Kursed by Lindsay Smith Page B

what you mean.” But I don’t, not in the way he thinks. He’s speaking of eugenics—of Germany’s obsession with genetic purity and superiority, as absurd a concept as any. In Russia, we are not looking to prove a point; we are hunting for weaponry.
    â€œI was a political prisoner, at first, but as soon as they learned I had a medical background, I got special assignments in the labor camps. Tending to the sick and wounded. It sounds very touching, yes, having a medical bay, but make no mistake—they wanted me to carry out one purpose, and one alone. Patch the starving, dying prisoners up long enough that they could squeeze one more day of work from them.”
    â€œBut you were—” I swallow down the noise that had been crawling from me—something exhausted, yet desperate to show horror at the boundless power of humans to cause pain to others. “You were dissecting them. The dead.”
    Doctor Stokowski cups his hand over his mouth, muffling his words. “Yes. Yes, everything changed when they transferred me to Mittelbau-Dora.” His eyelids tug downward. “The factory—it’s only one part of their work there. They have thousands of workers for it, all concentration camp prisoners, and those get fed through the gristle of the assembly line, no doubt about it. But it was also a place of … experimentation.”
    My stomach churns as I dread what comes next.
    â€œTrials, to see what manner of person is best suited to enduring such harsh work. Alterations, experimentation, see how we could tweak the human body to make it work longer on less sustenance … And then autopsies, after we’d worked them to death, to see what effects we’d had.” His hand migrates up to his eyes, heel of his palm against his eyes. “I couldn’t—I never thought I could do such a thing. To anyone. I swore the Hippocratic Oath, to do no harm. But then it became a game, to me.”
    â€œA game of exceptions,” I mutter under my breath. Andrei glances at me from the corner of his eye, but his gaze is back on his meal before I can meet it.
    Stokowski nods. “Yes. Exactly. At least this will keep my sister fed, over in the women’s camp. At least this will spare my sister’s life. At least this will ensure my sister is properly buried. At least I can show the dead proper respect, more than these others would … At least I meant to do right…”
    I always try not to stare too closely into the past—what’s happened is prologue, it’s only the constraints of any given experiment. I can’t change it or shape it or interpret it in any way. So I tell myself. But I think there’s another reason, one that slices to the quick, that keeps me from looking back, and it’s because I don’t want to see the winding path that brought me here.
    To the middle of war-torn Germany, scooping up swastika-sporting monsters to bring them to the Motherland.
    To the confidence of men like Stalin and Rostov, when I promised them a new weapon in the war.
    To the attention of the KGB, as I’ve trimmed away the parts of my research that wouldn’t assure my safety in the Party.
    I’ve willingly aligned myself with the sort of man the doctor felt forced to accept. I thought I had no choice—but I have a chance to do more. To be more.
    I reach for Doctor Stokowski’s hand and squeeze, gently, mindful of his papery skin and bones too close to the surface. “But what of your research before the war?” I ask. “Who were you then?”
    His face shrinks on itself, slowly, struggling. “I—I don’t know.” He sinks back into the seat, hands falling to his sides, and lines up his legs. “I don’t remember. It’s been so long that I just … I didn’t … I never thought I’d escape.”
    I close my eyes and invite my vision of this man in once