“Rests? She’s asleep?”
“Life is hard for her. My being here gives her a chance to rest.”
“How do I control you?”
“The IV drips help me come out, but no—at a certain point I learned I could appear whenever Agna needed me. When life was too hard. When she wanted to rest.”
“And why did he hatch you? What was his purpose?”
“To be the perfect spy, of course. Which I became. Which is what I was in England during the Great War.”
“Were you ever afraid of him?”
Clara threw back her head and laughed, a rough, harsh laugh. “He—” She raised a finger and stuck it in Dr. Carroll’s face. “—he was afraid of me.”
“And what did he have you do?”
“Assignments—simple at first. Receiving an envelope, then holding it for pickup. Delivering packages around Berlin. Continuing Dr. Teufel’s lessons.
“Agna doesn’t care that the kikes are pigs,” she said suddenly. “But they all stick together and try to cheat the Aryan. If you turn your back, they’ll stick a knife in it.”
“What if I were Jewish—would you hate me?”
“I only hate things that are worth hating.”
“Do you hate yourself?”
“There’s hate in everyone—and sooner or later it will always come out.”
“But do you hate yourself?”
“No.” Clara laughed, her disdainful laugh. “But I do hate Agna. And they don’t just teach you how to hate—they teach you how to destroy.”
“Destroy what?”
“You mean, destroy whom.”
“Murder?”
“How to hit, how to kick, how to use your opponent’s own strength and weight against him. Detect, destroy, demolish. We climbed ropes, took furniture apart with razor blades, loaded and unloaded guns …” She smiled proudly. “I became the perfect weapon. Dr. Teufel was proud of me.”
“How do you know?”
“He liked to show me off. To his colleagues. Other doctors.”
“What did he do?”
Her face darkened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What did he do?”
Perspiration began to break out on her forehead. “No, no,” she said, looking flustered for the first time since she had emerged. “No. I passed the test, I don’t want to think about it anymore. They made it so I wouldn’t remember!”
“What test?”
Clara put her head in her hands, unable to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Dr. Teufel gave me the drip. Well, he gave Agna the drip, and then I appeared. It was a special performance for the other doctors.” Clara began to tremble.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Carroll asked.
“I’m scared,” she answered, looking up with large green eyes, sounding more vulnerable than she ever had before. For a moment, Dr. Carroll thought he might be speaking with Agna, but from her facial expression, it was still clearly Clara.
“Why are you scared?”
“They kept me over the weekend,” she whispered.
Dr. Carroll made a note—Clara was reliving an experience. “The doctors?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the date?”
“It’s 1914, right before I’m supposed to go to London. Dr. Teufel needs to prove to them that I’m perfect—the perfect agent. That I will do anything.” She shuddered. “Absolutely anything.”
“Where are you now?”
“In a sort of operating room,” Clara said, her voice small. “Dr. Teufel is with me. There are some other doctors up in the gallery. It’s a performance.” She took a deep breath. “No food. No water. I felt sick.”
Her eyes darted back and forth. “The nurses are pushing me down!” She appeared to struggle. “No! Stop it!” she shrieked.
“Are they administering the IV?” Dr. Carroll asked.
“No,” Clara answered in a low voice. “I was already there.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “He has a candle.”
“A candle?”
“It’s part of the performance. He lit it.” She began to breathe faster. “No, no!” she cried. “No!”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s asking me questions! He’s trying to get me to denounce my blood, my race!” Clara gasped. “No! No!” She began to struggle. “He says it won’t hurt, that he has total control, but …”
“What won’t hurt?”
“He’s trying to put the candle … he’s trying to put the candle …” Clara’s eyes were wild. “No! You said I wouldn’t remember! That I’d never remember!”