After the Downfall

The Wehrmacht captain saw… a stone. It was perhaps a meter across, of brownish – gray granite, and looked as if it were dumped there at random. But, like the other exhibits in the museum, it had a sign above it explaining what it was. OMPHALOS, it said, and then, in Greek letters, what was presumably the same thing: OM?A?O?.

“What the devil’s an omphalos?” he asked Edelsheim. A couple of Russians scrambled out to drag off a wounded man. He didn’t fire. A minute’s worth of truce wouldn’t matter.

“Beats me,” the sergeant answered. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

“Mineral.” Hasso jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Edelsheim looked, then shrugged. “I’d say that honking big rock is. What the hell is it?”

“It’s Greek to me,” Hasso said. But he was curious enough to crawl over to read the smaller print under the heading. When the world was falling to pieces around you, why not indulge yourself in small ways if you could? He wouldn’t get the chance for anything bigger – that seemed much too clear.

“Well?” the Feldwebel asked.

‘“The Omphalos Stone, from Zeus’ temple at Delphi, was reputed to be the navel of the world,’” Hasso read. ‘“It was the center and the beginning, according to the ancient Greeks, and also a joining place between this world and others. Brought to Berlin in 1893 by Herr Doktor Professor Maximilian Eugen von Heydekampf, it has rested here ever since. Professor von Heydekampf’s unfortunate disappearance during an imperial reception here two years later has never been completely explained.’”

“Ha!” Edelsheim said. “What do you want to bet some pretty girl disappeared about the same time?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” But Hasso’s eyes went back to the card. “‘And also a joining place between this world and others.’ I’ll tell you, Karl, this world doesn’t look so good right now.”

“So plunk your ass down on the rock and see what happens,” the sergeant advised. “How could you be worse off, no matter where you end up?”

The shooting picked up again. Someone not far away started screaming on a high, shrill note, like a saw biting into a nail. The shriek went on and on. That was no sham. That was a desperately hurt man, one who would die soon – but not soon enough to suit him.

“Good question,” Hasso said. “Another world or this same old fucked – up place? Here goes nothing.” The patched seat of his field – gray pants came down on the navelstone.

Sergeant Edelsheim turned his head to jeer at the captain while he was on the rock. The whole goddamn country was on the rocks now. That was pretty funny, when you –

“What the – ?”

One instant, Captain Pemsel was there. The next, he was gone, as if by trick photography in the movies. He might never have been in the museum with Edelsheim.

“Der Herr Gott im Himmel” Sudden mad hope surged through the sergeant. If there was a way out, any way out… What he’d told Pemsel was true for himself, too. Wherever he went, how could he be worse off?

He turned and, half upright, scrambled toward the Omphalos. Half upright turned out to be a little too high. A burst from a Soviet submachine gun slammed home between his shoulder blades. He went down with a groan, blood filling his mouth.

One hand reached for the navelstone: reached, scrabbled, and, just short of its goal, fell quiet forever. And none of the tough Russian troopers who overran the museum cared a kopek for an ugly lump of rock they could neither sell nor screw nor even have any fun breaking.

When the Omphalos seemed to stir beneath him, Hasso Pemsel wondered for a heartbeat if he was losing his mind. He hadn’t really expected anything to happen. He hadn’t really believed anything could happen. But what he believed didn’t matter, not any more. He’d mounted the stone with hope in his heart. That was enough – far more than enough.

He hung suspended for a timeless moment. What did Hamlet say? O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. That came to Hasso only later. At the time – if time was the word for this flash of existence apart from everything – he knew only that, whatever else it was, it was no dream.

And then he was back in the world again – back in a world, anyhow – and he was falling. He dropped straight down, maybe a meter, maybe two: surely no more than that, or he would have hurt himself when he landed. Or maybe not. He came down in a bog that put him in mind of the Pripet Marshes on the Russo – Polish border.

Training told. As soon as he knew he was hitting water and mud, his hands went up to keep his weapon dry. A Schmeisser was a splendid piece when it was clean, but it couldn’t take as much crud in the works as a Soviet PPSh or a British Sten.