Come On In, The Water Is Fine

As a teenager, I believed there was no such thing as trouble I could not get out of.  There were men in Huntsville that had an interest in suppressing negative publicity about the Apollo program, including any regarding the children of von Braun’s team.  My last name was a Get Out of Jail Free card.  

When my father was pulled out of the Vltata River by Czechoslovakian soldiers, his name meant nothing to them.

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Artur knew the river was too cold for him to swim across without some insulation.  A sane person would not attempt this without a wetsuit.  Bertina knew of a substitute.  Axle grease.  Arthur stripped off his clothes, wriggled into the tight suit she’d stitched for him, and covered himself with goo.  The same stuff Hans used on his tractor.

The grease would repel water and provide some insulation from the cold.  But not for long.  Artur knew he would have to keep moving.  He had to reach the other side before he got too tired to swim.  The other option was hypothermia, followed by drowning.

Even with the grease, the water was painfully cold.  He had shoes on, protection from the rocks of the river bank.  Artur hoped the seal Hans had fashioned for the suitcase would hold and there would be dry clothes on the other side.

After a few steps, he began swimming.  He paddled with his feet, and held the suitcase to his chest.  It was quite buoyant, and despite the strong current, Artur made good progress.  The initial pain he felt from the cold turned to numbness as he fell into a rhythm.  

He could only see directly ahead of him, from lights across the river.  Artur did not know he was approaching a bridge that led to a military outpost.  He didn’t know the current was pushing him toward a piling.  When the side of his chest hit the concrete post, the suitcase was jarred out of his hands.  He let out a scream.

Artur swallowed water while he thrashed around.  The current swept him past the bridge by the time his panic subsided.  He knew he was in trouble.  The suitcase was gone, Bertina’s harness was no match for the brute force of the water rushing around the bridge post.  He’d had the breath knocked out of him, and he had a nasty abrasion on his chest.  The water got colder.

The cloud Artur had collided with had a silver lining.  A sentry on the bridge heard Artur’s scream, and began searching the water with a flashlight.  Artur saw his shadowing the water as the light passed over.  The soldier yelled, then the light found him again.  

It only took a few moments for Artur to drift out of the flashlight’s range.  He wasn’t swimming any more, just paddling enough to keep his head above the water.  He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming when he heard the sound of a motor.  Artur lost consciousness as he was pulled from the water.

Waking up took a long time.  Eventually it occurred to Artur that he was in a hospital bed.  When he moved his right leg, he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.  His ankle was chained to the railing.  

A nurse came into the room and spoke.  Arthur did not understand her.  A few minutes later, a Czech military officer walked in, speaking in German.  What he said stunned Artur.  “I am Major Láska.  You should know that we recovered your suitcase, and we hang spies in Czechoslovakia.”

Later in life, Artur would consider that a turning point.  The initial shock of the man’s words passed.  Artur felt calm.  He wasn’t afraid.  He spoke calmly.  “Hanging will not be necessary.  I am a mathematician.  I spent the war helping the Germans build the V-2 rocket.  I am not a spy.  Just a man from Warsaw who wants go home.”

Láska said, “Mathematicians carry around two sets of identification?  Are you Artur Wlodarski or Axel Müller?  Or perhaps, someone else entirely?”

“I am Artur Wlodarski.  If you want proof, take me to the mathematics department at Charles University.  They will not have any trouble discerning one of their own.  It is possible some of them have read my article on the Hodge Conjecture.”

The major glared at Artur for a moment.  Then he spoke, more softly now.  “Very well then, as you say, it will not take long to prove or disprove your story.  If you are telling the truth, other men than me will decide your fate.  Otherwise, the rest of your life will be spent in prison, and it will not be a long life.”  The major walked out of the room.

The next morning, Láska returned, accompanied by a man dressed neatly in a coat and tie.  Artur knew a college professor when he saw one.  The major said, “This is Dr. Novotny, he is head of the mathematics department at Charles University.  He has some questions for you.”

The man pulled a copy of Acta Mathematica out of his briefcase.  The one that contained Artur’s article.  He spoke.  “It’s been years and the world was a much different place when this was published.  I wouldn’t expect the author to remember every equation.  Perhaps you can give me an overview of the material that was covered.”

He handed Artur a notebook and a pencil.  Artur thought for a moment, then began writing and talking.  He had trouble remembering the sequence of the formulas, and started over a couple of times.  It didn’t take long, though, for Major Láska to interpret the look on the professor’s face.  He was in awe of this young man.

Novotny turned to Láska and spoke.  “I have no doubt that this man is Artur Wlodarski.  An imposter could memorize Wlodarski’s equations.  Only a knowledgeable mathematician could discuss them so eloquently.”  

Láska spoke to Artur.  “For now, you will stay here.  I will make some telephone calls, and then we shall see what will be your fate.”

It was only a matter of hours before Láska returned.  He asked, “If I take the shackle off your leg, will you promise not to escape?  I would rather not risk my men’s safety again pulling you out of a river.”

“I’ve done enough running.  I don’t have any more left in me.”

“Good.  I’ve been ordered to make sure nothing happens to you.  Tonight, you will stay at my apartment.  My wife is a very good cook.  The men I will have guarding you will also appreciate her cooking.”  

“Tomorrow, you will get part of what you want.  I will be escorting you to Poland.  But not Warsaw.  A town called Podlipki. I do not know what MII-88 is, but apparently they will be your new employer.”

A chill went down Artur’s spine.  Everyone at Peenemünde knew about MII-88.  It was the Soviet  ballistic missile program.  The people von Braun had been so eager to avoid.