It's been quite a week. I had every intention of publishing Part 9 0f Boy's Adventure Tale today, but alas, work intervened. The next chapter must wait a few more days. In compensation for your patience, I offer an excerpt from an unpublished (and also unfinished) Reversed Black Maria novel, this one set in occupied Norway in 1941. It records a very important meeting between Doktor Jørgen Paasche, a recent involuntary conscript of the SS-Ahnenerbe, and...something.
The Voice in the Bunker
The air in the isolierbunker was hot and stale, and it bothered Doktor Jørgen Paasche’s eyes. He’d been on his feet all day, leaning over the workbench in his tiny lab, soldering the relays of his test equipment to a forest of colorful leads emanating from the massive sarg hidden in the next compartment. It was exacting work, but Jørgen was an exacting man, and didn’t mind taking pains to do it right the first time. He barely noticed the tinny bell that announced the midnight watch, and missed altogether the clang of the door when the last SS–mann left for the evening.
At length he completed his task. He collapsed in his rickety chair, too tired to even think of climbing to the surface and slogging through the snow to his hard, itchy bunk.
A small intercom hung on the wall at the back of his workbench. Ancient and rusted, it was nearly hidden by his papers and tools. Jørgen had never heard the slightest noise come out of it, and assumed that it was broken. So when it began to emanate faint sounds, he sat up and paid attention. They reminded him of humming, or perhaps even someone chanting under their breath. But try as he might, he could not pick out any words. After a minute or two the box fell silent, and Jørgen sank back into his chair. He’d nearly nodded off when a single word came out of the little speaker.
“Jørgen.”
It was a woman’s voice, the most thrilling, sensuous female voice Jørgen had ever heard. The raw sex of it cut through the crackly funk of the intercom and sliced deep into his soul. Startled, he fumbled to key the microphone.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
For a long time, there was nothing. Jørgen cleared the junk away from around the box and studied it. Then he laughed. It was disconnected. The incoming wire was neatly clipped off and tucked behind the mounting bracket. The woman’s voice must have been a dream, and there were better places to dream than down in this dank hole, with nothing but the eerie sarg for company. He pulled on his heavy overcoat and black service cap in preparation for the long, cold walk to the SS–barracks. But as he turned for the door, the inert intercom came to life again to answer his question.
“Skadi.”
Jørgen stared at the box in astonishment, waiting and listening. But no more sounds came from it. So silent and focused was he that the quiet cough of a faraway sentry caused him to nearly jump out of his skin. Feeling foolish, he quickly ducked out of the lab and rapidly ascended the steps to the surface. He’d been awake for far too long, and his mind was suffering for it. Perhaps a nap, even a cold, fitful one on an uncomfortable bed, would brace him up.
As it happened, the grate in the barracks had gone out, and there was no more coal. Somehow, in the small black hours, shivering under a heap of every article of clothing he owned, he caught a few hours of sleep.
Jørgen returned to the bunker early the next morning. Fortified by ersatz coffee and a handful of dry crackers, he set about to dissect the offending intercom. It was an exceedingly simple installation, and in a few minutes he was prepared to splice the leads and finish the job. But when he completed the circuit, the little box emitted a piercing electrical shriek. He hastily broke the connection, but not before he heard a laugh from outside his lab.
“Guten morgen, Herr Doktor. I see you found the squawk box,” said SS–Obersturmfuhrer Bauer, grinning in the doorway.
“The system hasn’t worked since I’ve been here. They tell me it is shorted out.”
“So I have discovered,” Jørgen agreed, replacing the cover of the unit.
Bauer stepped into the lab. “What made you think of repairing it?”
Jørgen paused for a moment. Given that there was no possible explanation for the events of the night before, he would prefer to forget them. But he hadn’t imagined that he’d need an excuse for his tampering, and none occurred to him now. “I thought I heard it make a noise last night. I wished to see for myself if it was working, that’s all.”
A strange look crossed Bauer’s face. “Last night? What time was this?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps an hour past midnight.” Jørgen reached for his toolbox, but Bauer grabbed his arm.
“Herr Doktor, you must not do that,” he hissed earnestly.
“What’s that? Put my tools away?”
“No. You must not stay here alone, especially at night. Did no one warn you?”
“No, no one said a thing. Why?”
By way of an answer, Bauer pointed up. Jørgen focused on the indicated spot and saw that a thumb–sized mass of the stained concrete ceiling had flaked away. There were a number of rust–colored marks in and around the damage. As he craned his neck to get a better look, he realized what it must be. “Is that a bullet hole?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Bauer, his expression deadly serious. “That is what the last man to work here at night left us to remember him by. A nice hole and a bit of his brains. Listen to me. Do not stay past the midnight bell, and do not listen to the voice.”
“The voice?”
“You heard me, Herr Doktor,” said Bauer, releasing his arm. “We will not discuss these things again. I’ll see you at the morning status briefing.” Before Jørgen could utter a word, Bauer spun on his heel and left the room.