Meyer-Hofmann AG

25

Heinz Hofmann prepared himself for another night in the basement of the Company’s club in the Odeonsplatz. He had insisted that they make no fuss, and was bunking in one of the guard’s rooms on a portable steel bed. He had thought about a hotel outside of the city, but that would mean a commute that he was keen to avoid. The club provided him with everything he needed, food, water, and a bed. All that, and access to all the Company’s records. He had taken to studying them long into the night, as the nights were the worst. Sitting in the interrogation room, leaning against the chair with a needle in his right arm, the doctor standing over him, he was feeling anything but confident about the final outcome of his metamorphosis.

“Why is this taking so long, Doctor? Shouldn’t Jarvis be losing touch by now?”

“This is not an exact science, Herr Hofmann. You must be patient.”

“I have no time for patience. There is too much to be done—I don’t have time for this shit. Can’t you just up the dosage or something?”

“It is not a question of the dosage, but finding the best strain of the virus to change the DNA and destroy his memory synapses. It would seem that Jarvis’s memory has wired itself unconventionally. It should be responding to treatment, but it appears to have multiple synapses to the same memory chain. As we destroy one, it opens another. I believe that your old memory is almost totally regenerated. The problem is, that Jarvis’s memory has not been destroyed. He must have suffered some very intense emotional trauma in early life; that is the only explanation for all this. Extreme emotional arousal can cause memories to become far more intense and deep-rooted.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Ecker bent over to take the needle out of Hofmann’s left arm; as he did, Hofmann grabbed his arm, squeezing down with enormous force.

“Aghh, Herr Hofmann!” Ecker bleated.

“Listen to me, Furtner. Get this sorted, and get it sorted quickly—nobody is irreplaceable!”

“I will, I will. Tomorrow, I want to try four new strains. We will get this done. We will defeat him. Trust me, please.”

Hofmann released him, and Ecker stumbled backwards, rubbing his left arm as he went. Then, regaining his composure, he straightened himself.

“Herr Hofmann, the human brain is capable of housing anything up to a 1,000 terabytes of memory, and has over a trillion synaptic connections. It is not a simple rewiring job! The neurons in Jarvis’s brain are creating new synapses, connecting your memories and forgetting his. They have been responsible for your rebirth, but if you feel you have someone better qualified… ” Ecker didn’t wait for a reply. Leaving Hofmann with the needle still in his arm, he turned and left the room.

Hofmann ripped the offending tubes from his arm, hurling the intravenous drip to the floor before taking off after Ecker. As Hofmann came slamming through the door, the doctor had hardly a chance to turn before Hofmann was on him. He hooked his right leg around the doctor’s legs and shoved him hard in the back, and Ecker hit the ground like a Canadian redwood. Grabbing the back of his hair, Hofmann pulled his head back, before smashing it sharply into the floor, producing an audible snap as the doctor’s nose broke. Enraged, Hofmann growled into Ecker’s left ear.

“Don’t underestimate me, Ecker. Furtner will soon be reanimated, and then I can get rid of your sorry arse!”

Releasing the doctor’s hair, Hofmann stood and walked casually down the hall towards his room, ignoring Von Klitzing and two guards who were sprinting in his direction.

“What happened?” Von Klitzing asked.

“The doctor came face-to-face with his new reality.”

With that, Hofmann turned the corner and disappeared into his room, leaving Von Klitzing turning back and forth between the closed door and the dishevelled, bloodied figure of Dr Ecker.

Hofmann lay on the bed, exhausted, his arm still throbbing where he had ripped the needle from his vein. He watched the luminous alarm clock’s green display light bouncing back off the ceiling, its hypnotic effect pushing him towards a dark sleep’s cold embrace. The dream came instantaneously and was a mixture of both his past and Jarvis’s present firing simultaneously, a kaleidoscope of thoughts and images vying for ascendancy. Hofmann could feel the other man’s presence even as he dreamt, a spectre at his back. Together, they visited his childhood, intimate moments with his mother in the kitchen of the family’s first house. A small boy’s first school day, and a proud mother clasping her son’s face in both hands, fortifying him for the day ahead with a kiss on the forehead. Hofmann felt angry that Jarvis should become privy to such a vulnerable moment from his past. But it was not long before they were transported from his mother’s kitchen to the German Reichstag in Berlin, and Hofmann’s first meeting with the newly elected Führer. Huge red banners adorned with black swastika hung on the walls, framing the men’s embrace, both pumped with national pride and radiating the power they now held in their hands. This was a scene he was pleased for Jarvis to share. Then the picture blurred, and the walls seemed to elongate themselves, turning the Reichstag into a white hall, and, finally, a hospital ward. Complete with beds and curtains, it was totally devoid of patients. Only the soft crying resonating from the end of the ward, from behind a pea green door next to the main entrance, alerted them to the presence of a young girl. They were drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Both were aware that this was a part of Hofmann’s past he did not wish to share. The door was now in front of them and opening of its own accord. The room behind it was small, with a bed in the corner, and next to it was a hospital table holding a bank of old-fashioned electronics. The compulsory curtain was half-drawn around the bed so that you could make out a figure curled up at one end of the bed. She was wearing a hospital gown, which revealed a malnourished pubescent body. Her vertebrae and ribs were clearly visible through paper-thin, pale skin. A mop of greasy hair stuck to her shoulders and back. The gown, loosely tied with three thick cotton bands of material, could not protect her modesty. The girl was facing towards the wall so that they could not see her face, but Hofmann knew who it was. The rebirth policy had demanded that all of the chosen board members should parent a male child. With one exception, this was done by artificial insemination. He had been the exception. Choosing the prospective mother himself, he had deemed it his duty to impregnate her the natural way, devoting two weeks to the cause. He had visited the girl every evening after business hours. They had been given the nurse’s station room, and every evening, without fail, she had been there. All of the girls had been chosen from the local Hitler youth, the indoctrinated girls all keen to support the cause. These men were all heroes in their eyes, confidants of the Führer. It was an honour. She had been submissive, even happy the first few times, he remembered. But that had soon changed when he allowed his deviant nature to get the better of him. The last week of their partnership, she had dissolved into the whinging, whining mess that sat before them.

Michael listened to the man’s thoughts and watched his memories. He recognised the sound of the girl’s voice from the apartment.

That is why the neighbours knew nothing about her.

He had almost forgotten her pleading voice in the madness that had become his life.

She turned to face them, terror in her eyes, her legs working frantically to move away from him, pressing her up into the corner of the bed against the walls. Her hands pushed at the bed sheets, her eyes looking at the ceiling for some salvation. Michael felt his arm raise, poised to hit her. An all-consuming desire to teach her her place.

NO! His silent scream ejected them from the room.

Michael wrestled with his thoughts, trying desperately to make sense in them.

Who was this man?

It was Hofmann’s turn to look into the eyes of strangers. The couple in front of him stood in their eighties lounge; its patterned turquoise carpet and matching three-piece suite was alien to him. These were Michael’s first foster parents, and Hofmann felt himself taking a back seat as Jarvis’s life took its place in their combined consciousness. Michael had hated these people, but for no good reason. Seeing the welcome on their faces now filled him with guilt.

My God, the Greens. Why am I seeing this? Michael watched the scene, spellbound.

Mrs Green was on her knees, trying to console the child sandwiched between the strangers in front of him and the others holding his hands. Michael felt the child’s desperation and need to find an escape, unable to accept the warmth being offered to him. But he remembered her quilted skirts and purple cardigan. The smell of lavender, which filled the house and permeated her clothing. Mr Green was there too, wearing his thick eyeglasses, which made his eyes look disproportionate to his head. They were good people, and Michael had lived with them for the best part of a year.

Turning away from the scene, they found themselves on the steps of Leeds University, watching a young woman float past them. The huge sandstone building and clock tower were a blur, as that vision of loveliness blew through. It was love at first sight, a concept that had been alien to Michael until that moment. Love, a word he had read in books and seen in the faces of friends but never felt himself. The girl was disappearing into a crowd of commuters, and Michael felt that pang of loss, just before the men awoke.

Both staring at the same cold white ceiling, they remained perfectly aware of each other’s presence and were unable to decide what to do. Michael desperately tried to understand what was happening to him; Hofmann, all too aware of the process taking place. For a moment, neither man could separate himself from the other. Then Hofmann felt a bolt of fear course through him, as he watched his right hand grip his injured left arm, squeezing him into unconsciousness.

Lying very still, scared that a wrong movement or thought may rob him of control, Michael held the wound tightly. For some reason, he was sure that as long as he could feel the pain, he could hold supremacy. Although he did not really understand what had happened to him, he was at even more of a loss as to what he could do about it.

Michael remembered Hofmann’s life as vividly as if it were his own. Trying to relax as much as he could, he reran the different scenes through his mind again.

The man had been a confidant of Hitler, an industrialist during the last war. He believed he and his colleagues could be reborn through their children, and getting that poor girl pregnant was all part of their plan. Filled with panic, he delved deeper into the memories, searching for a lifeline. Watching the scenes play out, he was able to remember the man’s thoughts and feelings. His name was Hofmann. Heinz Hofmann.

Hofmann’s childhood hopes and dreams were not unlike those of any child during his school years. From dreams of becoming a professional footballer to marrying his first love. An apprenticeship in his father’s company had proved to be the turning point. The man had led a normal life until then. The company had been his passion—it manufactured parts for the car industry, and his father had built it up from scratch. In the mid-1920s, however, the company experienced its first loss. As the great depression took hold and demand dropped across the world, profit margins suffered. On top of that, the company faced new and intense competition from local competitors. Jewish-owned companies were undercutting them and became the focus of Hofmann’s outrage. By forming cooperatives, Jewish suppliers had made themselves more cost-efficient than his father’s company. Hofmann had watched his father tear himself apart trying to save the business. Resisting the urgings of his son to make redundancies to streamline the company and make it more competitive, he had waited until the company stood on the brink of bankruptcy before taking his own life instead. Hofmann, forced to take the reins from his father, went about it with a zeal that bordered on the maniacal. He halved the workforce, undercut the competition, and started to source his raw materials from less reputable suppliers. When the bank manager informed him that they were about to foreclose, he broke two of the man’s fingers, before threatening the life of the banker’s only child. By the end of the month, there had been a series of fires at his competitor’s premises, which filled his order books and returned the company to solvency. His success had set the tone for the rest of his business life—he took what he wanted. After he met and went into a joint venture with the equally scruples-free Franz Meyer, their future was written. Misdemeanours turned into serious crimes, fibs into lies, false bookkeeping into corruption, and threats into murders. When the men’s attention was drawn to a young Adolf Hitler, they introduced their business methods into politics. Actively supporting Hitler was in both their interest and his. He was a young man with a future, in a land that was crying out for change. They were businessmen in need of political influence. Helping him to gain power served them both. Hitler’s party had already recognised him as a great orator, able to galvanise the voters’ support. Now, with financial backing, he became the obvious choice for party leader. The way had not been without its setbacks, but even after Hitler’s arrest after the “beer hall putsch” the businessmen’s support helped to get him released within nine months of a five-year sentence. Strangely, this setback had brought Hitler to the attention of the German people, and it was just a matter of time before the Nazi Party got itself elected. Hofmann and Meyer didn’t waste any time convincing Hitler to support the automotive industry—creating new jobs in their industry was what the country needed. After coming to power in the 1930s, the Nazi Party passed its Motorisierung policy, which saw the motor industry as a key to returning the German people to work and prosperity.

The more Michael remembered about the man’s past, the more his feelings swung towards a deep loathing. Michael had his own strong beliefs about life; not all were positive, but he had a strong moral compass. Hofmann had been a monster, and he could feel his corrosive history burning into his brain like non-ethical acid. Flooding him with knowledge and indoctrination that had no place in his mind or soul. Sweat poured from his forehead, yet he felt freezing cold, shaking with anxiety. By the time he managed to push the memories from his mind, he had reached an inescapable conclusion.

Hofmann was a relative and most probably my grandfather. It explains my childhood to some extent. There is no other explanation.

The nefarious nature of the man was poisoning him, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. He felt the absolute necessity to get out of the building. The concrete walls of the basement were oppressive, but the building had taken on a more iniquitous air, oozing the immorality of its proprietors. Struggling from the bed, he took a brief look in the mirror before picking up his wallet and watch from the bedside table. Unsure of exactly what to do or where to go, he determined that confidence was the best policy and strode through the corridors in the direction of the lift to the club upstairs. A guard sat at a small table next to the lift door. He was a young man, but incredibly well built, and he watched Michael with suspicion. Hitting the elevator’s button, Michael did his best not to make eye contact.

“Will you be long, Mr Jarvis?”

“No, I am just popping out for some air.”

Michael wondered what Hofmann would have done in the circumstances, but it was too late for that. The guard was already on top of him. He was incredibly strong, levering Michael’s right arm up behind his back and slamming him up against the elevator door. The panic lasted less than a second. He had inherited more than just a bad temper from his grandfather. As the lift door opened in front of him, he went into a forward roll, carrying the guard on his back and ploughing him face-first into the elevator’s mirrored interior. Springing to his feet, Michael stamped down on the young guard’s neck with all the force he could muster. The snap of the guard’s cerebral spine echoed around the cabin, as his body became a heap on the polished floor. Shocked by his actions, Michael still had the presence of mind to move the body. Carrying it fireman style back to his room, he laid it out on his bed. The young soldier’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring blankly up at the bedroom wall. Michael only just made it to a small basin in the corner of the room before being sick. His head spinning with the realisation of what he had just done, he stumbled back against the wall, his hands clawing it for stability, his eyes unable to pull away from his victim’s blank stare.

I killed him. Oh my God! Michael’s right hand came up to his mouth as his stomach threatened a repeat performance.

I have to get out of here! His fear now overriding all other emotions, he set off for the elevator for a second time. Punching the ground floor button, he pressed himself against the broken mirrored wall, still unable to escape the dead, staring eyes of the guard. When the lift doors opened, he sprang through them, running towards the club’s exit whilst leaving a half-dozen bewildered waiters watching his desperate departure.

Once on the street, fighting back the panic, he started to walk towards the Underground, every step a struggle, his entire body screaming for him to run. The feeling of a myriad of eyes examining his every step persisted. Only the distant call of his name prompted a change of plan, fight or flight? He made the decision in a heartbeat. Accelerating to a sprint, Michael took off down Ludwig Street. Convinced he could hear the sound of men running behind him, he put his head down and ran as hard as he could towards a distant underground station. Despite his exertions, he could tell that they were closing and started looking for an alternative. Spotting the entrance to a courtyard on his right, he hurdled the red and white barrier and sped toward the communal gardens of the Bavarian Governments Libraries. The green space was lovingly kept, the few trees surrounded by golden shower roses, their yellow blossoms complementing the daffodils planted around the garden’s circumference. Ripping through the boundary flowers, he sprinted across the garden, making for the building’s entrance on the other side. Screaming to a halt, he found himself with the choice of two black polished doors. Neither door was signed, and his decision to take the right door had more to do with the golden door handle than any expectation of solace behind it. Twisting the handle, he put his shoulder into the door, only to be bounced back into the garden by the solid structure, landing hard on his left shoulder. A bolt of pain shot up his back and shoulder, and panic filled his heart. As he made to stand, the feeling was quickly replaced by the pain of a wasp like sting, as a tranquiliser dart impacted with his neck.