The Fellowship (25 page)

Paderborn Station

By the time their train arrived at the station, it was nearly 10 o’clock. The cadets were hungry, but the SS soldiers were all business, ordering them into the backs of three Opel trucks identical to the ones that had ferried them from Feldafing to Munich that day.

The truck picked up speed as the city streets gave way to a country road.
Wolf pulled his peacoat from his suitcase. Although it was cold in the open-air vehicle, it was nothing compared to the morning swims in frigid Lake Starnberg.

Thoughts of the lake triggered
memories of Albert. The image of Albert’s body slung over the thresher flashed in his mind. And then – proof that for every action in the world there was an equal reaction – there had been Beck, lying in the field on the other side of the barn. Wolf allowed himself to linger on the image of the bluish smoke wafting up from Himmler’s sidearm. Maybe Beck deserved that, Wolf mused. The bastard’s negligence had killed Albert.

Lang shook
Wolf out of his daze, pointing out beautiful lamp-lit farmhouses and country manor homes as they drove in the woods outside Paderborn. He took in a deep breath for what seemed like the first time all day, noting the sweet scent of the conifer forest as the truck climbed a series of foothills. Soon, the branches of enormous beech and oak trees arched over the road. The night air grew several degrees cooler. Lang drew close, his teeth chattering.

When
the truck finally stopped, Wolf leaned out the back and found himself face to face with an SS guard holding an MP-38 submachine gun in his left hand. A second guard appeared at his side with a flashlight. The guard peered into the truck bed, counting the 11 boys within.

“Welcome to Wewelsburg Castle,”
he said finally, and shouted for the guard to open the gate.

The truck motored
across an arched stone bridge that was built over a moat. Torches were lit along the castle walls. An SS guard stood inside a sentry box, rubbing his gloved hands together to keep warm.

Nagel
’s voice cried “Attention! Out of the trucks!”

The boys
climbed over each other to get a look at the castle at night. It was too dark to see much, but Wolf’s Jesuit teachers had equipped him with enough knowledge to imagine what he could not see. It was constructed of yellow stone with three towers in a triangular pattern. Seen from an airplane, it was said to resemble the shape of the Holy Lance, the spear used by Longinus to pierce Christ’s side during the Crucifixion. The triangular-shaped castle’s north tower formed the spear’s tip, with the two domed towers forming its sides, and the road leading up to it comprising the lance’s shaft.

Nagel
commanded the boys to line up. They did, standing in two neat rows in the crisp night air. “With radiant hearts,” he said, “You will now enter Wewelsburg Castle, prepared to carry out what the nation, the National Socialist State and I expect of you.”

They marched through
an arched doorway decorated with stone-etched images of the Nordic gods Thor and Odin. The entrance hall was a great, oak-paneled room that, judging by the exposed wiring strung along one wall, had only recently been outfitted with electricity. The glow of several low-wattage lamps revealed suits of armor, medieval crossbows and immaculate tapestries. Wolf was awestruck by the size of the roaring fireplace, which was nearly tall enough to stand in.

Even at this hour,
restoration efforts were underway. Two workers were busy hanging an oil painting. Crude cross-shaped patches were sewn to the chests of their striped shirts and pants.

Nagel
halted the march. He went to the head of the line, sweeping his hand across the scene before them. “These are just two of hundreds of foreign workers living in a nearby camp for stonemasons, carpenters and electricians. They are Jehovah’s Witnesses, and they are free to go at any time. We ask only that they renounce their religion, swear obedience to Hitler and join the German Army. Fortunately for my reconstruction project, they have so far been unwilling to do so.”

Wolf did not know wha
t a Jehovah’s Witness believed. He had been told by his mother that they were not real Christians and would not be permitted into heaven. Then again, she had said the same thing about Lutherans, and Wolf had met plenty of very decent Lutherans.

The cadets followed
Nagel down a narrow set of stone stairs, through two sets of iron gates, and into an enormous cavern that was stuffed with artifacts. The boys were surrounded on either side by portraits of Germany’s leaders dating back to the Middle Ages. An enormous portrait of King Heinrich was suspended over the entrance by wires at an angle of 45 degrees, giving the stoic king the impression of one looking down from the heavens.

“You are now standing in
Himmler’s private museum,” Nagel said in a tone that was gentle, almost fatherly. “As each of you will learn, ancestry is as fundamental to the war effort as the innovation of new weaponry. In light of these directives, Himmler has given his permission for you to experience your heritage firsthand.”

Wolf
disengaged from the pack, wandering, not knowing where to begin. Every corner seemed to be filled with priceless artifacts. He first gravitated toward several slabs of cut stone, each decorated with ancient runic etchings. They looked impossibly heavy. How many weeks had it taken to bring them here? How many mules or tractors had it taken to haul them to the nearest train?

Along the same wall, bronze urns, swords, ancient sculptures and jewel-encrusted daggers were showcased in
shallow enclaves. A series of glass enclosures held piles of ancient Roman coins and rings with precious gemstones. So numerous were the artifacts that many seemed to be hastily thrown together, stacked in mismatched piles.

He examined a delicate lute that was estimated to be
600 years old. Next to it, a display of ancient battle gear used by Teutonic knights. A scarred triangular shield painted with a red cross. Thirteenth century chainmail, now rusted, as worn by mounted warriors. A breastplate bearing the Teutonic emblem. Axes, spurs and bonze bits for medieval warhorses.

The museum wasn’t entirely devoted to Germanic heritage.
A section of the cavern had been devoted to non-Germanic paintings imported from the occupied countries. There, straight out of Wolf’s primary school art history textbook, was Hans Memling’s painting
Madonna with Child
. It was surrounded by works by Rembrandt, Cezanne and Van Gogh.

The presence of French art
was astonishing. The national schools taught only that the French could not be trusted, and that France was merely a territory to be exploited. Wolf owed his knowledge of French art to his mother, who had, before the war, taken Wolf and his brother to the finest exhibits in Berlin and Munich. He wished she were here to see this. Never had he seen so many riches packed into one place.

Now he edged toward
a glass case holding a bedazzled ceremonial robe. He bent lower to study the garment. It was spectacular, though slightly tattered at the edges. The inscription read IMPERIAL REGALIA OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE – 10
th
CENTURY. In an adjacent glass case were the crown, scepter and the orb of the Holy Roman Empire.

The Imperial Crown was
studded with more than 100 pearls, sapphires, emeralds and amethysts. The stones were polished into smooth, rounded shapes and appeared to emit light from within. The crown featured four plates, each depicting a biblical scene. He knelt down to read the inscription on the right front plate, where Christ was depicted enthroned between two childlike angels.
Per Me Reges Regnant.
By Me Kings Reign.

“I see you have a taste for Christian artifacts.”

Wolf turned and
found himself face to face with Nagel. Out of nerves, and habit, he stiffened.

“
No need to mask your enthusiasm, boy. The führer was beside himself with joy when he laid eyes on the Crown Jewels in Vienna. His first act upon entering the country was ensuring their immediate return to their rightful place in Germany.”

Wolf turned his attention back to the jewels. “They are,” he nodded, allowing himself a small grin, “Quite amazing, actually.”

“There is something else you should see.”
Nagel put a hand on Wolf’s shoulder and guided him to the other side of the display. The gesture was paternal. Wolf felt oddly comforted by the old man’s attention. A wave of guilt flashed over him as he remembered his mother’s warning before his initial term at school:
They want you to believe that the party replaces your parents, and that Hitler replaces God. If they can convince you of that, then they can make you do anything.

Nagel
pointed to a display containing a bronze and gold spear, about 50 centimeters in length. “Do you know what this is?”

Wolf shook his head.
Nagel pointed up at the painting hanging overhead. An authentic Lucas Cranach painting,
The Crucifixion with the Converted Centurion
.
1536. Wolf had actually seen it before.  Berlin, he remembered, with his brother and father. And here it was. Locked away for the private pleasure of the high command.

What exactly was
Nagel implying? That Himmler had found the Spear of Destiny? It looked old, all right. Old enough to have seen nearly 2,000 years of world history. But the Jesuits had taught him that it was in the Vatican, in St. Peter’s Cathedral. He had seen photographs in a textbook.

“
It’s not real,” Wolf objected. “It can’t be.”

“
On the contrary. Our historians have determined that it is, without a doubt, the same lance that Constantine carried as his armies were victorious in battle. And if Constantine himself believed it to be the lance that pierced Jesus Christ on the cross, then Himmler is more than ready to do so.”

Wolf
grunted in wonderment. Of course he was familiar with the legend of the Holy Lance. Whoever possessed it was said to be rendered invincible. He considered the remarkable speed with which the German armies had rolled across Europe. Poland. Austria. Norway. France. Belgium. Denmark. Egypt. Romania. Yugoslavia. At times, it seemed as if the very presence of the Nazi armies collapsed the will to fight entirely.

“And what is the name of the centurion who lanced Jesus?” Nagel asked. He clearly knew the answer, but was probing.

“Longinus,”
Wolf answered quietly.

“So you have also
studied the Apocrypha,” Nagel said, clearly impressed.

Wolf nodded.
Longinus’ name did not appear in the canonical Bible. A centurion had been mentioned in the book of John, but had not been named specifically except in the somewhat esoteric Gospel of Nicodemus
. According to these ancient writings, Longinus had been an old soldier with poor eyesight. Pontius Pilot had told him to go to Calvary and remove the bodies of those who had been crucified since it was forbidden to perform crucifixions on the Sabbath.  As Jesus was not yet dead, Longinus pierced his side with the lance. Blood and water rushed out of Jesus’ body, some of it splashing into Longinus’ eyes, miraculously restoring his vision.

Nagel
checked his watch, a black Omega Regulator with golden numerals. Time was up. “I look forward to continuing our discussions.”

As the
other cadets scrambled for the exit, Wolf lingered over the Holy Lance. He remembered Nagel’s words on the train. “The spiritual epicenter for the next thousand years.” But what kind of spiritualism was this? Hitler publicly decried the Vatican while Himmler embraced fairy tales about Odin and Asgard. The parochial schools had been shuttered. Priests had all but disappeared.

And yet here was
the Spear of Destiny. And the crown jewels of the Holy Roman Empire. And the work of Cranach and Memling. Wolf had the sudden feeling that everything good in the world was being bottled up here in the castle.

Maybe
Wolf’s father had been right about Himmler all along. Maybe he really was some kind of sorcerer. Maybe it was through the power of these divine objects that he had managed to put Europe under his spell.

*

Nagel
led the boys through a narrow stone portal to the basement level of the castle’s north tower. By now Wolf was famished. He had not eaten in 16 hours.

Now t
hey found themselves standing at the edge of a large circular room. A bluish-yellow pyre burned in the center. The room smelled like gas, and its walls of yellow stone were devoid of art or tapestries. Thousands of small copper canisters were arranged in a circular pattern along the room’s far north edge. Beside them stood a wooden chest.

It was the first time any of the boys had
seen a flame burn without wood or charcoal. Wolf edged closer to the fire sprouting from the tiny hole in the marble floor, wondering how it worked. Was this more evidence of Himmler’s dark arts?

“
This room is called The Vault.” Nagel’s voice was subdued and respectful. “A memorial to past, present and future SS officers. All of us, even those who are dead, commune here in an endless loop of honor and glory.”