The Vines by Shelley Nolden (most motivational books .txt) 📗

She stayed in the doorway, near the stairs. Already this building smelled of decay.

“Did my father ever tell you the story of old professor Pettenkofer of Munich?” he asked as he wriggled out of his coat.

Back when Paul de Kruif’s book Microbe Hunters was first published in 1926, Otto had read her that particular passage. Shortly after, she’d sneaked into the laboratory to thumb through the tome herself. Mesmerized by that first glimpse of the “wee assassins” lurking within her, she’d read the entire history of microbiology in one night. But she couldn’t tell Ulrich that. The only time she’d inquired about Otto’s absence, Ulrich had threatened to remove her vocal cords if she ever mentioned him again.

“Tell me about the old professor, please,” she said, humoring him.

“Professor Pettenkofer was a skeptic. Today he would be laughed out of scientific circles. But in those days, he was one of many who viewed germ theory as hogwash. When the brilliant Dr. Robert Koch returned from Calcutta, he claimed that deadly cholera doesn’t arise spontaneously in its victims. Rather, it’s caused by a comma-shaped microbe. Pettenkofer scoffed at the theory. Now I’ve told you about Koch’s earlier work with Bacillus anthracis—Anthrax—through which he discovered that microbes are the root of disease . . .”

Cora nodded, eager to further delay whatever Ulrich had planned for her. Whereas the microbiology greats had inspired Otto, Ulrich idolized Josef Mengele. The Asian flu outbreak that began in 1956 did little to reignite Ulrich’s desire to prevent a global pandemic. But it did solidify his disdain for the Chinese. Surely the appeal for him in developing a universal antidote from her blood now centered on the exclusive access he would have to it, and thus control over its distribution—both in the case of germ warfare or a naturally occurring outbreak.

“Pettenkofer was aware of these findings,” Ulrich said with a flourish of his hand, “as well as Koch’s discoveries of Tubercle bacillus and Streptococcus. Foolishly, he demanded that Koch send him a tube of the supposed cholera microbes so he could prove they weren’t the cause of the disease. Koch obliged, and much to the astonishment of the scientific community, Pettenkofer swallowed the whole damn vialful. He should have died a terrible death. But he didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “That old codger didn’t so much as run a fever. I’m not telling you this story, Cora, to make you feel less special. Instead, it’s to help you understand that the super immunity trait also exists in the Aryan race. And thus, quite possibly in my bloodline.”

“Have there been others?” she stuttered. Consumed with horror about what awaited her, she wanted this discussion to last forever. “Germans, I mean, that can’t get sick.”

“Enough. Story time’s over,” he said, opening his kit.

The next morning, white blanketed the campus. The snow’s brilliance overwhelmed her, yet Cora didn’t look away. Huddled on her cot on the fourth story of the tuberculosis pavilion, she tugged the new comforter tighter around her. Her lower region throbbed, more from the memory of the heinous “medical” procedure than from the act itself.

“You’re to spend the next month resting,” he’d told her while unbuckling the leather straps he’d used to tie her wrists and ankles to the corners of one of the beds in a long row within the communal sleeping room. “I’ll have fresh produce, meat, and dairy, as well as other supplies dispatched to the coal dock weekly, which I expect you to eat—not squirrel away.” He eyed her. “When they arrive, you are to remain out of sight.”

Not even tempted to disobey this command, Cora had nodded. She knew the man who would bring those goods would be the same thug who operated the fishing trawler that always delivered Ulrich to her. No doubt Ulrich was paying him handsomely to look the other way.

“In one month, I’ll return. And continue to do so until you’re pregnant.”

“Why?” She’d wailed.

“You haven’t figured it out? That’s disappointing. Even if immortality isn’t possible for me, I can at least try to establish it for the Gettler lineage.”

Gazing at the dazzling snow, she sipped her pokeberry tea, flavored with the last of the cinnamon and cloves from her stores within the pavilion. The crate she’d opened yesterday was still sitting in the physical plant. Her abdomen was radiating heat, and she wondered if it could be from more than the steaming liquid.

Hugging her middle, she imagined a baby growing within her. For so long, she’d been yearning to experience motherhood. The hope of an antidote that would lead to her eventually having the chance to fall in love and start a family had sustained her through Otto’s and Ulrich’s experimentation.

If a cure never came, this could be her only chance to have a child.

But his child, conceived in such a vile way?

If it were possible for a baby to inherit her immortality, then reason stood that it was equally feasible for it to possess Ulrich’s cruelty. At least with Ulrich, his ability to harm would end one day.

In all likelihood, the Gettlers’ lineage hadn’t crossed with Pettenkofer’s. If that were the case, the baby’s only unique immunity genes would come from her, which would likely mean that his ability to coexist with germs would also be limited to the island. If he couldn’t safely leave Riverside, would Ulrich let her raise him? She bartered with him for supplies; could she do the same for rights to a child?

But what if the infant were normal? She wouldn’t be able to touch her baby. Through six decades of contemplation, she’d recognized that Otto had been right: it could never have worked for her to raise Emmett.

Her love could have killed that little boy, just as it might any child she conceived.

Fourteen months later

March 30, 1965

s another contraction seized Cora’s abdomen, she gritted her teeth to suppress a scream. Attempting to combat the pain that wrapped around to her back, she bent