The Scientist

You know, I don't blame them for going after him. Honestly, it was going to happen. His fate was sealed from the time he began strolling down that street. It was 1966, and Cologne was far from a sleepy small town. There's always something going on in the shadows that we don't talk about. But I'll tell you why: because I remember it so well. And I was there. Okay, sort of.

It was early in the morning, maybe around 7:30. The sky had that light, uncaring gray that only German winters can provide. I wasn't out on the street, but my aunt was. She had an apartment on the second level, immediately over the bakery. I was staying with her at the time. Recovering from something or other. My nerves weren't terrific back then. But it is beside the point.

So I was sitting in the living room, sipping my coffee, when I heard her yell from the window. It was bizarre. Her speech was weak and nearly hysterical. "They are coming! "They're coming for him!" she exclaimed.

Naturally, I hurried over. I had no idea who she was talking about at first, but when I peered out the window, everything became clear. I spotted him—a young man, possibly in his late twenties. He was walking to work, minding his own business. Then, from all sides, these sleek and scary black automobiles emerged. Like something from a movie. They weren't typical autos, you see. Too neat and exact. I knew right away they were going to take him.

But he was faster than they expected. Oh, yes, much quicker. When he saw the automobiles approaching, he sprinted rather than panicking. He was rushing across the street for his life. I stared, riveted. The entire action played out like a slow-motion chase. The dark automobiles drew closer, but he zigzagged through the alleyways like a rabbit dodging a pack of wolves.

That's when my aunt jumped into action. She peered out the window, her hand shaking over the buzzer that opened the front door. "Here! "Come here!" she exclaimed, and he noticed her. Thank God for it. He ran for our building, just ahead of those cars. You could hear their motors roaring behind him, like if snarling.

By the time he got to our door, I could hear him gasping for air as he ran up the stairs. He hammered on the door, and my aunt let him in without hesitation.

He sank on the couch, his chest heaving. He appeared afraid, but also like a guy who had just escaped the clutches of something far larger than himself. I offered him water, but he turned it down. "Call the police," he yelled. "Now."

I followed instructions, and the cops arrived in what seemed like minutes. If you ask me, that's too fast. Almost as if they expected it. They didn't ask many questions; they simply took him with them. I recall thinking, "Well, that's the last we'll see of him." And you know what? I was correct.

Now here's where things get difficult. They say his father died in World War II. It appears that someone is a nuclear physicist. Brilliant individual who worked on some top-secret projects. However, there were always rumors. People claimed he wasn't actually dead and that the Russians had kidnapped him. They said he had been relocated to Siberia or somewhere equally isolated, still working and alive.

What about this young man, our visitor? He wasn't your average young man. He was also a physicist, studying the same things as his father. Apparently, that was enough to get him on someone's radar. Most likely, it was the Russians. Perhaps they needed someone to continue on the old man's work, or they suspected he knew something he shouldn't. They wanted him, and they were going to get him, no matter what.

After that day, we never saw him again. I asked around, but nobody knew anything. The cops left no trace, and his family—wife and children—also fled. Some claim they were brought to a safe place and hidden away for protection. Others believe he was hauled away to some secret institution, possibly the same one where his father had been placed. Who knows. All I know is that the man who barged into our house that day had vanished, just like his father before him.

But, you see, there's something strange about the whole situation. The way the automobiles moved. The police arrived very swiftly. I mean, what are the odds? It makes you wonder who was actually pulling the strings. I'm not claiming it was a setup, but sometimes things don't add up correctly.

But I recall every detail. After all, I was present.

Wasn't I?

I remember his aunt! Oh, yes, THE aunt. Now she was a piece of work. I knew her, as did everyone in the area. Unmarried, childless, and as cold as a January morning. Her name was Gertrud, and she exuded a sense of superiority that, in my opinion, did not fit her situation. A very tough elderly bird. The type of woman who could make a hardened soldier cower with a single look.

People have whispered about her, you know. Nobody liked her much, especially after what happened to her sister. Oh, you hadn't heard about that? Gertrud's sister, Ilse, used to be an entrepreneur. If I remember correctly, she owned a tiny shop, a bakery. A good one too. People adored her; she has the warm touch Gertrud lacked. Gertrud was smart. Indeed, he was overly intelligent. She understood how to manipulate the right people and say the right things. Ilse had left the business before anyone realized it. Forced out, if you believe the rumors, which I do. Gertrud took control, and the place changed forever after that.

But here's a twist. For all of the cruelty she was accused of, there was one person she adored more than anything else in the world. That boy. The young man who dashed into the house of my aunt that day, frantic and terrified. Her nephew, the one she'd raised as her own son after his father perished in the war, and his mother—well, nobody really knows what happened to her, do they?

Gertrud cherished him and doted on him in an almost unnatural way, given how chilly she was around everyone else. She had little use for his sister—poor thing—but what about him? He could not do anything wrong in her sight. She gave him everything she had, every ounce of affection she could muster, which, to be honest, wasn't much. But that was sufficient. He grew up under her thumb, constantly by her side. She made sure he attended the top schools and had the best education. She wanted him to be as clever as his father. Perhaps even better.

It's strange, however. When I think about that day—the cars, the police, and the way he vanished—I constantly wonder what role my aunt played in it all. Sure, my aunt saved him from the Russians, but was it truly for him? Or for his aunt? Perhaps they knew more than they admitted. After all, Gertrud was a clever woman who was always one step ahead of the pack.

But, then again, it doesn't seem to matter just now. He's gone, and so has they. Whatever secrets they maintained between themselves perished. All I know is that once he disappeared, Gertrud was never the same. People say she became increasingly secluded and resentful. But I think losing him destroyed her in ways that nothing else could. Funny, isn't it? The most callous lady I've ever known, and the only thing that could break her was the death of the one person she actually cared about.

But then again, who am I to say what actually occurred? I only know what I have heard and seen. Sometimes memories can fool you. But I remember her. Oh yeah I remember her vividly.