Experiments with Mustard Gas III

The next round of experiments went very well for Professor Hirt.

The December air of the Natzweiler-Struthof was crisp, the snow glittered on the world outside of the camp and lay in grey, sodden lumps inside the arena circled by the barbed wire, and the groans of the subjects of his latest experiments who lay on their cots dying wafted through the cracks under the doors and into the rest of the camp, unheard.

Martin never would have guessed that a few drops of such an unseemly liquid could do so much harm. He'd heard about the effects of the mustard gas before: Schneider had been visual in his description, but it's always different when you see the things yourself.

The prisoners suffered terribly.

Jan Reißer stepped around the room, photographing the subjects at Hirts' command. Martin didn't understand how liquid could make burns appear on skin, but the Yperit (mustard gas) had done it.

The burns stretched over their arms but also down over the rest of their bodies—places the liquid had never touched.

None of them were dead yet.

But two or three were dying.

Hirt took the cure he'd spent years developing and gave it to them, but it did little to help, especially not to those already far gone. Martin stood behind Hirt like a second shadow. Whenever he was sure that the doctor wasn't looking his way, he turned his head and looked up at the ceiling beams or the face of his watch—a present Marlene had given him on his last visit home.

"It worked wonderfully this time," Hirt muttered almost to himself as he tended to the prisoners. "Franz, hand me the—thank you." Martin had gotten good at knowing what Hirt needed and when. It was usually a towel or something to cool the burns.

Martin didn't understand the Tyrpaflavin—he figured Franz had also been a poor chemist. All he understood was that it was supposed to heal the wounds or help ease the burns.

During the breaks, Reißer and Martin went outside and smoked cigarettes together. Once Reißer explained how the camera worked, which greatly interested Martin—he'd used cameras before but not ones from the 1940s. The oldest one he'd gotten his hands on was his Mom's Sony from 2005.

Today, they smoked in silence. It was the third day after they'd exposed the men inside to the Yperit. Reißer was much better at pretending he was interested by the experiments and not disgusted like Martin evidently was. Hirt often furrowed his brow when he watched how gingerly Martin handed him the equipment or how frequently the man looked away.

"Would you like another?" They usually smoked only one. Martin nodded mutely and picked another cigarette out of the pack.

"Danke (thanks)."

"How's the wife?"

"Good." Martin didn't want to think about Marlene. Not hear. He didn't like the thought of his family being polluted by the energy that ruled the camp. "And yours?"

"Wife's good. She's finally got pregnant."

"Congratulations," Martin said miserably. Why anyone would want to have children during a time of war, he didn't understand.

"It took us half an eternity. She's quite a bit older than I am."

"Really?"

"Yes." He answered and tossed the cigarette butt onto the floor. "She's already forty-two."

"And you are?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Well," Martin said with a laugh, "you're both younger than I am." Than Franz was. "I'm sure she's... incredible."

"She is. I love her very much. But I do hope she's going to have twins. I always wanted two children, but I'm afraid having a second one would be too late at her age. It's a miracle she even got pregnant."

Martin was too preoccupied with the experiments to care about his colleague's wife and their marital problems.

"I was thinking of naming the kid August, you know." Reißer had planned the whole conversation, and it proved he had chosen the right moment to slip in the little test he'd planned. Martin raised his eyebrows and looked at the man with a startled expression. In it, Reißer read everything he wanted to know. It was plainly evident what Martin's face said: why would anyone name their child after that monster of a man? "Or Adolf," Reißer added with a smile. "I'm not sure yet. If it's a girl, I'll be forced to rethink my whole list. I do hope it's a boy, though..." He continued to talk about baby names and other random things that clouded his mind. He noticed Martin's focus was elsewhere but didn't care. He'd figured it out—proven that the flash of aversion he'd seen in his eyes so many times was disdain for Hitler and all his evil schemes. SS-Hauptsturmführer Franz Weiher was terrible at being a Nazi.