The History of History - By Ida Hattemer-Higgins Page 0,137

he’s a danger. Except as a corruption to morals. And he doesn’t happen to be at the mercy of any law.” Margaret was breathing hard, very much in her own mind. “But I would like you, as a doctor, as a citizen, to give me your blessing.”

The doctor grimaced. “You sound like the danger, young Margaret. What are we talking about? A parricide? A vaticide?”

Margaret blew out through her nostrils.

“He’s an old Nazi,” she said. “He lives out in Rudow. He was with the SS.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, very slowly.

A moment passed.

Then the doctor said, “There are many SS men still living today. There are many more that are dead already, and many others that are dying as we speak, all without your help. They don’t need you to bring them to an early death. They don’t do anyone any harm anymore, Margaret.” The doctor looked at her. “Is this one particularly bad?”

“He’s not particularly bad,” Margaret conceded, although only outwardly. “But he’s the one I know.”

“Is he to be a token murder, or is he the first in a series?” the doctor asked. She touched her finger to her tongue and caught a page of her large, white book with it. The sound of the rustling page loaded the room.

“A token murder,” Margaret said.

The doctor, as always, was ruining everything.

“For the crime of having been a member of the SS, a crime of association? Or did he commit particular atrocities?” the doctor asked.

“He was not directly involved in any killing. And if you must know, he has already spent ten years in a Soviet prison.” Margaret pulled her opal ring on and off. It had been her mother’s. “He was tortured.”

“So you would agree with me that this man is not dangerous?”

“I would not say so. Not in particular.”

“I see. And he himself never committed any particular … atrocities?”

Margaret punched her head forward toward the doctor. “His existence is a crime. He may not be guilty, but”—Margaret spoke in a low voice—“it’s a gift, Doctor. I see it as a gift. That a killer is still alive for me to kill. There are still opportunities to carry out justice.” Her eyes glowed.

The doctor did not respond immediately. Margaret breathed and waited. She looked eagerly at the doctor. The woman’s eyes were half closed.

“It’s a gift that I only got by the skin of my teeth,” Margaret went on. “I may have been born late, but I was not born too late.” Margaret was almost shy in her excitement. “Everyone looks but no one acts,” she said. “I have been given a great blessing: an opportunity.”

There was a long silence. Had the doctor fallen asleep? Her eyes were closed and her chest moved strangely. But all at once the woman spoke.

“Margaret,” she said. “Has it never occurred to you, as you’ve sat with me in this office, that I was once a Nazi myself?”

Margaret looked at her. The walls were very close around her. To the front and back of her, time was contracting.

“You didn’t suspect?” asked the doctor.

Margaret was alone now. “I was naïve,” she said.

“There are two types of naïfs—the one who is naïve because of lack of attention, seeing only what bounces naturally into his basket of personal greeds, and the one who notices everything but instead of weaving the hints into meaning, lets them lie in shards. Which are you?”

“I’ll be going,” Margaret said. She stood up violently. Her chair fell over behind her.

“Wait,” the doctor said. “I’ll tell you my story.”

And despite herself, Margaret stayed. She picked up her chair. She had always liked a story.

THIRTY-TWO • The Doctors of Charité

You already know what became of my brother, your nominal”—the doctor coughed—“your nominal grandfather.” Margaret cried out, but the doctor cut her off with a sharp wave of her hand.

“Now, my brother—it has probably occurred to you that I was nothing like him. He was a talented man,” the doctor said, “but I was the true intellect of the family.” She smiled tightly. “Forgive my self-flattery. Although you probably also know that in those days, especially under the Nazis, women were encouraged to stick to the three Ks—Kinder, Küche, Kirche, it wouldn’t surprise me if you also knew that there were many exceptions to this, none more well known than the great Leni Riefenstahl herself, although how she managed to make her films in that man’s world, I’ll never know.

“My parents valued achievement, even in women, and when it became apparent, as I say, that