Save the Last Bullet for God (9 page)

“The old caregiver?” This was her first
question.

“He died. They pumped his stomach, but they
couldn’t save him. More than thirty pills were removed—”

“We couldn’t get out of that place without
the keys,” she muttered angrily.

I looked at her. I could tell by her face
that she felt some regret for the old man’s death.

“What about your fiancé?”

“My fiancé? Oh, Peter, you mean. It would not
have worked anyway. We broke up in Munich shortly after.”

“So he wasn’t the reason you left me?”

“He was a tool, and, when he lost his
function, I was done with him.”

“You mean like me?”

“As for you... well…I did not even know you,
and I was stuck in a very bad situation. To be honest, I couldn’t
have done it without you.”

“I went to Munich a few times looking for
you. I wandered around the city hoping to see you again.”

“It would not have changed anything.”

“Back then I thought it would. Fate, chance,
and so on.”

“I would call it fate that you told me about
the Sumerians. That allowed me to find the source of my delusions
and the language of those who were in touch with me. And, of
course, that’s how I met Berton,” she said looking straight at
me.

“So I was used.”

“It is no use to dramatize what happened. If
I was with you, you would have gotten worn out. You are a
successful doctor, and you have a very nice girl with you.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s my last night in
this country, and I think I won’t be able to come back.”

“Why?”

“Your dear Hitler doesn’t want me here.”

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“Love me.”

“Something else?” she smiled.

“I wish I could change the past,” I said,
looking intently into her eyes.

“You can,” she said mysteriously.

I smiled, “How?”

“Easily. Stop Doomsday from happening and,
then, kill God,” she said. She paused for a moment and stared at
me. Her gaze was something that I had really missed. Changing her
mysterious attitude and tone of voice, she continued cheerfully,
“But first, you need to accept the mission and sign it with blood.
Only then can I be yours.”

“
You must understand something,” I
replied. “For me to accept this mission, you must not only be mine.
You must also love me.”

“You want something that’s impossible. Can we
offer you something else?” she asked, staring at me.

“As I’ve said, I can only accept this mission
in return for something very precious. I can only accept your love
for me.”

“Hmmm…you drive a hard bargain, and you have
me cornered now…I guess that I must accept,” she said.

I felt elated for a moment. But I also knew
what she was asking of me. I looked her in the eye and we both felt
sad, then, remembering the things we would miss.

…

The music grew faster, and those on the dance
floor came back to their tables, exhausted. Taking a big sip from
her wine and sitting by my side, Hellen kissed me. “Did you miss
me?” she asked.

“You were always by my side,” I said, slyly
hiding my feelings.

Following Berton’s lead, we raised our
glasses in a toast and continued drinking.

Otto Reinhardt leaned forward, lit his
cigarette in the candle, and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.
“You’re a psychiatrist, right, Dr. Reich?”

“In a sense, yes,” I said in a bid to sound
self-deprecating.

“I don’t know if it’s your field, but I’d
like to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes, we remember past events very
well, but other times, we don’t. Why is this? Is it because the
memories are buried in our subconscious and we can’t dig them
out?”

“Sometimes, yes. The brain connects memories
to each other with triggers, and we can access the memories, most
of the time, by accessing those triggers. But, if it’s a
seldom-used memory, then its trigger might be rusty. Sometimes, we
must associate the memories with something else.”

“How?” the young officer asked excitedly.

“For instance, if I say ‘1969’ to you, you
would recall nothing because the date isn’t a trigger,” I said.

“The first man stepped onto the moon,” Maria
said. We all looked at her in astonishment. But, when we noticed
the smile on her otherwise blank face, we all laughed, joining in
the joke.

I continued, “Anyway, that’s a bad example.
Let’s say, ‘1912.’ If we ask our Führer about this date, he would
probably remember Vienna, the period when he was an artist and had
to go back to Munich, giving up painting as he ran out of money and
hope.”

I turned to Maria and asked, “1912?”

“I was in Zagreb. I received my first
message, got very excited, and tried to tell others.”

The table burst into playful laughter.

Maria took my cue, turned to Berton, and
repeated “1912?”

Through his laughter, he said, “I can say it
was the best year of my life. As I was a teacher out in the
country, a rich farmer hired me as a tutor for his son. While
giving lessons to the boy, I also taught sexuality to his mother. I
was young and ambitious, and the woman was thirsty for love. When
these combined together…” A paroxysm of laughter cut off his words.
Pulling himself together and wiping away the tears in his eyes, he
went on. “When her husband learned about the situation, he didn’t
take it very kindly, and this is my reminder of it.” He pointed to
the scar above his eyebrow.

“I don’t even remember the name of the
woman,” he said.

“Gabriele,” I hissed between my teeth.

“Gabriele . . . yes, yes, Gabriele, but how
do you know?” As he was trying to speak, he looked me up and down.
I wasn’t laughing and soon nobody else was laughing either.

“After you got beaten up and left, she tried
to commit suicide. She died after suffering for days.”

“Wilhel…?” he tried to ask before I punched
his nose.

Berton stumbled back and tried to back away,
but I jumped on him and hit him again. Reinhardt, the lieutenant,
came out of his shock and grabbed me around the shoulders. Seeing
his opportunity, Berton stood up and began to hit me with all the
strength and speed he had. A few blows to my face almost made me
black out.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of glass breaking
and the arms of the lieutenant loosened. As I pulled away from the
man, I saw Hellen with a broken bottle in her hand and the
lieutenant swaying with blood gushing from his head. While the
blood leaked through his hair and spread over his eyebrows, the
girl screamed and the officer stumbled back and fell. He held onto
a tablecloth as he went down pulling it over him along with the lit
candle. Otto Reinhardt was suddenly covered in blue and yellow
flames. Panic broke out.

Berton, who was also paralyzed in shock, was
now mine. I kicked at his feet and, when he went down on his knees,
drove my knee into his face. I jumped on him and he lost his
balance completely. I grabbed his hair and hit his head on the
floor repeatedly. When he lost consciousness, I turned him over and
pressed my elbow into his throat until I heard the sound of
breaking cartilage. He tried in vain to scratch my face and push me
back with his hands, but I held on, leaning down to whisper into
his ear, “Shhh! Calm down, death is coming.”

As Berton’s body twitched and he breathed his
last, I looked at Maria. While Hellen had turned away from me,
Maria looked into my eyes. I pressed the palm of my right hand, now
covered in blood, to my heart. Maria closed her eyes and
nodded.

I stood up. My hands and knees were
shaking. I collapsed on the closest chair and looked around. Most
of the people in the club had run away. The girl and one of the
waiters attended to a whimpering Reinhardt, his face burned from
the now extinguished flames. I leaned down, took a half-filled
bottle and poured the remaining alcohol down my dry throat. I
turned around and saw
that Maria was gone. A
hand
touched me. I turned and looked at Hellen. She lit a cigarette,
drew on it, and put it between my lips. She took a chair, sat by my
side, and put her hand on my shoulder. Searching my pockets, I
found Hitler’s letter and the documents and lay them on the table.
Then we all quietly waited for Himmler’s man.

1 December 1957, Ft. Leavenworth Prison,
USA

Wilhem Reich

After the incident at the nightclub, I
suffered the rage of Himmler, who had lost his man, Berton. I was
tortured and there were beatings in a dark, cold vault, but
Himmler, in all his rage, didn’t kill me—
Heil Hitler!—
Instead, I was exiled.

I took refuge in Sweden, leaving everything
behind except my name and the information Maria had given me. The
translated text described a blue energy that generated all the
unique features of a living being. I eventually named it “organon”
and did my best to prove its existence.

Utilizing some of the vast research by
Professor Schumman, the head of the Technical University in Munich
and of the science team evaluating the data received from the Vril
community, I became familiar with the theory of “the Schumann
resonances.” This led to a proof—or so I thought—through
experiments that I carried out on microscopic beings called
protozoa. I did my best to share what I had found with other
scientists while also trying to publish articles about my proofs,
but none of these efforts were very helpful. Such a radical idea
was too much for the period. Those who didn’t want to change or
restructure the existing scientific system labeled me a quack, and
the tolerant ones accused me of falsifying my experiments’ results.
Nobody dared to study or test my work objectively. Fortunately, the
USA welcomed me with open arms.

Here in America, I developed a machine called
the “organon accumulator” using the information Maria had given me.
Although I didn’t quite understand how it worked or the technology
on which it was based, I followed the design in the schema to the
letter and the result was a success.

Unfortunately, the pressures of the Cold War
turned the land of the free into a paranoid state. The American
government did not appreciate my work. They burned my books and
made me smash all my devices. As if that wasn’t enough, they sent
me here, to this prison, under very dubious charges.

My only desire was to help humanity.

Now I’m in prison and tired of living and
struggling. I’m old and all alone in my cell, serving a sentence
for reasons that nobody, including those who kept me inside,
understand.

But I’m aware of the organon energy now. I
understand it. But I also understand humanity isn’t ready for it
yet. As I said in my will, these findings and notes should be
revealed only 50 years after my death.

Why 50 years?

The reason is that, now, I know the answer
to the question that Dr. Freud asked me when I visited him the
first time in his clinic.

“
Yes, Dr. Freud, the future affects
the past for sure. And maybe, by affecting the future, I can change
my past.”

Part 2

CODE OF DİSJOINTED LETTERS

2012, Istanbul

Right before
Doomsday

I met Wilhelm Reich in high school. Those
were the years when books were printed on paper and libraries were
highly respected. The years when I spent my Sundays wandering
through the book bazaar—I knew all the books that each salesperson
displayed on their tables and immediately recognized any new
ones—The years when I would quietly sneak home so that my parents
wouldn’t scold me for buying more books.

I grew acquainted with Wilhelm Reich because
he was often quoted by the left-wing intellectuals. His used books
were cheap, and the names of his books were cool. But I always
struggled to understand his writing and gave up in disappointment.
Whenever I picked up the books again and tried to make more sense
of them, I would quickly give up and they would end up once more
collecting dust on the shelves of my library.

However, while I was a university student,
my elder brother, Turgay, brought Wilhelm Reich back into my life.
One day, just before I started my first year of studies, Turgay was
scanning my shelves and he abruptly announced, “This man was a
nutcase! He said that mankind wouldn't be able to understand him in
his time and that they would only understand him in the future. So,
in his will, he requested that his books only be published 50 years
after his death. No one, not even his lawyers, understood him."

Suddenly, Wilhelm Reich regained my
interest, and I often found myself thinking about his ideas. Were
there discoveries in his writing that could only be understood with
the technology of the future? Had he foreseen the development of
the computer and invented a machine that could only be used with
its help? Since he was a psychiatrist, had he made a discovery
about the human brain but decided that mankind had to be more
developed before they could understand it? Why would a person give
importance to something that would only happen after his death?
Clearly it would have no benefit to him.

I entered medical school, completed my
compulsory community service in a remote village, and did my
further training to become a radiologist after returning to
Istanbul. All the while I pushed Wilhelm Reich into the recesses of
my mind. Only one question troubled me: what happened to the will
of Wilhelm Reich?

I asked one of my colleagues about this and
he answered, “Nothing, I think. All I know is the man established a
children's fund and wrote a will to donate his wealth to that
fund.”