side of its doorway. The fire had broken through the wall between the office and the darkroom; papers swirled from Ritter’s desk, charring in midair. Pavli lowered his head and pushed through the smoke.
The electrical generator had failed; he could barely see in the surgery’s dim space, the only light that from the burning office. He stepped forward, hands outstretched.
His fingertips hit something wet and yielding, warm not from the fire, but from the heat still fading from its core. “Matthi…” He whispered the name aloud, though he knew it was not his brother, only the red thing left behind by Ritter’s scalpels.
Blind, he turned and bumped into a wheeled cart, the one he had seen so many times before through the camera viewfinders. He heard liquid slosh inside a shallow basin; it smelled of chemicals as well, but different, the preserving ones that Ritter had used on the valuable part of his subjects. Wetness, warm as blood itself, soaked through Pavli’s shirt and spread across his stomach. He reached forward, the fluid lapping up to his wrists. He felt something soft beneath his fingertips, something that floated and drifted in the basin, like a suit of some delicate fabric that had been discarded in a pool of ocean water.
His hands raised, palms upward. Draped across them was a sleeve of silk, empty now of any other substance. A long incision, the work of Ritter’s scalpel, ran along its length, curving at its narrowest taper, where the hand, a vacant glove, rested its fingers against Pavli’s. The fire’s glow brightened in the surgery’s doorway, and he saw the tattooed wound at the wrist, the stigma black in the partial light.
The last one… his brother. He brought his face down toward the mute object, as though he could lay his cheek against it, to comfort his grief. Still submerged in the basin, Matthi’s face, eyeless, mouth parted, watched him.
Pavli…
Beyond the roaring of the flames, trembling of the earth under the asylum; and closer, past the hissing of the liquid spilled over the heated instruments – he heard his own name spoken.
Go… you cannot stay here. His brother’s face, beneath the preserving fluids, gazed up at the smoke mounting against the ceiling. You must go now…
The surgery fell to silence, the hidden walls drawing away from the dissecting table. Pavli listened but heard no more. His heart slowed from its panic. He felt as if he could close his eyes and his brother would wrap him in embrace, arms things of flesh again, rocking him to sleep in the bed they had shared so long ago.
Go…
He tilted his hands, letting the wet silk slide from them. It drifted in the water ghostlike, the motion of the fluid swelling the hollowed chest, then letting it sink once more. He turned away from the basin.
The smoke in Ritter’s office had become so dense that he could barely feel his way through. Coughing, eyes watering, he found the desk and stooped down. The object he sought was still there, left behind by Ritter. He grasped the handle of the leather bag and stood up with it.
In the surgery, the flames had grown bright enough for him to see by. He set the open bag next to the basin, then reached into the preserving chemicals. The weight of his brother’s skin, as he raised it from the fluid, surprised him. It hung awkwardly from his grasp, the torso with its rib tattoo dangling between his hands. The shoulders, neck and face at one end, and the empty legs, splayed by the incision flaps at the ankles, at the other, draped into the basin. The fluid ran down to Pavli’s elbows as he lifted the skin higher. He didn’t know how much the chemicals had already done to preserve the thin tissue; it had been only a few hours at most, since Ritter had carefully peeled it away from the flesh beneath. The fear of damaging the skin seized Pavli, a vision of it shredding to tatters in his hands, rags that bore no human resemblance.
He managed to lay the face and neck at the bottom of the bag; the preserving chemicals seeped out into the black leather. Then the shoulders, folding them toward each other to fit them into the cramped space. The flaccid arms and hands slid across his as he placed them inside. The torso, the hips and groin, followed; Ritter’s deftness had rendered the skin into a pliable substance. At last the legs, folded at the knee. The final layer came close to the top of the bag; Pavli carefully closed it up, drawing the strap across and snugging it tight with the metal buckle.
The delicate task had required all his attention. Now he turned and saw how the fire had swallowed the office, the doorway filled with smoke. He tucked the leather bag under his arm, lowered his head and ran toward the flames. His breath scalded his throat; he found the door and stumbled out into the corridor. There the walls were charred and blackened as well. He gulped in air at the broken window before pushing his way through the smoke toward the stairs.
Outside the asylum, he fell onto the muddy, snow-patched ground. The wetness cooled his singed face and hands. The buckle under the bag’s handle raised blisters on his palm; his clothes smelled like scorched wood and paper, overlaid with the chemical scent still dampening his sleeves.
Pavli raised his head and rolled onto his back. The glare from the burning asylum washed over him. Through its windows he could see the second floor, the corridor down which he had run just a few moments ago, give way. The heavy beams, crawling with flames, crashed into the darkness below with a explosion of sparks. The fire had spread through the levels above, the roof breaking open to spew out the reddening clouds of smoke.
Knees trembling, he stood upright. The gates of the barbed-wire fence had been left open; through them, he could see the shadows of the surrounding forest. In the courtyard of the asylum, the trucks and other vehicles had been left behind by the fleeing guards. The earthshaking thunder and flashes of light came from the direction in which the narrow road curved. The guards hadn’t wished to be caught between the approach of the Allied armies and whatever German divisions were still in the area. Pavli could see the guards’ bootprints in the trampled snow, heading for the refuge of the dense trees and brush.
He stood still, letting a wall of silence form around him. In it, he heard a voice whispering once more.
Yes…
His brother Matthi’s voice. He tilted his head, straining to catch every word.
Now you’ll see. I’ll show you… I’ll show you everything
…
He nodded slowly. He had waited for this, his birthright, for so long. Another time had begun.
Flames roared higher, engulfing the asylum and its empty world. He reached down and picked up the bag of black leather and started walking, following the others’ trail into the forest.
Moonlight broke through the bare trees, scattering like coins across the ground. He had come to a place where the silence was outside him. The eyes of the night creatures, owls and woken ravens, and the creatures that hid among the twisting roots, watched him without fright. They knew as well.
Pavli turned his head, listening. The others were nearby, concealed – for the moment – by the darkness. Ritter and the guards, making their way to some imagined safety. The clashing sounds of war had died away, the retreating army having either made its own escape or been annihilated by the advancing forces. Pavli’s nostrils flared, catching a trace of death stench, the smell of flesh burned and blackened, of bowels torn open by sudden metal. The quiet would make it more difficult for the others, to keep from blundering into the front lines. He would have to be careful, to avoid revealing himself to them; it wasn’t time for that yet. That was what his brother Matthi had told him, as he had fled the burning asylum. The guards would be on edge, raising their weapons against the slightest sound they heard around themselves; a few isolated shots had already rang out, close to him. They were not far away. They would be in reach…
He knelt down, setting the bag of black leather in front of him. Then undid the buckle, drawing the strap out from beneath the handle, and pushed the bag open.
Yes…
His brother’s voice no louder than before. The words breathed at his ear.
That’s right…
He lifted out the skin, taking the empty wrists in his hands and raising the glove-like hands to the height of his own shoulders. The translucent substance unfolded, the torso straightening from the cramped space. The skin was lighter now, most of the preserving chemicals having leaked through the bag’s stitching. It was still damp to the touch, clinging to Pavli’s own wrists and forearms. He stood up, carrying it with him, until it was completely revealed, a naked ghost, the tattooed wounds drawn stark upon the pale silkiness. His brother’s face lolled forward,
