swatted her hand away and Petra froze as though she'd been cursed at, then slipped off the desk and stood to walk away. Just then, perhaps sensing that she was being watched, Petra turned and looked Edmond directly in the eye. He took the opportunity to whip off his glasses and bend his head down to wipe them with great interest. He couldn't see it but he knew Petra was smiling that superior smile. Minutes later, other girls shuffled in and Petra and Ilse were already seated in opposite corners of the room. The very next afternoon Petra and Edmond spoke for the first time. He was in the library to quickly retrieve a book. According to the card, his book was far in the back and he and was just thinking that the card catalogue must have been misprinted when he saw Petra, kneeling in a poorly lit corner. The absurdity of her sitting there squeezed between two narrow isles and surrounded by a dusty sandcastle of books swept away any thought of his previous business. He stopped for a moment to watch her carefully pull out book after book from the shelf. This section – the English language section – had become cluttered and disorganized in recent years, but now it looked like someone had tilted the entire shelf and all the books had come pouring out. “What are you doing?†She must have been deep in her own world; she jumped at his words and dropped the book she had been inspecting to the floor, where it landed with a 'fwoomp!' and a cloud of dust. “Oh professor Hardt.†she seemed to breathe in relief, “Hello. I'm stealing books.†He chuckled, “of course you are. English novels. Are you researching something?†“I – well yes.†“If it's for my paper, you won't find much help here.†she smirked, “Anatomy is not my only class, you know.†“Oh, of course. I was just-†Petra cocked her head, “teasing?†she supplied. “Well, curious actually. This is a strange section in which to...†he gestured at the piles, “set up camp. I'm going to guess an advanced English course?†she shook her head, “no point. I already speak English.†“fluently?†he didn't quite believe her. “A somewhat useless skill,†she said with practiced nonchalance, “but there you go.†Still not believing her, Edmond just nodded and decided not to encourage her fib by correcting the snobbish assertion. Fluency in another language was an incredibly valuable skill – particularly these days. That said, there were plenty who thought German would be the only language worth knowing after the war. “And so you're stealing English novels?†She flushed and laughed a little too loudly, “No! Not really. Goodness. I'm just checking some of them out. One or two. And as for your paper, you don't have to worry. I'm not the sort of person to leave such things to the night before. I already finished it a week ago. Unlike some people I know.†Somehow he knew whom she was talking about "Is that what were you speaking to Miss Weiss about yesterday before class?†he asked. “Ilse?†Petra's face darkened before brushing it off, “ugh, nothing like that. Nothing important at all actually. What a thing to ask.†“I apologize.†“Please. Don't even think of it.†“I won't.†they looked at each other a moment, Edmond cleared his throat, “Well. I have business to attend to. Have a nice evening.†He turned to leave. “Professor?†he stopped, “You have a feather,†she gestured to the back of her own head. “Oh, thank you.†he picked the piece of fluff out of his hair, wondering why no one had told him all day. “Goodbye.†“If I were stealing books, would you tell anyone?†“What.†he said, thrown off by the subject change “Why would you steal books from our library?†She looked behind herself, playing it off like a shift of weight and said, “I've heard people talking about book burnings at universities in Berlin. I don't know if they're just ideas right now or if it's actually – would you tell?†the question sounded uncomfortably like a test. “Well I'd have to. If I knew about it.†Edmond looked at her pile of dusty books, and he did know. He frowned, “I hope you find the one you're looking for, Miss Deitmar.†and left. He tried to put the interaction from his mind; if she was stealing books, he really didn't want to know about it. Her underplayed flirtation honestly didn't register with him, and he might have forgotten the conversation, except that they met again that very night. Edmond had already gotten his bike and was walking it towards the front of the school when he noticed a girl on the side of the path standing awkwardly next to a book bag and her own bike on its side in the grass. It was Petra: fumbling to wrap her right hand using only her left, and her teeth. “Hello again. Do you need some help?†he spoke up. She turned and smiled in embarrassment upon seeing who it was. “You again, Professor Hardt?†Nodding towards the bike, she said, “The chain came loose, and as I was fixing it,†she held up her hands, left hand pressing a handkerchief to the knuckles of the right. “I'm good at wrapping wounds, but it's awkward with just one hand.†(this was a lie. Petra was terrible at wrapping wounds securely. Even with both hands.) “I'm wondering if it's worth it to go to the infirmary,†she sighed, looking down at her shoulder bag. “They're closed for the night.†Edmond said, looking steadily at the greasy scrape, “I can take a look, if you like. I am a doctor after all.†“Really?†He wasn't, but, “yes.†“Thank you. I would like that. If you're not in any rush†“Oh no. Frau Fischer will keep my dinner warm – no matter how many times I've asked her not to wait.†he held out his hand to take hers. Her smile didn't look superior or smug as she offered up her wound, clumsily wrapped with a wadded up handkerchief. He removed the wrapping, “Oh. That's a lot of blood.†He smiled, suddenly wistfully regretting that his former operating-table companions never bled much when he cut into them. They were dead, of course, but here was something alive, “and it's still bleeding.†“No need to look so happy about it.†she smirked, he laughed. “No! Certainly not. I just find the body fascinating. You know there's a dual purpose to bleeding? The blood actually cleans the wound as it leaves you... though you have so much grease here...†He rubbed at the still bleeding cut, and bent low to inspect how deeply she'd cut herself. Maybe he would see some tendons. Or bone if he - “ouch!†she retracted her hand. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I was...†she cradled the injured hand to her chest and looked up at him in pain and annoyance; he was uncomfortably reminded that yes, the subject alive, but that 'alive' actually meant something. “I was just trying to wipe the grease away. May I?†he offered his palm again and she gave him back her hand. He finished wiping what he could of the grease from the cut, this time taking more care of the person attached to it. He took out his own, clean handkerchief and wrapped the hand tightly. “That should get you home, at least. Then be sure and wash it with warm soap and water to -†“I know.†her lips squirmed from the effort to not smile, “I am a nursing student.†“Of course. I just. Well! You'd best be off. It's getting dark and you don't want to be late for curfew.†“Yes. Thank you, Professor. And thank you for, this.†she held up her hand, and smiled her knowing smile, “It's a shame I'll have to take it off as soon as I get home. You tied it so tightly.†Edmond frowned, thinking that indeed it was a shame, and wondering what the scar would look like if it healed badly. She went to stand up her ugly green bike and he bent to pick up her book bag, but it was far heavier than he had anticipated and it tumbled; the top flipped open and a flood of books spilled across the grass. English novels. Petra didn't bother to hide the curse, “Idiot.†Edmond wasn't sure to which of them it was directed, but she knelt down scooping books into her bag, and he knelt to help her. “So. You checked out a lot of books?†he said handing her one. She took the book and continued cramming the spilled books into the straining bag, “yes. I checked out as many you can at one time. I didn't have any out before so that's why. That is – that's why there are so many.†He nodded and stood, not wanting to know more. “Well, Miss Petra Deitmar,†she looked up at the sound of her entire name, “I will see you in class tomorrow. Hurry up. Have a safe trip home.†That night in his attic lab, thoughts of Petra's right hand wormed their way into his mind. He was distracted from his work, wishing there was a way to cut away her skin and watch the tendons move as she flexed and manipulated her fingers. What a remarkable delicate machine she had on the end of her arm, and if only there were away to do this without hurting her. The next day was one of those warm October days, the last burst of sun before the days of cold set in, and the students were all outside in the grass enjoying what could be the last nice day for weeks and weeks. It hardly seemed possible that there was a war going on, and if it was for the sake of a place as beautiful as this, it must have been right. Everyone felt safe, and they mostly were: no one here knew it, but Freiburg wouldn't be bombed heavily for almost another entire year. Petra and Ilse were sharing a blanket under a tree. It was the first time Edmond had seen the two together outside of class. Petra was leaning on one elbow, and smoking up at the clouds while the other girl knitted a scarf. Ilse looked up as he passed. “Good afternoon, Professor!†“Good afternoon Miss Weiss. Miss Dietmar.†Petra nodded “Professor.†her hand was freshly (clumsily) wrapped “We keep running into each other. I'm starting to think you're following me.†She looked around, making a great show of belittling confusion, “I've just been sitting here.†“Yes, well. I trust you've both finished your studies for the day?†Petra raised an eyebrow at his self-conscious 'professor speak,' Ilse replied that they had “And you're knitting in this glorious weather?†Ilse sat up a little straighter, “They're for the soldiers. It might be warm now, but it would never do to be unprepared.†“Good for you. I'm sure they'll appreciate your efforts†“I'm taking a break,†Petra interjected, “it's a beautiful day.†she took a long drag from the cigarette and sighed contentedly to illustrate her point. Edmond remembered the first time he'd dissected a smoker and tried to keep himself from imagining what the inside of Petra's lungs looked like. “You know,†he said, impassively “they don't tell anyone, but those things do terrible things to your body.†Petra lifted the cigarette to her lips and gazed up at him from the corner of her eye “Maybe I like having terrible things done to my body.†Ilse rolled her eyes and shifted away from her. Edmond just pursed his lips, trying not to imagine the smoke dropping into her lungs and pluming like milk in water, painting the inner walls a smokey – “ladies†he nodded to the girls and walked swiftly back to the University's main building, his senses sharpened in the way they usually did just before slicing into exposed flesh. Interesting. He had almost reached the safety of the front door, when he heard footsteps running up behind him. “Professor Hardt?†“Yes?†he turned to the voice and it was Petra. Of course. “what is it?†“I won't be in class today. So may I turn in my paper now?†“well,†he said, looking over her shoulder at the sunlit grass, “If I could skip class and go enjoy the sunlight, I would too. But I can't.†She smiled up at him – as always – as though she knew something he didn't. “But, I suppose I could take your paper now. At least it's not late.†she set down her bag and knelt to rummage through it. “By the way,†she didn't look up at him as she spoke, “I walked around all day today worried I'd be called into the Rector's office. Thank you for not telling anyone about the library.†“I didn't see you do anything wrong.†he said truthfully. She stood up and handed him the paper “Of course†she said quietly. She made it sound like they were in league with some great conspiracy. He looked down at her paper, and tried not to scowl. It was that time of year again. When he'd first started teaching he hadn't wanted to deal with the anatomical details of eugenics. As a rule he hated gullibility, and standing at the front of a classroom spouting nonsense that his own first-hand research had proven blatantly false was irritating. So he had assigned it as a research paper. Let the books do the lying for him. This way all he had to do was read them. “And I washed your handkerchief.†she interrupted his thoughts, “I didn't know if you'd want it back, there was some blood I couldn't get off...†“Keep it.†She seemed to swell at this, “Thank you. Right. Well then, goodbye prof-†her eyes were drawn down to the front of his jacket. She frowned and picked a feather off his lapel and held it up, with a smirk. “I like to feed pigeons. On some mornings.†She nodded slowly, like she didn't quite believe him and left with only a smile. It wasn't a lie. He did regularly feed pigeons. It's just that maybe sometimes the breadcrumbs had a little rat poison on them. For very good reasons.
INTERLUDE: ON PETRA AND ILSE Edmond Hardt had caught Petra's eye on her first day in his class. Obviously he was attractive, Well built, square jawed, but Petra had known plenty of men like that. Rather, it was something in his eyes that really caught her. Behind his little round glasses he looked tired, like he didn't sleep at night and instead chose to sleep while he taught. He had an undeniable glimmer of intelligence fogged over by fear and apathy. His lectures grumbled, angry, tangential and nonsensical, but there was a trembling, stifled enthusiasm for his subject. She imagined that he noticed her, noticing him, and wondered where he spent his nights, what he did with that hidden intelligence, and how she could seduce him. But the vague possibility of having Professor Hardt quickly took a backseat to the much more attainable goal of Ilse Weiss. Ilse was exactly the sort of girl that Petra enjoyed: full-figured and light featured, with a fervent mind, whole heartedly consumed by national pride. In Petra's experience, this type of girl tended to be surprisingly easy to convince of the inherent beauty of Saphic love, and were equally easy to convince of the virtues of secrecy. Within a week of Petra setting her sights on her, Ilse was completely taken with Petra, and flattered at the attentions of this pretty stranger. With another week and a single rationed shot of schnapps, she made it into Ilse's bed. The experience was enjoyable enough that Petra planned to repeat it, and for several weeks, the two of them enjoyed a quiet, mutually beneficial affair. They didn't have much in common outside of the bedroom, and so had little reason to speak in public, and no one suspected a thing. However, the one thing they did have in common – anatomy class – was a point of contention. Petra lit her traditional cigarette of satisfaction, while Ilse and her unrestrained curves settled into the mattress next to her, catching her breath. Petra took a long contented drag, and said drowsily “What do you suppose Professor Hardt does at night that makes him look so tired in class?†“Oh Petra.†Ilse turned onto her side facing away from the other girl “I really do wonder! Do you suppose he has a lover?†“Isn't he married?†Petra shrugged and set the still-lit cigarette onto the ashtray on Ilse's bedside table.“I've never seen a ring.†Ilse sniffed. “that's highly unusual, at his age.†“highly unusual hmmmm?†“Petra, stop that.†Petra did not stop, but instead allowed her hands to continue roving across her latest lover's belly and thighs, “and who are you to say what's usual or not...†“Petra... Petra!†Ilse pried Petra's hands away, “I've had enough for one night.†“Fine. But who's to say what's unusual or not? Certainly not you, my dear.†“Oh Petra. Please. This is very nice, but you know very well that as soon as we can we'll both marry and have children. And that is what's usual. The Furor needs soldiers.†Petra scoffed and picked her cigarette up again, “please don't discuss the furor while in bed with me. I don't think he'd like that very much.†Ilse nodded seriously, not sensing the irony in Petra's words. Petra took another thoughtful drag, “But I really do wonder...†“What about?†“About Professor Hardt.†“ugh! Don't be disgusting.†Petra laughed, “Disgusting?†“Please don't discuss Professor Hardt while in bed with me. I don't think he'd like it.†Petra raised an eyebrow, and looked down at the venus shaped creature next to her, “I sincerely doubt he'd mind.†Ilse huffed, “Well anyway, it's creepy.†“You're not jealous.†Petra said incredulously. Ilse just scowled and turned to sleep, abruptly ending the discussion.
Petra's really good at seducing people hehe. Thanks for the updates. I don't know why no one else has commented.
I love this.
Chessolin: Seduction, like any skill, is a matter of practice. Petra has had a lot of practice. Also, I'm not terribly worried over whether others comment or even read; I'm writing this for my own pleasure, and I'm glad you and Anonymous are enjoying it. ON THE SUBJECT OF THE PIGEONS; A NORMAL NIGHT IN THE LAB. (chapter 2-1) All this time, Edmond had never given up on his own private studies. The attic lab had become for him a sanctuary of science. However, having a secret lab in an attic had some glaring disadvantages. Foremost, it had become functionally impossible to experiment on human cadavers; the very thought of dragging one up the two flights and then the ladder was exhausting enough, and to do so without getting caught seemed unfathomable. And so Edmond Hardt became creative. Stray dogs and cats, mice, the occasional cockroach, and, of course, pigeons (the same pigeons whose feathers Petra kept pointing out) all fell prey to his secret nighttime experimentation. Cutting open a dog was not nearly as exciting as doing the same to a human being, but in this way, Edmond was able to get by. “Hello Curie.†he purred, pulling a dead pigeon from storage, “Today, we are going to play a game.†She didn't respond. He had named their little corpses after scientists of the past: Curie, Newton, Archimedes, Galileo, and one after Samuel, as a tribute to his own scientific awakening. “We are going to bring you back to life! Are you excited?†Again, she didn't respond. His lab was now filled to the brim with state-of-the-art equipment, and (more abundantly) very old equipment modified into monstrous abominations that somewhat resembled state-of-the-art equipment. And most important of all: a large, old radio. Edmond couldn't stand to work in silence and so his attic lab was frequently filled with the bouncy crackly sounds of German folk music. He hummed contentedly as he carefully laid the dead pigeon on the middle of the operating table, and delicately strapped her in exactly where the beam would strike. “This, my little love, is what we're going to do – do you see this machine?†the machine took up nearly one entire wall, where a large gun-like protuberance emerged from a mess of wires and metal plates and tesla coils, “this machine can imitate and speed up the body's natural reconstructive function, and bring a dead thing back to life! Well,†he chuckled, “it will soon in any case.†So far he had managed to reconstruct a few pieces of dead tissue, re-fuse a small incision, and get one pigeon heartbeat. Just one, but it was a spectacular step. “Now,†he said to his patient, “I promise it won't hurt, little one! Ha. Of course, I make no promises after you're alive again... but you'll be alive and won't that be wonderful!†It hadn't worked before. And Edmond had no real reason to believe it would this time. He didn't subscribe to any scientific system of research. On his nights in the attic he was less like a scientist than an experimental chef. No properly trained researcher could have kept up with the way his mind leapt from idea to idea. And though all the other pigeon bodies had met grisly ends he always felt that this time it would work. He set the beam to a low setting. It attached to the little corpse and enveloped the bird in a luxurious and fragrant cloud. Edmond could already feel the effects of the active ingredients radiating to him, but the bird stayed dead. Impatiently, he cranked the beam as high as it could go; Curie shook a little bit on the table, but otherwise gave no response. This was where he had given up the day before, but today, he had a plan. He picked up a long needle he had attached with a wire to a battery. Carelessly allowing the beam to surround his hands, he plunged the needle precisely into Curie's heart, and switched the battery on. “The beam...†he whispered to the patient, “this way, it will have something inside you to conduct the – oh.†The pigeon glowed and vibrated, for a moment, and Edmond held his breath. Then she began to expand at a terrifying rate, like a flesh balloon, “Oh. That's unexpected.†Not the result he had wanted but... interesting. Curie's feathers bristled and became sparse across the map of stretched skin. Greater and greater, she expanded with the sound of rubber shoes on a clean floor. More and more taut and then – when she was the size of a world atlas – she stopped. The only sound was the continuous hum of the beam. Edmond dared to take a breath. He gingerly brought his face closer to the pigeon ball, now glowing with a faint steady pulse, and slowly reached for the needle barely poking out of the stretched flesh when suddenly Curie exploded in a mess of feathers and gore. “Oh no!†he cried. He set down the battery, removed his glasses and wiped the blood off, “oh, my little Curie. I'm so sorry, my dear.†he looked around the room to locate all the scattered pieces of pigeon, “But I'm afraid I shall have to replace you. I thank you for your commitment to the cause and the use of your name will be a badge honor for the next test subject I assign it to. But for now... Galileo! It's your turn.†Edmond cackled to the music of arcing electricity, and tinny German folk songs as he swept through the room clattering various dishes, and metal instruments, needles and scales, dropping flasks of chemicals and not caring. It was art. It was a dance. It was lucky that Frau Fischer on the ground floor was quite deaf.
This is so beautiful. Please, please, please put it on your own blog or something so I can gushingly recommend it everywhere. (Hell, I'd even offer hosting on my own site if you'd like.)
Oh. Goodness. Hello Madam Dot. I'm a fan of yours. Your offer to host my story gives a warm fuzzy boost to my ego, but is most unnecessary. I have started a Bitchapalooza specifically for this story (because I was afraid I'd be chased out of here, and I wanted to put it up somewhere) It's the same name I have here, lilac_ovation (which I will separate and capitalize from hereon out), but it's on Bitchapalooza. as this continues, more scrupulously edited versions of the chapters will end up there. Thank you again.
ahahaha! bitchapalooza... oh that's good. I hadn't seen that one yet. I, of course, mean the journal of life.
WWII history buffs: moments in this story will make you say "NO." But remember that this is an alternate history in which Australia is a super power. Everything is different. so when I mention battles that simply never happened, that is why. I'm not just using that as a blanket hand-wave for any and all historical inaccuracies; I'm genuinely interested in how the war would have been different in this universe. A LESSON IN THE ART OF DUAL CONVERSATION. ALSO: THE SKIN OF HER HAND. again. (chapter 3) Wednesday mornings were Edmond's day for pigeon hunting, and he needed a new Curie, and a new Galileo. So that morning he set out braced against the brisk weather and hands gloved to protect against the poison-coated bread. The park was located in dangerous proximity to the school, if he tried to do this during the day, anyone could have walked past at any moment and seen pigeons fall ungracefully from the sky. But at five thirty in the morning, there was never any other person about (it was a half hour before curfew technically lifted), and so no one to notice him or care. He sat at his usual corner bench and had just spread a few crumbs out for the first unsuspecting little victims when he heard a voice from behind. “What are you doing?†“Ach!†it was Petra. Of course. And she was standing uncomfortably close “you startled me.†“What are you doing?†She repeated. “feeding the pigeons.†“Ah.†she nodded and sat on the far side of his bench. “Are you sure?†"Well, Yes.†“So early in the morning?†“I like to take morning walks.†“what's in the bag?†“Stale breadcrumbs.†She nodded as though satisfied with the response and looked curiously at his surgical gloves, “I don't like touching stale bread.†He looked over to the pigeons waddling about in the dimly lit grass – clearly annoyed at such an early breakfast – and was tempted to shoo them away just so when one of them died from his breadcrumbs, it would die far out of Petra's sight. “Ilse and I were talking about you, you know.†Petra's smile seemed to imply that there was a significance to this, but Edmond couldn't decipher it, “We were wondering – well I was wondering – why you always look so tired in class.†Edmond ground his teeth, “Is that so.†“Yes. But now I know the answer.†she gestured to the breadcrumbs, “I confess I was hoping for something more interesting. But you do seem to keep yourself very guardedly... ordinary.†He would have asked if this was an interrogation if the question weren't such a serious possibility. “Aren't you going to throw some more?†“I think the birds have had enough for one morning.†Petra smiled and nodded and showed no sign of getting up. “But...†he began slowly, “I'm going to stay here for a moment.†“Alright.†“In fact... I'll probably just sit here. For awhile. Maybe even until classes start.†“That sounds nice.†He looked at her in disbelief. She really was not going to leave. “don't you have...†“No.†“...things to do?†“No I don't.†She smiled placidly at the sunrise, and the rays crept over and highlighted her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. “It's starting to get colder.†She said conversationally, “I can't believe it was warm just a week or so ago. Though I suppose November should be cold. I'd worry if it wasn't.†“I can assign you more homework if you really have nothing to do.†She turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow, “A joke, Herr Professor?†Edmond stared straight ahead, “Should I be suspicious as to why you're trying to get rid of me?†“No.†he said a little too quickly, “no but...†he returned her quizzical expression, “should I be suspicious as to why you sought me out so early in the morning?†At that moment a pigeon dropped from the sky and smacked dead on the ground right in front of them. Edmond's stomach echoed the bird's descent, and he closed his eyes. That bird must have done it on purpose. Petra sprang up and pointed, “Ha! I knew it!†“What? Knew what?†She planted her hands on her hips and fixed him with a satisfied smile, “what are you doing to the birds?†“Nothing! It was complete chance that that bird...†he stepped over to the damned offending creature and stopped himself from kicking it, “died right in front of us.†“Then why do you come here some mornings, but only so early that no one else will see you?†“Have you been following me?†“No! Just waiting in the mornings. Ever since you said – but you're not here every day, and I was wondering what you were doing with the pigeons.†“Nothing – there are no pigeons.†“You mean you don't have a secret lab of some sort hidden in your basement?†Edmond laughed in outright horror at the accurate leap of logic, “Do I honestly seem like the sort of individual who has a secret laboratory hidden away in my basement?†At this she smiled and took a step towards him “No! Not at all but,†she glanced around the empty park, “I think that people act stupid because they don't want to draw attention to themselves.†“That's a possibility.†she looked at him as though trying to decipher a code in those three words. “You know,†she said, taking another step towards him “you're not a very good teacher†“Oh?†he raised an eyebrow “'Here's the circulatory system, here's what it does,' that's how you teach: 'here's the digestive system here's what it does, memorize these names, memorize this process -'†“How would you rather I –†“– But I think you're pretending.†she poked him in the chest, “You're hiding something,†by now she had her hands on his front – those hands that he had so wanted to see unskinned. It was wildly inappropriate of her to touch him, but if her smile was any indication, she didn't care, “You're hibernating†she whispered, “in the disguise of a mediocre anatomy teacher†She waited for him to respond, to crack somehow. Finally he threw his hands up in exasperation. “What could you possibly mean by that?†“Why didn't you teach us Eugenics as it relates to anatomy?†she shot back. Edmond's heart sank as what he'd suspected suddenly became undeniable. This girl always looked like she knew something her classmates didn't and of course she did: she was undercover. They'd put their youngest, prettiest little female corps member into an average class at a good college, and she was there to weed out teachers unsuitable to educate in the New German way. He peeled her hands from his jacket. “I thought that you students would get a broader understanding of the subject if I stepped aside and let you do your own research.†“And how did you like my paper?†Petra's paper had been a textbook perfect exploration of the “Anatomical Truths of Eugenics,†peppered with delicate, snide mockery, that only someone with an exceptional understanding of the construct of the human body would have caught. Edmond Hardt, of course, caught every facet. “You seem to have a very clear understanding of the concept.†he said carefully. “But what about if we lose the war? We've been forced to send more and more troops to Indo-China to help the Japanese against the Australians, and as result the Americans are quickly gaining France. If we lose, then all this false science will be useless.†she whispered fiercely. “There's a chance we could win this war.†“What's winning? Conquering Russia? Owning all of Europe? The world? Are you being stupid or just idealistic?†“Neither! I'm sincere! And you can tell whomever it is you report to that I didn't take the bait!†She stepped back in shock. It was the same frozen expression she'd worn when Ilse had pushed her hand away hand a few weeks before. After a moment, she set her narrow jaw with an ironic smile, “you're so afraid.†she sneered, and she turned and walked out of the park. Edmond glared after her for a moment, shaken, and also turned to leave. If he had answered correctly, she wouldn't bother him again. If he had answered incorrectly, he could find himself facing some uncomfortable questions. And with this new revelation all of their previous interactions were suddenly called into question. Had the books been a test after all? He was almost out of the park when he heard another gentle “flop†from behind him. The pigeons. He sighed and headed back. It wouldn't do to let them go to waste. Petra was not in class that day. Or the next time her class convened the next Monday. But that Tuesday evening, as Edmond prepared his bicycle for the short trip home he saw a figure in shadow. A girl with a narrow frame. “Miss Dietmar?†She stepped from the shadows and handed him a sealed letter, “Don't. Drop this.†and left without another word.
I've decided that "interludes" are silly, I don't have to be constrained by the shackles of chapter length. so let's all pretend that "on petra and ilse" was chapter 2, "pigeons" 3, and "dual conversation" 4. ON THE DANGERS OF SELECTING ONE'S LOVERS POORLY (chapter 5) Petra had never bothered to learn much about Ilse. If she had, she might have been more cautious of her treatment of the girl. But Petra was ever careless, and didn't think twice of dropping her the moment Professor Hardt began to pay her even the smallest attention. Ever since Petra's first time (aged fourteen, deep in the woods on an overnight Hitler youth camping trip) with a girl named Angelika, she had taken extraordinary pride in her conquests both male and female. However she never bothered to think of them as people. She had a system that hadn't failed her yet, and she saw each lover – every young woman she “defiled,†every young man she refused to marry – not as fellow human beings but as mere devices in her important acts of defiance. Angelika had been a beautiful girl – blonde, blue-eyed, well developed for her age – and had set the standard for the type of woman Petra enjoyed: good-natured, sheltered, harmless beauties. However, she made a mistake in choosing Ilse, for Ilse was not nearly as harmless or as gentle-minded as Petra had projected. Ilse had, for some time harbored a dull suspicion of Professor Edmond Hardt – She felt that he was up to something, involved in some conspiracy. He was just too ordinary, too noticeably invisible. Unfortunately for Edmond, Petra's interest in him piqued Ilse's as well, and Ilse's interest – sharpened by a possessive jealousy – was dangerous.
Hey Lilac, just checking in to say this is FUCKING AWESOME. You're doing a fantastic job with this. The world you're drawing here is very rich and I'm in love with your characterization. (OK, OK, I'll stop gushing now. Just, you know, keep it up.) Also, Captcha says "1945 wildiff." It might have gained sentience and might be attempting to dispense some WW2-related knowledge.
This chapter fought me. Hard. Thank you so much, Anonymous! That means a lot. (captcha says "Jekyl's neglect" wow.) PETRA'S LETTER. ALSO; THE STEADYING BREATH & UNFLAPPABLE CALM (chapter 6) The letter was folded neatly in his inside jacket pocket, but all that day he felt certain everyone around him could see the unnatural fold on his left breast, and hear the crinkle of the paper as he moved his arm. All the terror of carrying it around, however, was not quite as horrible as the the thought of the conversation he would need to have before the could get rid of the thing. “Miss Dietmar, will you please meet me in my office? The rest of you are excused.†Edmond gathered his lecture notes and steeled himself for the meeting He had a few ideas as to why she had given him the letter, and all of them were uncomfortable. He was so absorbed that he missed the knowing glances the other girls gave Petra, and the disdainful sneer that Ilse gave him. She was already sitting in the small chair on the other side of his desk by the time he got there. She didn't turn or even acknowledge when he entered and closed the door behind himself - the closet sized office seemed particularly stifling with her sitting there. The desk took up nearly half of the space available, and the ostentatious leather chair nearly half of what was left. Which seemed far from practical, and why had he never noticed before? The clock ticked a dry relentless reminder, and there was Petra, still there, waiting for him. He squeezed his way to the more powerful side of the desk – careful not to knock the scattered desktop clutter, and uncomfortably conscious of the noise he was making. The leather desk chair creaked as he sat opposite her; he produced the letter from his pocket. “You read it?†she asked. “You've put me in a terrible position, Miss Dietmar. Either I report you and pass whatever test-†“There is no test†she said quickly. “ - and pass whatever test this might be, or I trust you and burn this letter.†She said nothing, just bit her lip and waited. Edmond sighed. “Do you have a match?†she promptly produced her box of matches, “thank you. Please close the shades, and don't forget the one on the door's window.†she did as she was told, maneuvering between bookshelves and stacks of paper to kill the natural light, and came back to sit on the other side of the obnoxiously large desk. He showed her the letter, pulled an ashtray in front of him and took out a match. “this is the only copy?†she nodded gravely. He struck the match and they watched in silence as first just the corners smoldered and curled black, then the pages caught and lit up bright with fire for a few seconds before dissolving completely to ash. Edmond let out an audible breath of relief. “Thank you,†Petra breathed. “Why would you write something like that?†“I wanted to prove that I trust you.†she said simply. He shook his head at her dissatisfying reasoning “What if I had... ach. I couldn't sleep last night. I was afraid to let it out of my sight.†“Did you sleep with it under your pillow?†she tilted her head. “No. pinned into the pocket of my nightshirt.†she laughed. He was appalled that she could. “Petra, writing that letter was an incredibly stupid, irresponsible thing to do. And you don't seem to realize it even now. What were you thinking?†“Am I in trouble, professor?†“Don't give me that.†he growled, “What is this game? Why did you give me the letter - to prove how clever you are? Because that was childish. Not clever.†Petra smiled. She never looked childish when she smiled, “I wanted you to call me to your office after class.†Edmond cleared his throat and managed an awkward “ah.†“That's why I gave you the letter.†she placed a hand on the desk, possessively “I wanted you to trust me enough that you would call me back to your office after class and -†“Isn't that a bit -†“Dangerous? You started it.†She eyes were steely and determined, but he thought he could detect the slightest blush creeping across her cheeks. “What?†“'Sometimes from your eyes I did receive fair, speechless messages'†she said in perfect English “Ah I see you've prepared Shakespeare for the occasion.†he rolled his eyes, “Aren't you clever. And what... 'messages' might those have been, Miss Dietmar?†“Are you angry about this?†she said in amazement. He gave her a humorless smile, “Well -†“You're actually angry.†“You follow me outside of class, you bombard me with awkward questions, you've put me in danger by involving me in your -†he took a breath through his teeth, “Yes. Miss Dietmar. I am angry.†“This is nothing like the face you present in class.†Petra seemed to become more and more excited, “I was right. I knew you – you're proving me right. There is more to you than that bored, buttoned up anatomy professor. And I want to see it.†“No I -†he sputtered, “I'm just disappointed that you would do something so,†he gestured to the ashes of the letter searching for the right word, but could only repeat what he'd already said, “foolish as this. It seems out of character.†She leaned forward, “And what do you know of my 'character?'†“I know that you are -†Edmond cleared his throat, deeply annoyed that he seemed to need so many calming breaths already in such a short conversation, while the girl before him seemed so frustratingly calm. “Yes. You are a smart girl. Congratulations. Your letter has proven that. It has also proven that you are foolishly convinced of your own invincibility. Perhaps your parents did not do you a service in educating you so incompletely.†“Oh, They taught me plenty. But the most important lessons I taught myself.†She put her other hand on his desk. “Don't you want to know what those lessons are?†Edmond swallowed dryly and didn't dare dignify the question with an answer. “I know how to read people, and I'm good at it. And I know what you want even if you don't. The way you communicate from the front of the classroom...†“I teach you about anatomy.†he deadpanned. “Oh yes. You teach. But what you communicate is just -†Edmond laughed “An exchange of information is no more erotic than...†“You're completely wrong. Oh, for the most part you're correct. Most teachers have no more passion for their subjects than they might for a slice of cold toast, but you teach anatomy with a stifled enthusiasm that would make Sigmund Freud tremble with excitement. Every class, it was like you were afraid to show something... I didn't know for sure. But when I met you in the library, and then outside when you wrapped up my hand...†she absently touched the healing scab on the back of her hand, he could tell already that it would scar beautifully, “When you didn't report me for stealing the books: then I knew.†“What did you know?†“That you and I are of a like mind!†she said as though it were obvious, “And those 'speechless messages?' You were looking for someone to see it. And I saw it - in class - when no one else did.†He was amazed, “ridiculous,†he shook his head, “You know, once upon a time they didn't allow women to study at University, and this is probably exactly why: you can't seem separate education from sex.†She started, shocked at the connection, then shook her head, “Do you really think that way?†she sneered, “Or have you just become malicious because you don't know what else to say.†He adjusted his glasses, and – as though she had cursed him – didn't know what else to say. The wall clock's loud dry ticks impatiently challenged him for an answer, and Petra was not smiling anymore, she just waited as he stared at the clock. After a moment she spoke again, “you read my letter. I'm surrounded by people that are -†she bit the inside of her cheek, “and I can't let on that they frustrate me. You know how I feel. You are possibly the only person that does! In you I recognized a like mind. It's not just about the – You've made it something... ugly.†He looked back at her; the flush across her face was undeniable now, and he couldn't hear it, but he knew her heartbeat echoed the demanding clicks of the clock. He tried to stop himself from imagining the blood flowing quickly all the way through her body in a single second, legs to flushed cheek. She took a single deep breath and the air rushed into those lungs dirtied by cigarettes; you would never know by looking at her but her lungs were probably stained like the inner walls of an ancient castle. He tried not to wonder what other secrets her insides hid. “Maybe you should leave,†he managed. She nodded and stood up with no attempt to mediate the rude scrape of the chair, and made it all the way to the door before turning around again, “Before I do, Professor, I want to ask you one last time about the pigeons.†“Ach not the pigeons again...†he said wearily. “I've put my neck out into some dangerous territory to get you to trust me. The least -†“I didn't ask you to!†“The least you can do is tell me what you're doing!†“Doing what, Petra?†he asked exasperated. She pointed a finger right at him “See? You're very good at this, pretending. But I know you're up to something.†she leaned against the closed door, arms folded. “You can't hide it from me – I can see in your eyes that you're suffocating – much more than other people. Someone like you must have an outlet. So I ask again, I beg of you: what are you doing with the pigeons?†An amused smile fought it's way across his face, “Do – do you know how ridiculous that sounds?†“Yes!†she let out a frustrated laugh, “But please just tell me.†“'I beg of you...'†he mimicked “'what are you doing with,'†he tried unsuccessfully to hide his laughter. It seemed wildly inappropriate given the conversation, “'with the pigeons'...†“Well?†Petra's laughter was a betrayal of her own genuine frustration. “Why are you so interested?†She looked away and shrugged. “I already told you. I'm interested because you - †she looked him in the eye, all laughter melting away, “Because I'm suffocating too.†It was an odd moment of sincerity, an admission of vulnerability that she seemed almost ashamed to show “I still don't know if I trust you.†Petra nodded, business-like, “of course. But you don't really think I'm a spy anymore.†“I don't know.†She nodded again and turned to the door, deflated by her resounding failure. Edmond sighed. “Petra. If you...†she looked up hopefully, “Fine. Meet me here a week from tomorrow after the other teachers have gone home. I'll take you to the lab.†Petra couldn't believe what she'd heard “You – really?†“I seem to have hit a snag in my research and I could use another set of eyes anyway.†She laughed, no knowing how else to respond “So you do have an secret lab in your basement.†“No. no.†he waved her off, “It's in the attic.†~ “Dear Professor Hardt; I'm only half German. I do speak English. My mother is American (she was a Nurse in the Great War, who scandalously married a German doctor. My father.) My parents are both safe in America, and I've since been officially adopted by my father's sister, to keep me safe. My Parents are violently against the current regime, and passed their political sympathies down to me from a young age. I am educated. Truly educated. Not a force-fed propaganda spewing simpleton like others in my befouled generation. I haven't been spoiled by the false filth. My father gave me books, real books, the right sorts of books, and at home, in secret I was educated in earnest. With hope, and sincere admiration; ~ Petra Dietmar†On a separate piece of paper she had written: “You now have everything you could possibly need to get me into very serious trouble. But I don't think you will. Please don't let me down. (whatever you are working on, I can help)â€
OK, I'm bumping this in desperate hope that there is more to come. Don't break my heart!
I don't plan on breaking anyone's heart (unless seeing this story through to the bitter end will do that. in which I apologize), but updates will probably be slower as rehearsals have begun to pick up. Thank you for your concern, An.
Now with 80% more shmience! (captcha: "for paymmu." I don't know who paymmu is but, apparently this is for you.) THE STATE OF CRISP AWARENESS ALLOTTED BY TRUTH. ALSO; A SHIFT (chapter 7) Petra would never know when her intentions had shifted. The moment Professor Hardt agreed to let her in on his secrets, Petra's instincts quickly began formulating a plan for how to complete the maneuver from here. She had all but won; just a few steps more and she would have him. A professor, almost certainly a party member (and a secretly defiant one at that), a man much older than herself – Edmond Hardt would be her greatest conquest yet. They waited a week. Edmond was careful not to look at her or call on her in class, having no idea that this was even more conspicuous to those who were paying attention. All of the agreed day Professor Hardt had been quiet, excited, and when the ladder dropped he was already trembling with a pent-up something that was frustratingly not lust. Except that it was, of a sort. A grotesque and obsessive lust for knowledge at all costs, and the sudden thrilling prospect of a sympathetic soul to share it with. The first evening was a tour, brief, fervent and whispered. Edmond ran around picking up instruments, explaining theories, demonstrating reactions, and very noticeably avoiding the sheet-covered far wall. “What's behind here?†Petra asked, reaching for the sheet. “Ah!†he stopped her hand and guided her away, “That. Is for tomorrow. Tomorrow. Now! You must head home before anyone misses you. Goodnight. Meet me back here tomorrow evening. I trust you can find your way back?†She did, and the next evening she arrived by herself shortly after her classes were over. Edmond let her in the back door, and the two of them wasted no time in heading up the stairs and ladder to the attic. Without a single word Edmond crossed to the sheet and grabbed it with both hands. He hesitated. “I haven't shown this to anyone yet.†Edmond said, struggling to keep his voice calm. Petra leaned forward, “Well then, let's see it.†Edmond took a deep breath and pulled away the sheet and Petra gasped at what she saw. The machine had gained a disheveled elegance in its months of development. There was scarcely a portion of the far wall that wasn't covered in twisting wires and suspended metal plates, from attic floor to low, slanting ceiling, all leading through meandering twisting paths to the large jutting missile of the beam itself. The machine was like a thing alive. It seemed to breathe beneath her gaze. And it wasn't even turned on. “Let me show you how it works – or doesn't work. - let me show you what I've done so far.†He proceeded to describe his goals of resurrection utilizing the natural healing process already present in the body. “and here are the pigeons you've been so curious about." he said, opening a drawer of carefully laid out pigeon corpses - some better preserved than the other, "I take the pigeons and strap them here – I have to be careful – they're so tiny. So much smaller than a human being. But then it wouldn't do to perform these experiments on a person†he smiled, “it would be impossible to get the body up here in any case.†he laughed at the absurdity of the very idea, “So I turn the beam on here, and aim it here and then I... see what happens.†Petra said nothing. “It's really just trial and error.†Petra remained in shocked silence for so long that Edmond began to feel slightly self conscious, “Well?†She laughed and covered her face, “Idiot†she whispered. Edmond deflated noticeably “Excuse me?†“No, this is brilliant, but you're an idiot†“Again: Pardon me?†“Why are they all dead?†she thought that would be enough to make him get it, it wasn't, “I can't believe you didn't see this before. You want to imitate and speed up the natural process of reconstructive healing? Did you try taking it one at a time? Start with a living specimen so that you can first speed up the process, then once you've perfected that, you can study how it's done and imitate it in dead specimens.†“Oh. That could work.†he said lightly “I can't believe you didn't already have control group.†She looked again around the cramped, cluttered space, and the bits of Curie still on the ceiling, “Well. Maybe I can believe it.†That Wednesday morning when they met at the park to capture pigeons, Edmond was still not completely sold on the idea of living specimens (“I'll have to think of new names!†“This is your concern?â€), but that evening he was so taken by with his new birds, and the data he could glean from them, that names were the last trouble on his mind. Petra watched him closely that night. She knew by now that her well formulated plans would require some adjustment. There was certainly potential here, but his enthusiasm for discovery would require a delicate hand to manipulate into the type of enthusiasm she could use. The experiments that night were more frantic and delirious, more joyful than any night Edmond could remember. Though whether that was for the company, or the new test subjects he couldn't tell. It felt like they had to try everything now, or they never would and the two of them rose to the challenge. They tried shifting the setting while a live bird was already in the beam, they tried setting the beam onto a living and dead specimen at the same time, they tried healing old wounds and fresh wounds (to no avail). They made little progress and few discoveries, but the air was electric with with scientific enthusiasm and pleasure. When they'd tried everything they could think of, they sat together on the floor, spent and exhausted as pigeons flew – indignant – over their heads. They were both trying not to laugh, neither knowing why they wanted to. “You'll need a cage for them.†Petra said. Edmond waved it off, “I need to feed them first. One step at a time.†“It's nearly two in the morning. I can't go out this far past curfew.†“Well,†he wiped his hands and stood up “you can stay here†“Really,†Petra gave an exhausted leer from her seat on the floor, “and where will I sleep?†He looked down at her “In my bed of course.†Petra's smile dropped, “It would be rude of me not to offer you the bed,†he finished, smiling widely and offering a hand to help her up, “I'll sleep on the operating table.†Of course. Petra slept in Edmond's bed – badly – for only four hours that morning, and left as early as she could. Edmond was not nearly as oblivious to Petra's advances as she thought he was. He just did his best to ignore them. He had never had much use for physical intimacy with living people. His experiments on human cadavers were as emotionally and physically satisfying as he had ever needed. That said, the closest thing to intimacy with another living person he could ever remember desiring was this rather shameful longing to cut Petra open and see inside. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd dissected a human corpse but sometimes he caught himself staring at her hands, or following the line of a thin blue vein on the inside of her arm as far as he could see it. Over the coming weeks she came to the lab nearly every evening. She developed her own projects, but mostly helped Edmond with the machine that had a prior claim of most of the space. Petra brought a level of organization to Edmond's research that greatly increased to speed of work, and between the two of them, the resurrection beam quickly made progress. They were equals in the lab, and unless they were actually directly helping one another, it wasn't unusual for one of them to have no idea what the other was doing on the other side of the room. The attic was just as much a lab as it was a safe place away from the rest of Europe, from the war, the government, guilt, patriotism, horrible lies and horrible truths that were down the ladder They could successfully ignore the rest of the world when they had this place. Petra's grades suffered, and she, like Edmond, began to walk about in a dream state when outside the lab. Edmond told her that this might be attributed to the vapor from the resurrection beam, but Petra suspected that it had more to do with the state of vivid, crisp awareness she could allow herself while in the attic. She could live honestly here. Edmond knew about her, and would not tell anyone because she knew his secrets as well. Sometimes they spoke, only half listening to one another as they strapped in pigeons and adjusted beam wavelengths. Edmond told her about Samuel, and Ada, and all his subsequent conquests. How much he loved the velvety smooth feeling of organs against his ungloved hands. How messy it had been the first time. How he had developed a system to test without being caught, and how much he missed it. Petra told him in detail about Angelika in the forest, Hans – who had desperately wanted to marry her, the Kurt snobbish but beautiful soldier and, of course, Ilse. The evenings in the attic were such a separate dream reality that they felt there was nothing in the real world to be self conscious about and there were no secrets left that were more thrilling or dangerous to reveal than the one they were standing in. Once, she took a step back and actually watched him working at the machine. “Why do you want to create something that can bring creatures back to life?†she asked suddenly Edmond looked up from examining the mess of wires “What do you mean 'why?'†“Well, what made you want to create something like this?†Edmond looked around at the metal and wires and electricity buzzing and popping around them, “Why wouldn't I want to create something something like this?†“So... you didn't lose someone dear to you at a young age? You're not terrified of death? You don't want to live forever?†Edmond was genuinely puzzled, “No. What does that have to do with anything?†A slow smile began to spread across Petra's face, “So you're just doing this for...†Edmond grinned, “Science.†and turned back to the operating table “For science?†She laughed outright, “So this is where you're awake. This is who you are.†If Edmond heard her he didn't show it, and stayed instead completely absorbed in the swirling crossing patterns of the nest of wires. She would never know when her intentions had shifted, but in that moment watching him she knew that they had.
This is awesome!
Oh my goodness. You have definitely continued to impress. This is phenomenal.
I'm loving this story! Will you continue it?
Wow, I didn't even realize that you had 7 chapters written until I saw this thread - previously, I was refreshing your Bitchapalooza. I can't wait for more, this is amazing.
I... Bitchapalooza. Wow. Okay. LJ, then.
Oh holy hell, this is incredible! Please sir, tell me there's more!
(whomever paymmu is: Sir or Madam, you are my hero, And so are all the people that have read this. thank you.) Now with 12% more jealous lesbian action. ON THE DANGERS OF ALLOWING ONESELF TO INSPIRE LOVE. ALSO; HER FATHER'S BEAUTIFUL UNIFORM Ilse's father was a powerful man. She understood why most people in town were afraid of him to some extent - and it wasn't just because he wore a beautiful uniform. In fact for all her arrogant, posturing Ilse feared him herself. He was not a sentimental man, and was loyal to his country over everything and everyone else. She'd lived nearly all her life hearing of family friends sent away on a whisper of gossip, and awkward family dinners. Even his own daughter would not be safe if he knew the shame of her nocturnal weakness for girls like Petra. Ilse knew this, and lived with a dull, constant terror of him. But she behaved with none of the simpering, bowing and scraping that this fear might produce in a girl of a less steadfast constitution. She resented her own fear, which turned it into a hatred of the man who inspired it, and her hatred manifested itself not in rebellion, but in an eager need to outdo. And so for him she was a perfect German daughter: obedient, deferent, fair complexioned, and sturdily built. But to everyone else, that hidden terror made her a very dangerous young lady to cross. Of course Petra knew about Ilse's father. She simply didn't care. Professor Hardt's earlier admonition – that she was foolishly convinced of her own immortality – was not far from the truth. She merely saw Ilse as a pedantic, fervently political former lover who would eventually move on. One of many – and the girls usually moved on much faster than the boys. Especially the stupid ones. Unfortunately, Petra had still not quite figured out that Ilse was much sharper than any of her previous conquests. She should have known of Ilse's genuine affection for her, and she should have deduced that that affection could harden into something unpleasant if neglected. She should have known that Ilse was one to fear. In her early weeks in the attic lab Petra didn't avoid Ilse. Not really. She simply found it more convenient these days to show up to Professor Hardt's class right on time, and bolt out as soon as it was over. And as that was the only class they shared, it incidentally meant that she never had an excuse to talk to the girl. After nearly three weeks of this, Ilse finally caught up to her in the library, one evening “Petra? Oh, Petra! (Go on ahead girls, I'll see you tomorrow)†Petra looked up from the assignment she'd been pretending to complete, to see Ilse smiling slightly at her and a group of other girls walking away, “Ah, Ilse.†She forced a smile, “I haven't seen you in so long. I'm so sorry but I've been absolutely consumed with -†“You've been avoiding me.†Ilse smiled wider “I haven't. Not really. Like I said, I've been so busy I haven't even had time to -†“Can I have a word with you, Petra?†“Well, yes.†Petra looked around, confused “isn't that what's happening right now?†“Someplace private.†They looked at each other a moment, somewhere Ilse's smile had become hard and thin. “Of course, Ilse.†Petra gathered up her books and followed the her out of the library and onto the field in front of the university Ilse dropped her bag in the frozen mud in the moonlight shadow of a tree, and waited for Petra to catch up. In the dark, the entire field seemed to compress itself into just the two meter radius around the base of that tree. It was the same tree that the girls had sat under a month before, knitting scarves for the soldiers. A breeze gripped Petra's throat and she pulled her scarf tighter; there could not have been a greater contrast from that open sunny day. She stayed where she was, “I'm so sorry, Ilse. I meant to tell you in person, but I don't think we should see each other any more. What we were doing was foolish.†Ilse didn't seem to hear her. “I miss you, Petra. I didn't think that I would. I always knew our arrangement was temporary.†there was an unfamiliar softness in Ilse's voice, and Petra could not look up at her, “I didn't think I'd miss you so much.†Ilse paused, as though waiting for Petra to speak, “Last night was a Wednesday.†she finally said. Petra's eyes snapped up to Ilse's, daring her to finish the thought, Ilse just smiled “If you recall, Wednesday is the night you usually-â€, “My!†Petra forced a laugh, “Aren't you forward this evening, Ilse.†she felt her face burn in contrast with the icy air. Ilse ignored the interjection and took a step closer “I hadn't seen you in so long, but I thought that maybe you'd come anyway.†Petra stepped towards the tree, impressed in spite of herself by Ilse's uncharacteristic show of weakness. “I stayed up long past curfew. I suppose you were busy. Because you never arrived. Deep down I didn't have much hope that you would, but I was still...†she reached a hand up to play the lock of hair that curled and flopped onto Petra's forehead “Please don't do that to me again, Petra.†and leaned down to kiss her. Petra turned her face away. “Don't you think someone might catch us?†“Not really.†but she stepped away. Neither said anything for a moment, and just when Petra was about to leave Ilse stopped her with a sudden sneer, “Tell me, how is Professor Hardt?†Petra swallowed. “I'm sure he's fine. You saw him in class too, didn't you? He seems just as absentminded and tired as usual. Why do you ask that?†“Well you always spoke so highly of him. Your intentions were never hidden. Downright predatory. I'd assumed you'd stopped coming round because you'd found success with him. I'd even hoped it was him! Anyone less and I'd have been truly disappointed.†Petra swallowed “That's not why I stopped coming to see you. Or inviting you over. You just.†she took a breath, “Well, you were so guilty about it. You got me thinking that maybe you were right. That we – what we were doing was stupid. And if we got caught.†“We would never get caught, Petra. You know I could prevent that easily enough.†“But. But it was more than that. It was moral. Is moral. My decision. Because what we were doing was just fundamentally wrong. And I began to feel your guilt. That's why. It had – has nothing to do with Professor Hardt.†Ilse examined her for a moment then snorted in amusement. “Fine, fine. In fact that's probably better - that you don't tell anyone. You know, I think he's dangerous. And I think he's equally dangerous to associate with.†“What does that mean?†Ilse shrugged, “I'm suspicious of him. That's all.†“You've mentioned that before. And I'm asking you: what does that even mean?†“That I don't think he's a good teacher. Or a good German.†Petra froze for a moment too long and laughed again, “You won't report him. Will you?†“What an idea, Petra. You know I actually hadn't thought of doing that.†“Ilse please.†Petra rolled her eyes in practiced exasperation, but her mouth had gone dry, “You're just being silly and jealous, and you'd cause a great fuss over nothing if you... He hasn't – I'm sure he's done nothing wrong.†“Of course, Petra, my love.†Ilse's face became once again the cold wax sculpture of perfect indifference that Petra knew. She picked up her bag and swiped at the mud now caking it, “if he has nothing to hide, he has nothing to fear.â€
Ilse's scary in such a subtle way!
When I saw this at the top of the Fanfiction board, I hoped very much that it had updated, but feared it was a comment bump. But this was not so, and I was overjoyed!
Oh, Ilse, you spiteful bitch! I love it love it love it to pieces. I do wish you would have elaborated a bit more on the emotional exchange between them to compliment the dialogue. I wanted to feel the dread that Petra felt, how her stomach sank or her face betrayed her with a twitch of her lips. I was still moved by it (you make it so easy to emotionally invest in these characters), but I would have liked to see it "meatier" instead of playing out more like a script.
27: It is actually amazing that you said "script" because I'm an actor and playwright, and I write scenes and plays a great deal more than stories (and I loathe stage directions). So yeah, you're absolutely right, I need to get into another mind frame when I write for this. I tend to forget that people aren't going to act this out when they read it. (Also: Ilse started out as a throw away character, and has quickly climbed up to become one of my favorites, I'm glad people are responding to her)