Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner

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      Bad luck comes in threes, right? Aldo sighed. Barely graduating and inadvertently telling the world about Septem Montes had to count as two. Still, some good things happened as well, and for all he knew this was part of God’s plan for him.

      Several people strolled by, enjoying the early afternoon quiet. He chatted with one couple after their exuberant dog leapt into his lap, and then he pulled out the travel guides he’d purchased earlier. Reading through them, he made notes of places that might be worth visiting. When forty-five minutes passed, he stood and walked back toward the bookstore.

      He expected a stack of books to be waiting on the counter, but the counter remained just as bare as it had been an hour earlier. He sighed inwardly and stepped over to where the shop owner still sat with his pile of books.

      “Eager, are we?” The old man picked up a cane and slowly made his way around the counter. He glanced through the window to the street before beckoning for Aldo to follow him. Passing the section Aldo had searched earlier, the old man hobbled to the northern-most corner of the building. It was well hidden from the front of the shop, and Aldo hadn’t even noticed it.

      Aldo’s eyebrows rose as he looked around. The bookshelves were filled with modern romance novels, the bright colors and lewd illustrations so out of place in this small antique shop. “Romance novels?”

      “Patience, boy,” the owner bit out. He picked up a worn hardcover, entitled Carolina , placed it on its side and pushed it forward. The shelf moved a few inches then stopped. “Damn this door anyway!” he muttered, pushing the book again. The door opened another few feet, giving them both room to squeeze through and descend several steps. At the bottom, the old man raised a shaky hand and yanked on a thin cord, turning on an overhead light to reveal a small, windowless room. Four bookshelves and an overstuffed corduroy chair that looked tan in the dim light occupied most of the space. “I’ll come get you at closing time.”

      “What? You mean I can’t get out on my own?” Aldo asked, panic creeping into his voice. He’d never been good with enclosed spaces since being trapped in a cellar when he was a child.

      “Can’t risk you opening the door when there’s a customer out front now, can I?” The shop owner looked around the room. “I don’t let just anyone in here.”

      Then why did you let me in? Aldo slowly nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

      The owner grunted again then pulled the shelf closed behind him.

      Sighing, Aldo looked around. To his relief, the room was well maintained, lacking the dampness, cobwebs and dust of typical brick basements. He could also feel a cool breeze coming from somewhere in the ceiling. He tried to reassure himself. Just don’t think about it and you’ll be fine.

      Aldo glanced at his watch. Figuring hehad only about four hours until the old man returned, Aldo pulled out his reading glasses and walked over to the nearest bookcase. Scanning the shelves, he noticed that many of the spines were unmarked. Pulling the books off one by one and flipping through them, he discovered most were diaries from locals, some even written in English. Most were bound informally, the pages coming loose with age, while others were memoirs printed by large publishing houses. Without the usual index or table of contents, it was hard to tell if any of it was relevant without reading them. The ones that seemed most likely to be useful he placed in a stack to read through later.

      He paged through the diary of a private tutor from the 1950s. It was fascinating, but nothing related to his research. Next, he found a book written by a young woman who had moved from Germany just after the war. She wrote mostly of a romance with an Argentine rebel. Part of him wanted to get lost in the stories, but time wasn’t on his side.

      A small black book on the third shelf caught his eye. The book’s paper cover was wrinkled and dog-eared with stark white letters on the front that read I was Doctor Mengele's Assistant. The word Mengele's was written in a dark blood red, and a chill ran up Aldo’s spine. The author was Miklos Nyiszli, a Jewish doctor who somehow survived the horrors of Auschwitz. Nyiszli warned that his purpose in writing was simply to share the facts, as terrifying as they were.

      Aldo put the book on the small table beside the chair and continued to look through the shelves. Finding more books with no markings on the spine, he flipped through them, stacking the relevant ones on the table. One was a diary written by another concentration camp survivor who also recorded his experiences with Mengele. Like Nyiszli, he had been selected to aid the madman. Instead of the scribbled handwriting of Nyiszli’s book, this one had been typed and bore no title on the cover. The author’s name was missing as well.

      Turning the book around in his hand, Aldo realized it must be one of a kind. How on Earth did that old man come by such rare books?

      Aldo sat down to read through the stack of books, starting with the one in his hand. In it, the anonymous author detailed the various experiments Mengele performed on the Auschwitz prisoners. Referring to Mengele as the Angel of Death, a nickname Aldo had seen pop up often in his online research, the author made clear that the Nazi doctor was obsessed with twins. Any time the author found a set of twins among the incoming prisoners, he was given extra food. Just scraps, but it ensured survival for at least a few more days. The author’s regret at betraying his own people rang clear through his words as he recounted the stories of all the twins he found for the young SS officer over the nineteen months he served as his assistant.

      Mengele would often kill the children, dissecting their small bodies and comparing each to their twin as though searching for something. The author never stated Mengele’s goal, but he seemed certain the doctor had a purpose for the experiments.

      Some of the children were allowed to live for a time, even given sweets in an effort to endear them to Mengele. Chocolate was a strong lure for the starving kids, and some easily fell for the charismatic madman’s ploys. The author supposed that being separated from their parents, the children may have clung to the hope that Mengele somehow cared for them. Certainly, they were singled out and treated differently, but isolated from the rest of the prisoners, the children didn’t know how differently.

      Despite his kind facade, Mengele had no problem cutting open subjects in operations, often without anesthesia. Organs were removed, the children ultimately maimed or killed during the procedures. The author’s remorse for the young victims was evident in his repeated claim that Mengele’s obsession with twins must have had a purpose, as though carefully cutting apart their bodies and looking for pieces to some twisted puzzle gave meaning to their deaths.

      Nyiszli's diary paralleled the first book, giving Aldo more insight into the nightmares the prisoners endured. Aldo was so absorbed in Nyiszli’s account, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the door creaked open.

      “Closing time,” the owner said, peering around the shelf.

      Aldo placed a hand to his chest to still his racing heart. “Already?”

      The old man barked a laugh and pointed at Aldo’s wristwatch.

      Aldo glanced at it, shocked to see it was just after six o’clock. He picked up the two books and handed them to the old man. “I’ll take these.”

      “You’ll not be taking anything,” he said gruffly.

      “But this is a bookstore, isn’t it?”

      “Yes. Out there, it’s a bookstore. In here, it’s a collection. My collection,” the owner said.

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