The Sixth Key (2 page)

‘If this were so, then it would mean that I am
you.’

He considered it. ‘Do you find me familiar?’

I looked at him. ‘Are you asking me if I feel
a sense of déjà vu?’

‘Not as it’s understood in the usual sense. Do
you think that my sitting here and your sitting there, the fire, the lagoon,
this evening, this old monastery, this library, this moment, could have been
created by you?’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘Think of how meticulous you are in creating
the milieu of your books, down to the smallest detail. Now imagine you could do
the same thing in the realm of death; that you could create what would surround
you in your next life; this would make you the writer of your own story.’

‘You’re referring to reincarnation?’

‘Yes. You are here at this point because
centuries ago you did something which made this moment possible, and this
moment will lead to another moment, and so on. Like the “Garden of Forking
Paths” – every decision creates a fork in the path of your futures.’

He paused, giving me time to digest his
philosophy. ‘Think of it in ordinary terms: suppose someone calls you and this
makes you late and you miss a train that catches fire, in which many people are
killed. What do you do?’

‘I would thank the caller for saving my life.’

‘Ah, but perhaps you wouldn’t have been killed
at all? Perhaps during the course of events you would have met someone of great
importance, someone who would have led you to a different fork in your path, a
fork that would have led to another and another? In any event, imagine that
because you did not take that train you are now crossing the road at the exact
time that a car’s brakes fail and it ploughs into you, killing you. Karma was
the caller – but the choice was yours to take the call. Freedom lives in
that choice. One can’t imagine how many choices one makes in the course of a
day, choices that affect not only one’s future, but the collective future of
all humanity. No, you are here because you have made a choice to be here.’

I looked at him, trying to see where he was
going with this, but his face betrayed nothing. ‘But what about you – you
also made a choice when you invited me to come here?’

‘Did I?’ he said.

‘Aren’t you also free to create your own
forking paths?’

‘Sometimes we do things not out of our own
need, but out of a desire to further the evolution of the world.’

‘A sacrifice, you mean?’

He nodded. ‘Take the sniper who had Hitler in
his sights and who decided, at the last moment, to let him live. Imagine how
different the world would be now: how many writers, artists, poets, musicians,
scientists, mothers, fathers and children would have contributed to the world
had it not been for one man’s poor choice. Perhaps when that sniper died he had
to relive that moment over and over again, until he realised that his own
personal goodness was a puny concern, in comparison to the many lives he could
have saved.’

I sat forwards and set down my cup. ‘You are
saying that if the sniper had pulled the trigger and killed Hitler, he could
have secured a different destiny for the world, even if it meant sacrificing
his own personal karma?’

‘Precisely. That soldier was there to kill
Hitler, that was his karma, you see? He chose not to follow it.’

I had to smile. This strange man intrigued me.

‘You find this
interesting?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘The moment that lies between what drives us
from the past and what pulls us towards the future is the one moment in which
we are completely free, completely conscious and completely alive. So, imagine
we are in this moment. If this were a novel as yet to be written by you, and I
were your character, poised in that moment, what would you have me do?’

‘I would have you tell me why I’m here.’

‘Touché!’ He was pleased. ‘I would say you’re
here because you want to know how it begins.’

‘How what begins?’

‘Your new novel.’

‘And how does it begin?’

‘It begins with a telegram, an invitation to
meet someone mysterious. Now, let’s say your character guesses the invitation
must be from a fan of his work, because the telegram offers the prospect of a
patronage. Let’s assume that the message could not have arrived at a better
time. His last book isn’t selling well, and he needs funds to research another
book. Let’s imagine that in the meantime, he is surviving by the barest margin,
living hand-to-mouth. So when the offer comes to meet a generous benefactor in
an apartment in Berlin, well, he does the only logical thing a man in those
circumstances could have done – he finds himself in Prinz Albrechstrasse.

‘The street has changed little since his
childhood, except these days it houses the Gestapo and the headquarters of the
SS, and everywhere on shop front doors and on walls two words are written:
“Juden Unerwünscht” – Jews Unwelcome.

‘When your protagonist arrives
at the fashionable apartment building, he checks the address against the
telegram and the time against his pocket watch and looks up. The sky is steel
blue and the sun is cold. He stands like that, in his rather shabby
double-breasted suit that does little to keep off the swift breeze, trying to
resist the impulse to turn around. But where could he go? The financial
embarrassment that led to his rather hasty expulsion from France meant he
couldn’t return. At least not until his circumstances had improved enough for
him to pay his creditors. It’s no wonder the poor are all Communists! He sighs,
looking again at the telegram.

YOUR BOOK SUPERIOR WORK STOP A THOUSAND MARKS A

MONTH FOR SECOND STOP FURTHER
SUM TO SETTLE AFFAIRSSTOP BERLIN FEB 18 15:00 7 PRINZ ALBRECHTSTRASSE STOP

‘Shortly after receiving this telegram, a
small fortune in deutschmarks was wired to him and a letter followed,
containing a first-class train ticket from Paris to Berlin. How could he resist
such a generous offer? It was a balm to know that someone appreciated his work
enough to pay for it. Still, he was full of misgivings. Why had the publisher
or benefactor not given his name? Why did he want to meet in an apartment?
Could he be one of those Jewish publishers that had been shut down by the
Nazis?

‘Perhaps I should say something about the
state of Germany at that time. Your character had arrived back in his homeland
when there was a general feeling of enthusiasm for the promise of a new life
and for the return of German pride. After all, the re-arming of Germany had
been achieved without conflict, and the endless political wrangling of Weimar
was over. These events were like the herald of a new age.

‘The supposed Nazi vision of cultural rebirth
should have fitted quite nicely with your character’s own idealistic views, had
he been a man of his times. But he was not a man of his times. If you were to
ask him about the war against the Cathars, or something concerning Spanish
politics at the time of the Reconquista, he would have expounded clear and
concise views that were based on genuine insights; if you had asked him about
Don Quixote, or Parzifal, or even Sherlock Holmes, he would have had you
listening for hours! You see, when it came to the happenings of his day, he
could tell you about the latest Georg Wilhelm Pabst film, or the most recent
jazz recordings by Django Reinhardt – and not much else. The truth is,
talk of politics sent his mind into a fog and for this reason he was not in the
least bit interested in Hitler. This confounded his friends and irritated his
family. They argued that Hitler had united the nation by erasing inflation and
reducing unemployment and poverty; they even pointed out to him the language of
symbolism used by Hitler, as a way of raising his interest, but your character
was simply not convinced. He felt there was something rather sinister about the
way the little moustached man used the ideal of oneness that all Germans longed
for, and the symbols that they only half-understood, to gain power over them.
These things your character sensed, in the same way a deer senses the presence
of a hunter. It was an instinctive disquiet. For the ruthlessness of the new
leaders had not yet become outwardly apparent – except for the issue with
the Jews.

‘In his view, Hebrews were as well educated,
as polite, astute, sensitive and cultured as any other race. In fact, quite a
few of them were exceedingly talented in diverse fields and were, for the most
part, possessed of impeccable ethics and moral dispositions. He couldn’t
understand Hitler’s obsession with blaming them for everything, from the “stab
in the back”, to bad weather. On top of that there was the regime’s stern
attitude towards homosexuals, Communists and artists. In France he had grown
rather fond of bohemians and, he had to admit, since his return to Germany he
had found it rather bland. He was starved for good conversation! Where were the
intellectuals? Where were the poets, artists and philosophers?

‘Right now, standing before that apartment, he
weighs the risks. Who would believe him should it turn out to be a Jewish
publisher, or an enemy of the Reich, or a homosexual, or a liberal, or a
Communist waiting for him in that apartment? On the other hand, he knows he
can’t continue his research into the Cathar treasure without money. After all,
there are only so many radio interviews he can do – and only so many
times he can recount his exciting experiences potholing in the caves of
southern France looking for the Grail – without feeling like a parrot.
Moreover, his scripts for the filmmaker Pabst have come to nothing, and he’s
had enough of traipsing about the country working on film sets for a pittance.
No, this interview is his last resort and he resolves that should he not like
the look of the publisher, he will thank him politely and simply walk out. He
need never see the man again. After all, no one is going to hold a gun to his
head!

‘He knocks on the door. There is no answer.
This is the fork in the road, so to speak.’

‘What does he do?’ I
said, watching the fire.

The Writer of Letters allowed a little silence
to pass. ‘If he had done differently, perhaps you wouldn’t be here? Perhaps
there would be no need for you to write this book at all? No, he knocks again
and when he hears nothing, a sudden relief washes over him. Providence has
saved him, he thinks – but from what? The truth is, had he left one
minute earlier he would never know, but his hesitation on descending those
steps now means that he is visible to the man who has, by now, unlocked the
door behind him. When he turns, he recognises the uniform. Who in Berlin
wouldn’t have?’

A long corridor led to an elegantly furnished room overlooking
the street. At the threshold to this room a peculiar calmness came over Otto
Rahn. He could have screwed up the telegram or even refrained from knocking on
that door, but he hadn’t, and now he had to surrender to the moment, for good
or ill.

In a chair by the window sat a man dressed in
full uniform: black hat with the Death’s Head emblem; long black leather boots;
shining buttons; sig runes; swastikas – the whole regalia of the SS. His
face turned only slightly, and he looked at his visitor with those small myopic
eyes ensconced behind pince-nez. To Rahn he looked like an accountant, someone
who, at another time, might have lived an inconsequential life, perhaps as a
disliked but tolerated clerk, a civil servant with shabby domestic cares. Rahn
could see him riding a bus to work, thinking about money or illness, shuffling
through his life unperturbed by the great problems of fate and goodness. But
destiny had dealt him different cards and here he was.

When the man smiled – white, thinly
spread and shrewd – it caused a tremor to pass over his left cheek. He
blinked and blinked again, adjusting his lenses.

Rahn realised he must do something, so he
stiffened his back and raised his right hand in what to him felt like a rather
comical version of Hitler’s salute.

The other man didn’t stand. He gave an
effeminate little wave and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’

Rahn waited while the seated man stared with
an expression much like that of the mouse that has tricked the cat in those
American cartoons. He almost expected the man to say, ‘Boo!’ and laugh
heartily, but he didn’t. Instead he looked Rahn over, scanning him from head to
toe, no doubt ticking off a mental check list of features that displayed the
Aryan ideal: green-grey eyes; smooth hair; fair skin; tall with good bones; not
terribly athletic but nothing that a good stint in training couldn’t cure.

When he spoke, his voice sounded small, as if
it were coming from inside a radio speaker. ‘Otto Rahn! Delighted to meet you
at last. Will you take a seat? I did wonder if you would answer my mysterious
telegram. Sorry about that – it couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid.
Correspondence in and out of Germany has to be considered carefully these days.
One never knows who is listening in. Still, I had a feeling you would come and
here you are! Tell me, are you astonished? It isn’t every day you find the
Reichsführer waiting in an apartment to greet you?’

Rahn faltered. To say he wasn’t surprised
might seem to be acknowledging some form of guilt. On the other hand, to say
that he was surprised might sound as though such a thing as Heinrich Himmler
coming to meet a man in an apartment in Berlin was altogether ludicrous. So he
said nothing. He simply returned the smile and sat down. It was an impossible
situation. Beyond his fear and awkwardness he began to speak, but Himmler interrupted
him with a raised hand.

‘There’s no need. Your anxiety is perfectly
understandable. Many people feel sick when they see this black tunic,’ he said.
‘But this is the desired effect, you see! Our aim is to be as much feared by
the criminal, as we are regarded by the German citizen as a trusted friend and
helper.’

With immense effort, Rahn answered, ‘Of
course, in truth, Germany has never felt a safer place.’

‘Correct.’ Himmler gazed at him, his eyes
laconic and expressionless and his features stagnant.

For a moment, the only sound Rahn heard was
the passing of a streetcar below. This situation was far outside his experience
and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. He had a terrible desire to
let go a nervous laugh, but he coughed politely into his hand instead.

‘Let’s get to the point,
shall we?’ Himmler reached for a book on the table. It was a German copy of
Crusade Against the Grail, Rahn’s book. The Reichsführer leafed through it for
quite a time, pausing now and again to read something before speaking. ‘When you
wrote this, you brought yourself to the attention of the Führer. The Führer is
very attentive, always on
the lookout.’

‘If I have offended—’

The man laughed a small, clipped laugh. ‘Are
you listening, Wolfgang?’ he called to his bodyguard. ‘Our author believes he
is going to Dachau!’

The guard nodded as if such a thought did not
go beyond the realm of possibility.

‘Well, I shall let you in on a secret –
you are off the hook, as the Americans say.’

Rahn felt a sneeze coming on, which he tried
to suppress.

‘No, our Führer agrees with me that your work
is erudite and Aryan to the highest degree, an example of the German creative
spirit and an inspiration for our men. In actuality, he believes you are
closely connected to the Reich, through your destiny . . .’

Rahn didn’t know what to say to this, nor
indeed if anything was required of him, so he said nothing.

‘You are not only an expert on history, Herr
Rahn, but you also have a good working knowledge of the occult –
something we regard highly. In fact, we believe that many lives have prepared
you precisely for the moment when you could offer your gifts to the Reich. And
I am here to tell you, personally, the moment has now arrived.’

The reischführer stood and Rahn followed.

Himmler was tall, with long legs and arms and
a short body marked by a potbelly. Everything about him seemed immaturely made
and awkward, as if the bones had grown faster than the muscles that supported
them. Rahn imagined Himmler as a boy, being made fun of by his peers for
running into desks and for tripping over carpets because he couldn’t see where
he was going.

‘What is your next book?’ he said, breaking
into Rahn’s thoughts.

‘I am writing about the siege of the Cathar
castle at Montsegur, comparing that massacre with the crucifixion at Golgotha,’
he said.

Himmler went to the window. ‘Well, you must
forget that. The Führer would like you to write two books, which you will
produce over the space of two years. He is interested in the lineage of the
Grail and how it is linked to the Aryan peoples. He is also impressed by your
ideas on the Cathars and your knowledge of mythology.’ He turned around again
to face Rahn with an impassive expression. Rahn sensed that the niceties were
over. ‘You will receive a handsome advance and ample freedom to do what
research you need. We might even send you back to France, or to the north, to
Scandinavia. In a few days you will be given an office at headquarters and you
will meet your superiors. Until then I would suggest you sort out your affairs
and prepare yourself for the tasks ahead. In time you will be accepted into the
SS, but for now you can consider yourself a provisional member. No need to
thank me – I know what an honour it is.’ He looked about him, his eyes
quite far away. ‘I sense you will accomplish great things, Otto Rahn. I trust
you will not disappoint me.’ He looked at Rahn penetratingly for a moment
before saying, ‘Heil Hitler!’

He walked out then, snapping his heels on the
polished wood floor.