THE MAYA CODEX

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Reichsführer!’

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ Himmler responded with a perfunctory salute. The Untersturmführer accompanied him into the tunnel that led to the heart of the mountain, their boots echoing on the polished stone. Two more guards snapped to attention at the end of the tunnel, where a circular room contained the base of an elevator shaft. Hitler’s elevator was lined with brass and dark-green leather. It had been decorated with Venetian mirrors, a telephone and a large brass clock from a U-boat. The Untersturmführer pressed the ‘up’ button and the elevator hummed quietly as they rose 500 feet inside the mountain towards the Kehlsteinhaus above.

  Hitler was on the sun terrace, hands spread on the stone balustrade, staring across the border into Austria. The snow-capped granite peaks of the Hoher Göll, Watzmann and Hochkalter mountains soared into the clouds. Thousands of feet below, Himmler could make out the Königssee. Surrounded by mountains on three sides, the surface of the King’s Lake shimmered in the cold morning sun.

  Himmler hesitated, gathering himself before interrupting his leader. Adolf Hitler was the only man Himmler genuinely admired; the one man who could raise the Fatherland to its rightful place in the world. At the same time, he was wary of the Führer’s notorious moodswings.

  ‘Guten Tag, mein Führer.’ Himmler clicked his heels.

  ‘Ah, Himmler.’ Hitler turned back towards the Alps, brushing at the black thatch of hair hanging over his left eyebrow. ‘You see that?’ he asked, sweeping his hand towards his native Austria. ‘Soon that will all be part of the greater Reich!’

  Himmler nodded as he surveyed the vista of the Austrian Alps. It was a cold, clear day and, far below, the Berchtesgaden Valley reached towards Austria. It was as if they were on the roof of the world. Up here, the power of the Reich seemed limitless.

  ‘I have a proposal for you, mein Führer,’ Himmler began, emboldened by Hitler’s ebullience. ‘We believe we may be able to discover new archaeological evidence that will prove the Aryan master race to be the driving force behind some of history’s great civilisations.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Hitler responded, slapping his thigh. ‘We’ll discuss it over lunch. I have some ideas for you as well, on this Jewish question and the Catholic Church.’

  Lunch included one of Hitler’s favourite dishes: baked potatoes and curd cheese with unrefined linseed oil. The two men sat in the pine-panelled Scharitzkehl room, where an expensive Gobelin tapestry hung on the inner wall. The large window afforded both men views over the snow-dusted pine trees to the Austrian border.

  ‘I met with the Pope’s financial advisor, il Signor Felici, this morning,’ Hitler said. ‘He tells me that Pius XI’s health is causing increasing concern in the Vatican.’

  ‘Terminal?’ Himmler asked.

  ‘It would appear so. Heart disease and some complications from diabetes.’

  ‘A new pope will need careful watching, mein Führer, and we can’t trust Felici. He’s very close to that pompous Cardinal Secretary of State, Pacelli, whom, I’m informed, is taking a close interest in our archaeological expeditions.’ Himmler was wary of the Vatican. It was not the first time Rome had intervened in the affairs of the Maya. In 1562, during the Spanish Conquistador’s conquest of the Yucatán Peninsula, the Catholic Church ordered that the priceless Mayan libraries be burned. The literary history of an entire civilisation was destroyed and only four codices had survived. Himmler suspected Friedrich Waltheim was right: the Vatican’s interest in the jungles of Guatemala was probably related to the Maya Codex.

  Hitler nodded. ‘You are right. The Vatican is not to be trusted, but there are twenty-three million Catholics in this country, and once we return Austria and the Sudetenland to their rightful places in the Reich, there will be over half that number again. The German and Austrian bishops must be kept on a tight leash, and we stand a much better chance if Secretary of State Pacelli takes over as Pope.’

  ‘Do you know where Pacelli will stand if he’s elected?’

  ‘I’ve asked von Bergen to find out.’ Diego von Bergen had been Germany’s ambassador to the Vatican since 1920. ‘But if Pacelli wants me to sign a concordat so he can retain control over the German curricula in his precious Catholic schools, then he’d better support us. And I’ve told von Bergen to pass on to Pacelli that if the German Catholic Centre Party continues to oppose us in the Reichstag, there will be no concordat.’

  Himmler looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think Pacelli … if he gets up … do you think he might side with the Jews?’

  ‘I think Pacelli takes the view that the Jews have brought retribution on themselves, so it will be useful for us if he succeeds Pius XI. But it’s one thing to exterminate the Jews here,’ Hitler added, looking towards the Austrian Alps. ‘There are a lot more of them across the border.’

  ‘Jawohl, mein Führer. As best as we can estimate, about 185 000.’

  ‘Which is 185 000 too many. The question is, what do we do with them?’ Hitler mused matter-of-factly. ‘Dachau is already full of them, not to mention all the homosexuals, squinters, gypsies and other subhuman species.’

  ‘We’ll need many more camps,’ Himmler agreed, ‘and I’ve already drawn up plans for the Austrian takeover. I’ve been informed that several camps can be built around Gusen, and we have a proposal for another large one at Mauthausen. There’s an old quarry there that can be brought back into use – the Jewish scum can quarry the stone.’

  ‘Preferably with their bare hands.’

  ‘You’ve only to give me the word, mein Führer, and by the time Gusen and Mauthausen are finished, you’ll be able to walk around any quarter of Vienna and not encounter a single Jew.’

  Hitler nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good. However, the Austrian Chancellor is somewhat obstinate. I’ve arranged a show of force on the border to compel him to comply. I’m also having an agreement drawn up for the Austrians to sign. Kanzler von Schuschnigg’s ban on the Austrian Nazi Party is to be lifted and our people in his jails are to be released!’ Hitler banged his fist on the table. ‘It shouldn’t be long before you start construction, Himmler.’

  A cold smile spread across Himmler’s sallow face.

  ‘Now, what’s this archaeological evidence you were talking about?’

  ‘I’ve received a cable from our ambassador in Guatemala City. There’s a possibility the Aryans were instrumental in the rise of the great Mayan civilisation.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me in the least. I’ve been reading Der Mythus des Zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts – it’s excellent, excellent,’ Hitler emphasised, slapping his thigh again. ‘Alfred Rosenberg has it absolutely right. The lower race of Jews has corrupted the Aryan culture, and we must pursue the purification of the master race with every fibre of our being. We are building the foundations for a Reich that will last a thousand years!’ Hitler’s eyes blazed as he warmed to his theme. He got up from the table and placed his hands on the window casing.

  ‘With that in mind, mein Führer,’ Himmler said, quickly seizing his moment, ‘I’m planning to set up a research establishment to promote the purity of our ancestral heritage. The bulk of the funding will come from big industrial conglomerates like Bayerische Motoren Werke, which will also fund archaeological expeditions to the Middle East, Tibet and Guatemala. For Guatemala we’re planning to use an Austrian, Professor Levi Weizman.’

  ‘Weizman? That sounds Jewish?’

  ‘We’re looking into that, mein Führer,’ Himmler replied evasively. ‘The Mayan hieroglyphics are notoriously difficult to decipher, however, and Weizman is one of the most eminent scholars in the field.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust him,’ Hitler warned, ‘any more than I’d trust Felici or Pacelli.’

  ‘Weizman will not be difficult to control. We already have a great deal of information on him, including the fact he has a young wife and family. After our mission is complete, we can dispense with all of them.’

  Hitler grunted.

  ‘The expedition will b
e led by Hauptsturmführer von Heißen, a promising young SS officer,’ Himmler continued.

  ‘Ah, yes, I met him at the Reichstag. A fine young man. If we’re to undo the damage the Jews and the Christians have inflicted on the Fatherland, Himmler, we’re going to need many more like him.’

  3

  STEINHÖRING, NEAR MUNICH

  Tall and blond, with piercing blue eyes, Hauptsturmführer von Heißen embodied Himmler’s vision of the powerful male of the master race. Von Heißen stood at the bar of Heim Hochland, the first of the Aryan-breeding homes Himmler had set up in the countryside to assist German girls to give birth to racially pure children. In a memo to the SS, Himmler had stressed the need for German births of good blood and urged his SS officers to spread their Aryan seed. Heim Hochland provided von Heißen with the opportunity to sleep with a young woman of the right breeding, one who was free of the syphilis he’d encountered more than once in the brothels of Berlin.

  Doctor Rainer Drechsler, a small, thin man with a nervous twitch in his right eye, watched without interest as one of the women under his care put on a gramophone record. Couples began to circle the dance floor to the sounds of a Decca recording of ‘Darling, My Heart Says Hello To You’. Von Heißen had never mastered the art of dancing. Time to plant some seed, he thought, and he poured himself another Glenfiddich, spilling the malt whisky onto the white damask bar runner. He wandered over to Doctor Drechsler, glass in hand.

  ‘The sultry one in the red dress over there in the corner. She’s mine. Introduce me,’ he demanded thickly. Drechsler shrugged and moved towards the tall blonde sitting on her own at a table.

  Von Heißen followed unsteadily, stumbling against a table and knocking it over, sending the wine glasses to shatter on the wooden floor.

  ‘May I present Miss Katrina Baumgartner,’ the doctor intoned impassively.

  Katrina looked up. Her eyes were pale blue and her skin milky white.

  ‘Von Heißen. Hauptsturmführer Karl von Heißen,’ the SS captain slurred, clicking his heels. ‘What are you drinking, Fräulein?’

  ‘I don’t drink, Hauptsturmführer,’ Katrina Baumgartner replied coolly, eyeing von Heißen with disdain.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Von Heißen snapped his fingers at one of the dining-room staff. ‘Rotwein für das Fräulein. Where are you from?’ he asked, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Berlin,’ Katrina replied, her eyes glazed with boredom.

  ‘And what brings you here?’ Von Heißen leered.

  ‘I’ve been assigned to the Lebensborn program, so I didn’t have much choice. But surely you know that, Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘Quite an honour,’ von Heißen observed, ‘for a woman to be able to serve the greater Reich. I myself am about to deploy to the jungles of Guatemala, although that is top secret. Tomorrow I will meet with Reichsführer Himmler, who has personally selected me for the mission. We are going to search for archaeological evidence that the Aryans were at the heart of the great Mayan civilisation.’

  Katrina raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘We will also be looking for a secret codex that’s been missing for centuries. It could be of great value to the Reich!’

  ‘If it’s top secret, then perhaps you shouldn’t be talking about it?’

  ‘You, I can trust,’ von Heißen slurred. ‘You’re on the program, and you’re of good German stock. If you were a Jew or a gypsy, it would be quite a different matter.’

  ‘And if I told you I have a number of Jewish friends who are good, decent citizens?’

  ‘Then I would advise you to be careful, Fräulein. Very careful. Have you read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘Most certainly. I will arrange for a copy to be sent to you. The Führer himself has endorsed it …’ Von Heißen reached for his glass, almost toppling out of his chair. ‘Anyway, for the moment, I’m going to have to put up with a Jewish professor on my expedition, although he will have a use-by date.’ Von Heißen’s laugh was deep and guttural. ‘But it’s very noisy in here,’ he added, standing and reaching unsteadily for Katrina’s hand. ‘Let’s go to your room.’

  She looked at him, contemptuous of his highly polished knee-high boots and the immaculately tailored Hugo Boss uniform, all black save for the red-and-black Nazi swastika armband. She reluctantly rose from the table.

  Von Heißen sat on the side of the bed and wrestled with his boots. ‘I’d get into something very comfortable if I were you,’ he said lustfully.

  Katrina Baumgartner let her red dress fall to the carpet of her large, comfortably furnished room. Her black lace bra and knickers contrasted with her smooth white skin.

  Von Heißen ogled her long legs and struggled out of the rest of his uniform. He stood up and lurched towards her. Katrina sidestepped his advance and von Heißen stumbled back against the bed.

  ‘Not very ready, are we, Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, look at it,’ she said, laughing as she slipped into bed. ‘Any smaller and I wouldn’t be able to find it.’ It was a dangerous, albeit calculated ploy. Katrina knew well that the more pressure a man was under to get it up, the higher the failure rate, especially amongst the arrogant Officer Corps. She couldn’t have known, of course, that von Heißen’s first girlfriend had also had a fit of the giggles, or that von Heißen had been forced to find solace in the brothels of Berlin ever since.

  ‘Fick dich!’ Von Heißen swung his fist at Katrina, but she deftly swayed to one side. He bellowed in pain as he connected with the bedhead, falling back onto the pillows.

  ‘I wouldn’t try that again, if I were you, Hauptsturmführer,’ she warned, picking up the buzzer from the bedside table. ‘I might have been forced on to this program, but this alarm is connected to the Security Office, and unless you behave, I will call them. Now,’ she said, raising one eyebrow, ‘are you going to get that thing up? Perhaps you’d like another whisky before you try?’

  Von Heißen sat back against the pillows and nursed his hand, his bloodshot eyes blazing with anger. Katrina got out of bed and walked over to the sideboard. ‘Down this,’ she said, returning with a large tumbler of Chivas, ‘it’ll put you in the mood.’

  Von Heißen glared at her, drained the tumbler in one gulp and handed it back. Katrina refilled it and wandered over to the gramophone player. She took her time sorting through the records, finally choosing some soft music. She turned to find von Heißen lolling against the pillows, his eyes half closed.

  The next morning, Katrina eased herself out of bed, dressed quietly and went for a long walk. Depressed and trapped, she followed the narrow path up into hills shrouded in mist.

  It was getting on towards midmorning when von Heißen’s driver reached Kassel, where the Brothers Grimm had lived and written their fairytales. They turned east towards the Alme Valley, but von Heißen didn’t notice. He was still seething over the night before, the details of which he recorded meticulously in his diary. Less than an hour later, the big Mercedes came to a halt in the stone courtyard of Wewelsburg Castle. Von Heißen alighted and stretched. From the hillside above the village of Wewelsburg, the castle had views over the Westphalian forests and the rolling farmland dotted with small stone cottages. Von Heißen stared up at the castle’s massive stone walls. It had been built on a rare, triangular footprint and three towers commanded each apex.

  ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Hauptsturmführer!’ The young SS lieutenant snapped to attention and gave the Nazi salute. ‘I am Untersturmführer Bosch. Welcome to Wewelsburg.’ Leutnant Bosch was a centimetre taller than von Heißen, and his light-brown hair was thick and wavy, brushed straight back off his broad forehead. His deep-blue eyes held an intensity of purpose.

  ‘I’ve been assigned to look after you while you’re here, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Bosch said. ‘Professor Weizman is already in his room and will join you and the Reichsführer for lunch. Please follow me and I’ll take you down to the hall where Reich
sführer Himmler is addressing the officers.’

  Bosch led the way across a cobblestone bridge. The stone arch spanned the castle’s protective moat. Von Heißen followed him through the huge arched wooden doors and down a flight of heavy stone steps. Wrought-iron lamps threw an eerie glow against the solid rock walls.

  ‘This is the Grail room,’ Bosch explained, as they passed a chamber containing a huge, illuminated rock crystal representing the Holy Grail. ‘And in here,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘is the Obergruppen-führer Hall.’ Bosch eased the heavy wooden door open and led the way to the rear of a hall that was decorated with ancient runes. The inner walls and arches were supported by stone columns and a large black iron wheel hung from the ceiling. It supported seven lamps, and a mirror image of the wheel had been reproduced on the marble floor. About fifty SS officers, all dressed in their black uniforms, were listening intently to their Reichsführer.

  ‘Breeding will be the basis of our success, gentlemen. In animal breeding one has known it for a long time. If anyone wants to buy a horse, he will sensibly take advice from someone who is a horse expert.’ Himmler had a high-pitched voice, but, like Hitler, his oratory was charged with a hypnotic power. ‘The best bloodlines will always produce champions, but centuries of Christian education have caused us to lose sight of this,’ he said, looking over his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘The Christians regard a shapely human body in a bathing suit as somehow sinful!’ Raucous laughter echoed off the stone walls.

  ‘It is your duty to breed from sound, shapely Nordic stock. We will have fought in vain if political victory is not followed by births of good blood. The question of multiplicity of children is not the private affair of the individual, but his duty towards his ancestors and our people. The existence of a sound marriage is futile if it does not result in the creation of numerous descendants. The minimum number of children for a good marriage is four. That doesn’t mean I want you or your officers to marry the first girl who might appear to meet our requirements. Without being tactless, you should get the girl to tell you a little about her family. If she discloses that her father shot himself, or an aunt or a cousin is in a lunatic asylum, you must do the decent thing. At all times the SS officer must behave with decorum. He should say openly, “I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you; there are too many diseases in your family.” ’