“Thank you so much for filling in Dr. Sittler, you got us out of something of a tight spot.” Tom walked them through reception. A tanned and lithe man in a tight t-shirt, he had the look of a latin rent boy nearing the close of his window of profitability. He was, in his thirties, surprisingly long in the tooth for a producer, but that was the arts for you.
"No problem at all, happy to do it, really,” Sittler drained his water bottle and looked around for a bin. “I’ve never been on the radio.” Christ, his head hurt. Was he still drunk? He must be, they’d been chugging through the second bottle when Drexler texted him. “It’s on photosynthesis isn’t it?”
“Yes, Melvyn’s bricking it. He’s not what you’d call a natural at science, he’s rather hoping you experts will carry him through.”
“Well, Drexler’s the expert, but I’m sure I can muddle through for an hour.” Sittler hadn’t covered photosynthesis since he was an undergraduate, but he’d leafed through it on the train and mugged enough for a quick pop science discussion.
“How is the professor? Unlucky to get a cold out of season.
“Oh he’s fine, he’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.” Drexler’s text had said migraine. Was it boozy paranoia, or was something a little off?
“The studio’s through there, but we’ve got half an hour.”
Sittler glanced in and stopped, hand on the cold metal handle.
“Jesus Christ! Is that Ezra Blumenthal?”
Tom looked at his notes.
“Emeritus Professor of biochemistry…. Hebrew University of Jerusalem… Oh. Nobel prize. Do you know him?”
“I know of him. He wrote the bloody book on photosynthesis.” Literally, in fact, it was the one Sittler had in his bag. He regarded the tall, dapper laureate, in his eighties now but looking sharp and intimidating, a full head of white hair, and the direct, laser-beam gaze of someone who has only ever been proven right.
“He’s deaf as a post, I know that,” Said Tom, “we’ve had to crank his cans up to eleven.”
“Drexler, you dirty swine!” Sittler muttered out loud then quickly asked: “Who’s the woman he’s talking to?” The lady in question was holding her own with Blumenthal by the look of it, nodding as he spoke but slowly, colleague to colleague, not the eager pecking of the wide eyed arse-licker. Sittler made a note to remember to do that as well.
“Julie Sandford, a botanist with the Natural History Museum.”
“You mean Director of The Natural History Museum!” Sittler put his hands over his eyes for a second of comfort. Sandford had written the foreword to the edition of the book that weighed heavy in his bag. This was too horrible. He wondered how many people he knew would be listening. Everyone. He’d told everyone. He took a breath, glanced at Tom, entered the room:
“Professor Blumenthal, Dr. Sandford, hello, my name’s Sittler.” He extended a hand to Blumenthal, who did not take it. Instead, he stopped talking and stared at Sittler as though he’d been hit with a shovel. Julie Sandford was looking at him with an odd expression as well:
“What did you say?”
“Sittler, I’m Adam Sittler. Sittler smiled, puzzled and left his hand hanging. Blumenthal turned white and stared at it.
Melvyn arrived at that moment, to have Blumenthal turn on him. His stare could have lit a match. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Sittler hadn’t expected this. It should be a simple situation, just saying hello, but it was running away from him. He was sure this would be weird even if he wasn’t hung over. As it was, he had no idea what the bloody hell was going on. It didn’t help that he was slightly starstruck with those urbane, Teutonic tones he usually only heard on Horizon documentaries.
“Is what a joke? What’s happening here?” Melvyn spoke loudly, catering to the Professor’s deafness, but looked in Sittler’s direction, suspiciously.
“This young man seems to think he’s Hitler!”
“I am Sittler.” Sittler was even more confused, but flattered that the great man had heard of him.
“Sittler!” Melvyn spoke loudly and emphasised the sibilant. The professor stared at him.
Dr. Sandford turned to Sittler, “Ezra’s hearing was damaged when he was young,” she explained, delicately. She leaned slightly closer, “he spent his childhood in Flossenbürg, during the war.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sittler and then louder to Blumenthal “Flossenbürg must have been a beautiful and inspiring place to have shaped your ideas concerning the mechanisms of life, Professor.” Sittler had considered this a pretty bloody suave sentence, considering his headache, but it seemed to fall flat as Blumenthal turned without a word and walked to the door. Dr. Sandford had her hands on her head.
“Flossenbürg was a concentration camp you cretin!” Melvyn looked as though he might actually spit on Sittler but settled on following the professor, shaking his head.
Dr. Sandford just stared, her mouth open in disbelief. “For the love of God man, what’s the matter with you?”
A few moments before air and the technicians in the studio picked up on the atmosphere and glanced portentously at each other as they completed their checks. Inside Sittler’s head the atmosphere was, if anything, even thicker. His hangover was now beyond painkillers. He could hear blood throbbing in his head and there was a pain behind his left eye so sharp it was causing it to fill with tears. He thought of his wife, parents, colleagues, collaborators, students, all turning on their radios, kettles boiling. Bloody Drexler. Could one hour make of break a career?
As the countdown began, Professor Blumenthal, across the table leaned toward Dr Sandford and whispered, possibly louder than he needed to:
“Now then, let us see just what “Herr Hitler” knows about photosynthesis…”
Melvyn didn’t make eye contact, he just looked down at his papers and smiled.
AA
AA
