Where the Bear Dances
by Kjetil Jansen
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Horst still had fifty minutes. He needed both to use the restroom and to eat something. He went by foot to the nearest guesthouse. A crucifix sulked in a corner of the dining room. Pork chops and a Paulaner beer in a mug, 65 pfennig. When he counted the change, the coins felt unreal, a cosmic prank. The innkeeper and the other guests discreetly checked him out.
In his dark suit and white shirt, Horst must have looked like one of those bureaucrats who had taken two perfect villages, Garmisch and Partenkirchen, and forged them together with a stroke of a pen. Or they were on to him: the traitor from the future. Soon they would start pointing and screaming.
How easy paranoia can infect you. Again, he thought about Elser, his dedication, where he himself surely would have adapted and settled in. I, the hero of hindsight. In addition to playing hide and seek in the Keller, Elser had dined there, becoming a regular. That move had helped him through some close calls. He had also squirreled away meat to befriend a guard dog. He must have wondered who among the staff would be present on the appointed night, and would they be among the casualties? One waitress was. Measuring the lives of the few against the many. In this case, from a modern perspective, eight lives against 80 million. Give or take.
As Horst got ready to leave, he felt a cringe. He really should have told Elser to speed up his departure and leave long before the evening the bomb went off. A strange thing, not wanting to disrupt the flow of events leading up to a cataclysm. He pictured him, two mornings into the future, after the final check, when he would go wild and celebrate at the kiosk with two cups of coffee. Then what?
Walking back, he had to blink. Not one, but two cars. Light brown and black, an identical Daimler, the vehicles ten yards apart. A man was standing beside his own. His heart leaped. Something could be right or something could be horribly wrong. Almost a copy of himself, Stefan Riedewald was now the leaner. His suit one shade brighter and a much niftier hat.
“You are early,” Horst said.
“I guess I am.”
“So. How is the world doing?”
His friend and colleague scratched his chin. “First things first. Still no return ticket, I’m afraid.” He patted the black wheelhouse tenderly. “The world is still standing. Unchanged.”
Horst digested this. “Another Daimler. How long?”
“Another six years.”
Automatically, Horst’s eyes began scanning for signs of mileage. “Pleased to see you, but why are you here? Something wrong with our calculations?”
Stefan shifted position. “The university collected the insurance for the ‘stolen’ car but used it to finance other projects.”
Horst nodded. The Universtity of Heidelberg had funded the vintage auto as a gimmick to get media attention and to bring in outside sponsors. When the alleged hydrogen fusion engine failed to materialize, the administration gradually lost interest in the tenderfoot manner typical of such institutions.
“I had to pay for it myself. I needed a roomy car for the machine, and our disguises command a decent vehicle.”
“But what about Ilse? Your sons? That is why I was the one to go, remember? You have more to lose.” He felt a surge of anger and made an effort to calm himself.
Stefan met his gaze. “I pushed them away. I had to know, don’t you see? Did anything go wrong, or did you succeed but by creating another timeline? Early on, I told myself it was all right to leave you in this predicament, but my conscience grew darker. Yes, I left my family, behaved in a way so they are not going to miss me, and I separated them from the debt I had accumulated. Like you, I left no trace.”
Horst moved tentatively closer. He wanted to, but he guessed Sicherheitsdienst officers don’t hug in public. Vanished. They are going to miss you.
“Stefan, you mentioned another timeline. Do you remember back when... how we promised each other never to get sidetracked by time-paradox discussions, but just do it?”
“Yet here we are.” Stefan removed his hat. He had indeed gone bald. “I want you to remember something else: our research on accidents. Until I dared say it out loud, it’s an idea that somehow defines the idea of time travel itself. Once you think of it, there is no escape. Also, remember the days all our investigation into the various assassination attempts got to be just too much, and we talked about saving just one person: the little girl living next door to you who got run over by a car and was paralyzed for life. Go back and tell your father to stay away from the red meat.”
“I think about that girl every day,” said Horst.
“Yes, we had doubts; it’s natural. ‘Make machine, must travel.’ And, in the end, as in old times, you go to the market that has the most and best attractions. You go where the bear dances.”
Stefan fell silent and began to walk toward the other Daimler. He gestured at Horst to follow. Half in sun, half in shadow, the automobile looked like a strange, square insect. Again, Stefan gestured, this time for Horst to look through the back window. Curled up in the back seat, a blanket in disarray by his feet, a man was asleep. He had a high forehead and brushy hair.
Horst tried not to gasp. “You brought him. You brought Elser.”
Stefan squinted at the sun. “I picked him up visiting Johann Brög.” Horst nodded. Another craftsman. And an unwitting helper.
“He came most willingly. I gave him some painkillers. He slept most of the way.”
“Did he mention meeting me?”
Stefan gave it a thought. “He did not. He is a shrewd one. Keeps his cards close to his chest. Perhaps he just assumed we are working together.”
Stefan sighed. “Think about it. Time. We are allowed to be here, but perhaps this upcoming event is too big. Time can only bend so much before it must reset. Another time corridor might hold. Oh well. Whatever may come of the bomb, we at least get to do this: save a very brave man. You have your 15,000 marks, right?”
“I do.”
“I couldn’t afford more than 8,500. Like you, I have Swiss, British, and American passports under various names. So has he.” Stefan started to point but lowered his arm. Elser was awake, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. Stefan opened the car door. They looked at him.
Elser became aware of his surroundings. “Right,” he said, “we will be in Konstanz before nightfall.”
The scientists looked at each other. “You heard the man,” said Stefan.
“I certainly did,” said Horst. Something inside him compelled him to again look at the stadium. “What about the border?”
Stefan tapped him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. Our papers are solid. Those guards, they will not even think to search the cars. If they do, we say the machine is a part of a secret weapon. A weapon to end all wars.”
Horst composed himself. “You drive, I follow.”
“In case we lose each other, do you have a map?”
“No, Stefan, I came all this way just to wing it!”
“Then let’s go.”
Munich, November 8, 1939. Bürgenbräukeller. Bomb goes off at 9:07 pm, leaving 8 dead, thirteen minutes after the target had left the premises, having delivered an earlier and shorter speech than usual for this annual event commemorating the failed putsch of 1923.
Reports concluded that a large iron bar falling to the podium would have killed the target.
Action: Inform lone instigator Georg Elser of schedule change.
Conclusion: Worth looking into.
The first thing to point out: the accidents are true. Except for the bizarre Munich incident involving a fictional country presumably named Israel. Stranger still are — with one obvious and still unsolved exception — the fictitious assassination attempts, involving among others Claus von Stauffenberg, our very first Bundeskanzler after the Age of Expansion ended.
Regarding this Georg Elser, at the time a person with that name was reported to the police by his former Munich landlord, Alfons Lehmann, who found him “creepy and taciturn” and stated, “He claimed to be an inventor.” There is no record of any further investigation. Elser was never heard from again. A sign of the times.
To conclude: At this stage of the investigation, I dismiss the notebook as evidence. It is either a product of delusion or thought experiments. I suggest, after having conferred with Mr. Riedewald’s former wife and finder of the notebook, Ilse Wepper Riedewald, to hand it over, at her request, to the German-Austrian History Museum for possible further examination.
The cases remain open.
Copyright © 2023 by Kjetil Jansen
