Es Tut Mir Leid

Es Tut Mir Leid (I'm Sorry)

By Jeff Ronay

He was in trouble. The two rifle-bearing MPs blocking his entrance to the building after he’d parked his faded Chevy pickup sent a clear signal: he’d been caught. Still, he supposed this was better than being burned at the stake in 1692.

“Nick, Colonel LaCross wants to see you,” said the lead MP. “Follow me.”

He was escorted to the conference room and seated across from two men: Colonel Mark LaCross and Doctor Burns.

“That’ll be all, Sergeant,” said LaCross.

The MPs left, slamming the door.

Nick shivered at the chill in the room.

“Colonel, was there a problem with my cleaning last night?”

“Come on, Nick. You know damn well this isn’t about your cleaning abilities.”

Nick stared into the colonel’s eyes, waiting.

“You stole a time transfer belt last night and activated it, didn’t you?”

Nick wiped sweat from his forehead. “Sorry, Colonel. I don’t understand.”

“Well, maybe this will clear things up for you.”

The colonel pressed a laptop key. On-screen, Nick wore his green maintenance uniform and stood in a packed courtroom, judged by a scowling Puritan with a mean goatee.

“What is thy name?” asked the judge.

“Thy name? It’s Nick Meyer.”

“And where art thou from?”

“Brooklyn. What is this place? Where am I?”

“Art thou a witch?”

“No, I’m a janitor.”

A man in the front row jumped up and pointed at Nick.

“Nay, nay, he’s a witch. He fell from the sky. In the forest.”

The courtroom chanted. “Burn him, burn the witch.”

The colonel pressed pause.

“Refresh your memory?”

Nick squirmed.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. It was late, and I was mopping up. I tried on a time belt, and I pushed the buttons—I didn’t think anything would happen.”

“You didn’t think anything would happen?”

“Let’s see how that worked out.”

The colonel pressed play, the tension palpable.

On-screen, the judge banged his gavel and snarled with missing teeth.

“Silence. Now, Nick Meyer, what is this janitor you speak of?”

In that instant, Nick had come to a realization. ‘They’re going to kill me.’ So he did what he’d seen once before—he pressed the two buttons on his belt buckle.

He glowed like fire.

The crowd screamed, stampeding out the narrow doors.

The colonel pressed pause.

“Well?” asked the Colonel.

“I’m very sorry, Colonel.”

“Sorry’s not going to cut it. You’re likely on your way to prison.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“We’ll see. Doctor Burns has some questions first.”

Doctor Burns leaned in with eager eyes.

“Nick, do you understand your travels last night?”

“Not exactly.”

“It was 1692, and you were being tried as a witch in Salem, Massachusetts.”

The colonel chimed back in.

“You traveled back further in time than anyone on this project, and you safely returned.”

“Where’d you get the video?” asked Nick.

“The chamber acts like a window into time,” said Burns. “It records everything.”

“I’d like to know who showed you how to use the belt?” the colonel demanded.

“I saw a time run when I was cleaning one night.”

The colonel glared at Burns. “What was he doing in the control room during a time run?”

Burns blushed.

“We were testing a couple of 1960s runs. Donovan came back both times and tossed his cookies. Ops had Nick mop up.”

“Great security, Doctor. Continue.”

Burns read from a personnel folder. “You're married to Angie with a two-year-old son, Bobbie,” Burns said.

“What’s my family got to do with this?”

“We’ll get to that. A few more questions, please.”

“Ok.”

“You speak fluent German?”

“My first language.”

“Excellent,” said the Colonel.

“Did you always want to be a janitor?” Dr. Burns asked.

“I started physics in college…”

“But?”

“Math wasn’t my strong suit.”

“Suppose we offer you a different job?” said the Colonel.

“Doing what?”

“Time traveler and mission specialist.”

Nick's jaw dropped. “No, thanks, I’m fine with cleaning.”

“You’d be cleaning time,” said the Colonel.

“Not interested. I like my life, simple.”

“So, you’d prefer prison?” asked Burns.

Nick's knee bounced. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“Nick, we don’t have a lot of options here. Last night, you became a major security liability and a loose end, ” said the Colonel. “Can’t allow that.”

Nick bit his lip.

“I need some time to think it over.”

“I’ll give you five minutes.”

“What?”

“This gets resolved now, Nick. This was all your doing.”

Nick shook his head. “Why did I have to put on that stupid belt?”

“I don’t know anything about time travel. How am I even qualified?”

The colonel smiled.

“Ok. First, it takes years to match an individual for a time jump. You’re a natural. Second, your mission would be in World War II Germany. You speak the language. Everything else we can teach. But you’ve got to volunteer.”

“Volunteer or prison?”

“Not a healthy viewpoint,” said the colonel.

“Now’s a good time for any questions or concerns,” said Burns.

“Is there fighting involved? I’m not a fighter.”

Burns and the colonel eyed each other.

“You’ll receive weapons and hand-to-hand combat training. Everything you need to succeed,” said Burns. “However, before you asked about your family. So, there’s one critical thing we must tell you.”

“What?”

The Doctor waited. The Colonel nodded his approval.

“If you fail, your family won’t exist,” said Burns.

It got quiet. ‘You could hear an electron fart,’ thought Nick.

“What?” he asked.

“If history changes, that’s the outcome,” said Burns. “Questions?”

Nick thought of Angie and Bobbie. Both gone.

It soaked in.

“And there’d be no more mopping?” he asked.

The men smiled. “No more mopping,” said the colonel.

They waited.

“Alright. You’ve got a deal.”

***

At five a.m. the next day, Burns brought him up to speed.

“First of all, we can send you back to any moment in time. However, we can’t go back to the same moment twice.

“Why not?”

“Complicated, but for the enemy and for us, time consists of a series of slices.”

Burns drew two circles on the whiteboard.

“Two time machines. Say each one represents a pie. Take a trip, and you take a slice. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. We can send you back, but only to a slice within three months of the gap. Same for the enemy. If they send a man to June 1944, they can do that once. If we send you back to June 1944, we can do that once. That’s why you must get it right the first time. Do you understand?

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Now, regarding your mission—in World War II, Hitler almost acquired a nuke. Had he gotten one, he would have won the war. The enemy wants to give Hitler the design for a nuke.”

“How do we know that?”

“We have a source—better if you don’t know any details. Ok?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your job is to prevent the design from being delivered. To do that, you will likely need to kill your opponent.”

“Wait, what?”

“Is that something you could do?”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Nick, it’s not asked of you lightly. But it’s part of the mission. You must understand, we’ve projected scenarios. If Hitler had the bomb, he would have used it on Washington, D.C. Angie’s grandparents would not have been born. That’s the reason your family will not exist.”

Nick’s mouth hung open.

“So, I’ll ask again. Could you kill?”

Nick swallowed hard. “If I have to, yes.”

“Any questions?”

“When do you think this might happen?” said Nick.

“Two weeks. However, remember, I said time is a series of slices. When their machine changes, we detect ripples in ours—like tossing a stone in a pond. So, we can pinpoint the change ahead of time.”

“How far?”

“About eight hours. That’s why we’ve got to train you fast. Not a lot of time for you to work your magic.”

Later that day, Nick got a crew cut, was issued a Luftwaffe Captain’s uniform, and had photographs taken for an ID.

Colonel LaCross showed him how to wear the uniform—tricks for aligning his combat ribbons, polishing the buttons, and tipping the hat brim just above the eyes.

Next, he met Captain Barns, his weapons trainer. Barns was a tall, no-nonsense man with red hair and freckles. At the shooting range, he handed Nick safety goggles and sound protection—oversized headphones.

Then handed him his weapon.

“The Walther PPK—the weapon of choice for a Luftwaffe Captain. Only point it at someone you intend to kill. Got it?” snapped Barns.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Have you ever fired a weapon before?”

“No, sir.”

“Aim it like this, sight along here. Steady, and squeeze the trigger.”

Barns fired three times. Three holes appeared centered in his target.

“Now, notice the silencer makes the weapon quiet. You’ve been issued one along with your top-secret clearance.

Surprised, Nick raised his eyebrows.

“That’s right. You’ve got a temporary top-secret clearance while we run your FBI background check. Expect lots of paperwork, signatures, and calls from distant relatives.”

Barns screwed a silencer onto the gun. He fired three times: snipe, snipe, snipe. Three holes appeared next to the first set.

“This model has a kick. So, steady, and give it a try.”

Nick took the weapon. He hesitated.

“One piece of advice, Mr. Meyer—if you aim, then shoot. If you hesitate, your enemy may shoot first. And you’ll be dead. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Nick breathed hard. Just like Barns, he aimed and fired three times. Unlike Barns, his three rounds ripped the right corner of the target, missing the silhouette of the man. Nick frowned at the shredded paper.

Barns smiled. “Well, you hit something, Mr. Meyer! Don’t worry, we’ll practice and get you squared away right quick.”

The long days passed. Nick struggled most with something called reaction training. He was presented with different pop-up targets: a cop, a bad guy, a construction worker, and a child. He hesitated on each one. When pressed to react quicker, he shot the cop three out of five times, to which Barns asked, “You don’t like cops, do you?”

The killing bothered Nick. He lay awake at night and told Angie. “I don’t know if I can—I just don’t know.”

“Think about Bobbie,” she whispered.

Eleven days into the training, Nick and his family were having their usual Friday macaroni-and-cheese dinner. He got the call.

“Nick, you’re going tonight. Get here as quickly as you can.”

Nick was well briefed on the man he must find: Captain Heinrich Schmidt. He carried a photo of Schmidt in his wallet.

So that night, dressed as a Luftwaffe Captain, Nick stepped into the transfer chamber, squared his hat, and pressed the buttons on his belt.

For the second time, he experienced the sensation of time travel. It was like falling into a dark well, accelerating, with streaks of red and violet swirling around him.

After a few seconds, he jarred to a dizzying stop—materializing outside the post office of an air base in Berlin on June 6, 1944. A young man on a bike nearly ran him over, swerving to miss him.

It was six p.m. With the sun low in the sky, Nick headed to the officers’ mess and was seated. When asked for his order, he almost answered in English, coughed, and switched to German. He ordered Wiener Schnitzel with German potato salad—a family favorite.

Nick showed the waiter the photo of Captain Schmidt, and the man nodded and pointed across the room. Nick looked that way—his nemesis sat alone at a table.

Thanking the waiter, he felt for two things: his Walther PPK and his belt buttons—he swallowed hard.

Time. There was still time. Time for a nice dinner. Time for maybe a schnapps. Time to relax before he would do something no janitor would ever do—kill a man in cold blood. But Nick was different now. Changed. Not mean. Not callous. But a man protecting the life and family he loved—a gift he came to realize could be taken away in a minute, by an enemy with other plans.

So, he sat there. Watching. Six-thirty came. He finished dinner. The waiter brought him an apple strudel and a second schnapps.

Strudel finished; he looked up at the target table. His eyes grew wide—Schmidt was gone. Not at his table!

He jumped out of his chair, knocking his plate off the table. Looking around the room, he found it—the sign read: Herrentoilette.

He hustled into the herrentoilette.

The urinals were empty, so he ducked, checking the stalls—the last one occupied.

He unholstered his Walther PPK.

“Captain Schmidt?” he called.

“Ja?” came the reply from the stall.

Nick snuck to the stall, screwing on his custom-made silencer. He took a deep breath and kicked the stall door.

It didn’t open!

“Come on!” said Nick.

Captain Schmidt whipped open the door and saw Nick’s gun.

“I have a two-year-old son!” Schmidt objected as he dove for his own gun.

Just then, time stopped.

Not because of Nick’s belt. Not because of fate. Not because of some algorithm running on a machine years in the future. But because a life was about to be taken.

It hit Nick. He was a kid at the beach again, standing waist-deep in the water, when a big wave snuck up and knocked him down.

His head spun. His mind raced.

He thought of Bobbie.

He thought of taking him to his first baseball game.

He thought of watching him graduate from high school.

He pictured Bobbie’s wedding.

And he thought, ‘None of this will happen now for Schmidt.’

The lump in his throat screamed, ‘You can’t do this.’

In slow motion, Schmidt grabbed his own gun and raised it.

Nick tracked the gun, heard Captain Barns warning, ‘Never hesitate,’ and fired three times, hitting Schmidt squarely in the chest.

Nick whispered, ‘Es tut mir leid.’

Schmidt collapsed.

Onto the floor.

Deader than yesterday.

Nick propped him up on the toilet, reached into Schmidt’s pocket, and pulled out the papers he sought. With his heart racing, he swiped the two buttons on his belt.

Nothing happened!

Someone was coming.

Nick realized he missed the second button. He pressed both again.

He appeared in the control room and hung his head.

“Es Tut Mir Leid,” he said.

“Nick… Nick?” called Dr. Burns. “Your wife and kids are waiting for you in the lounge.”

Nick snapped out of his daze. “Kids?” he asked.

“Bobbie and Karen,” said Burns.

Nick walked out of the lounge, heading for his truck. He was thankful to have his family, now enriched by a daughter as well as his son. He’d get used to it.

But he wondered… when one tosses a stone into a pond, how many other seemingly small things might change as a result of those ripples?

They wanted him back Monday morning at nine.

He’d find out.