The Hollow Bones

by Leah Kaminsky

  Activists come in pairs, find me creepy, screw up their faces, cry, say it hurts too much to stay and watch me. They are disgusted, angry, sad, tell each other I should be destroyed instead of being displayed to Public. ‘Its very presence glorifies hunting. There is never any excuse or justification for killing an animal.’ I trouble them; my Death makes them feel uncomfortable. But how is my Eternal Life any worse than Crocodile whose skin covers President’s feet, or Cow whose hide is worn by Small around her middle? I command more respect than the Animal Parts they wear, carry, eat; at least my life has not been anonymously erased.

  When He was preparing me for Glass, Shepherd told Curator that He wanted my face to show Placid Acceptance.

  ‘When they look at it, I want them to feel the fulfilment of a deep longing. Satisfaction immortalised.’

  I know it was His longwinded way of saying He loves me. I am the Permanent Record of Shepherd’s desire. As long as I am here, He lives on, because I hold His story in my very form. While I am here, He is Not-forgotten. He is with me in World.

  CHAPTER 22

  April 1938

  The train from Berlin cut its way through the darkness, rattling past grey skeletons of houses that watched the flickering, dimly lit carriages. The German Tibet Expedition of Ernst Schäfer, under the Auspices of the Reichsführer-SS and in Connection with the Ahnenerbe Association Berlin, was finally on its way. Ernst had been prudent enough to have two sets of letterhead printed, with and without the SS connection, so they might keep a low profile as they travelled through British India. Seated beside Geer, whose head was nodding sleepily like a doll’s, Ernst saw his own reflection in the window as the city disappeared behind them.

  By the time they met the others in the seedy port of Genoa the following morning, the Gneisenau, a German steamboat, was waiting for them, berthed at the dock. The drizzle that had followed them overnight turned to heavy rain, and they all hurried to get on board. Tonnes of equipment and provisions were already loaded in the cargo hold: pistols, saddles, a shortwave receiver and transmitter, a collapsible boat, Leica cameras, reels of Agfa film, tents, first-aid kits, animal traps, tools for processing zoological specimens, geophysical gear, crates of food, cigarettes and brandy, and boxes of presents for the Tibetans, which included binoculars, old pistols, pocket knives, wrapped biscuits and cheap watches. Gestapo officials had been careful to ensure all companies that supplied goods for the expedition were certified as Aryan-owned. Most important for Ernst was his large one-man tent, a symbolic statement regarding who was going to be boss on this trip.

  By afternoon, they set sail on the Mediterranean bound for Ceylon, via the Suez Canal. The men were excited to find themselves in spacious first-class cabins, but this luxury came at a price. Ernst expected them to wear white flannels and play games on deck while socialising with men of influence – businessmen, diplomats, engineers – whose connections might come in handy for the expedition. They gave lectures in English, each one speaking about their unique expertise. And Ernst insisted they meet every evening to examine maps and meticulously plan their forthcoming route. After a brief stopover in Colombo, a freighter was to take them to Calcutta, from where they would board a train to Sikkim, a small region on the border between India and Tibet. The plan was to pitch camp in the capital, Gangtok, if the British allowed, and await permission from Tibetan officials for an entry permit to cross the border. Then they could surge forward into the unexplored lands they were so eager to see, finally reaching Lhasa.

  White spaces on a map, unknown terrain in every direction he looked: this was the challenge Ernst loved most, what had driven him since he was a child. As a young student at the University of Göttingen, he had jumped at the opportunity of spending an entire summer on Heligoland, a treeless island in the middle of the North Sea, where he would help Professor Hugo Weigold chart the abundance of birdlife passing through during the annual winter migration. They were working on a new project, to trap and tie bands to birds’ feet as a new way of recording their roamings. The island’s isolation and wide skies awoke a hunger in Ernst to see all the exotic places he knew existed beyond the narrow horizon of academia.

  Ernst remembered vividly how one morning he had stood watching from his small cliffside hut as a tiny bird fought a giant. The swallow’s call was urgent. It swooped at the hawk then flew in a steep upward curve, disappearing into a tiny crevice inside the rock face. A whole battalion of swallows arrived all at once, riding the wind as they lifted in a single ascent, moving in as one for another attack. Although the female hawk looked more annoyed than threatened, her hunt had been interrupted by the result of one small bird’s tumult.

  During his studies, while he was away on field trips, Ernst often thought about how he turned to the wild for peace and relaxation. Yet, for those creatures who were a very part of nature, the playing out of unending drama was life’s rule. The hawk had ridden the cliff ’s updraughts with ease, trying to avoid the pesky swallows by gliding across to a new vantage point. And then it had disappeared like a lightning bolt pointed towards earth with a 160-kilometres-per-hour swoop, a spectacular killing stroke. It rose with a rodent trapped in its talons. The swallows retreated, and the vista turned quiet again.

  Ernst wanted to be like the hawk soaring with such mastery above the world, diving with lethal intent. His well-loved shotgun gave him that power and more, for it allowed him to become that little bit godlike over even the birds of prey. He could decide whether to be content watching their dramatic moment as they arrowed in for the kill or, in an instant, fire a wing shot to drop them out of the sky.

  The swallow had perched on the balcony rail of his hut, tilting its head as it stared at him, its orange breast beating violently. Ernst wondered what it made of a stranger entering its Umwelt. He didn’t retreat, yet the bird was defiant. Its species survived because they were able to adapt to adversity and change.

  The bird flitted up under the eaves. A loud screeching revealed the reason behind the swallow’s fierce tenacity. Ernst looked up at the gaping yellow beaks embedded in tiny heads of fluff: three blind fledglings, totally dependent on their mother. He stood quietly as she swooped back over the balcony and out across the waves, weaving between silver gulls that seemed to be laughing at her fervour. Within half a minute, the male appeared, at first skittish upon seeing Ernst, as if having thoughts of abandoning the nest. Then he, too, ignored the intruder and delivered his package of worms into his offspring’s hungry mouths.

  The inky blue of water kissed the jagged rocks along the island’s edge. A stingray floated past like a black ghost, scouring the shallows. An Arctic tern swooped and turned, diving into the centre of a school of fish. The long summer’s day ended with a flurry of birds in a feeding frenzy as dusk began to fall. Ernst whistled, trying to imitate their calls.

  A bird’s life was a gasp. A swift flew past, grazing the air as it fed. The sky was as full of life as the ocean; beetles, flies, moths and aphids darted about, and birds devoured them like fish eating plankton. The array of birdlife on the island was astonishing – the ferruginous duck, the red-throated loon, the pink-footed goose – and he would shoot them as they glided through the hazy air.

  Each day, he returned by lunchtime after hours of trudging through the marshland under a hot sun. He would find Professor Weigold inside the hut, sprawled out on his stretcher, fast asleep, having woken in the early hours to check traps and band the birds he had encountered. The man was a marvel – he had established a modern avian observatory on the island back in 1910, the year Ernst was born. Ernst’s afternoons were taken up with preparing and labelling the specimens they had collected that morning. When dusk settled, blurring the outlines of shapes in the treeless landscape, he heard more exotic creatures whose shadows he followed during long walks along the clifftops. In their short lives, birds braved the elements, journeyed to far-off lands, even if it meant returning with wings torn and ragged. Carving wide circles in the sky above land and sea, the i
ntrepid little travellers went in search of food, shelter and a mate, focused only on ensuring the survival of their kind.

  At night, as he fell asleep looking up at the stars, inhaling them into his dreams, Ernst would relive the day’s work counting, trapping and preserving birds. With wings that only sleep can bring, he flew alongside them, glimpsing his reflection in the glistening waters below, broken only by ripples from a sudden gust of wind that lifted him soaring even higher into the blue.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was mid-May by the time they disembarked in Colombo. Ernst wanted to avoid delays and travel across India as soon as possible, well before the onset of the monsoon season. Waiting for them on the dock was a huge flock of local reporters, who besieged the travellers as soon as they stepped off the boat. Snapping photos and hurling questions, they crushed tightly against the men, making it impossible to get through. Ernst swatted at them like flies.

  ‘Dr Schäfer!’ A young local reporter pushed himself up front, waving a pencil and notebook in Ernst’s face. He spoke in a refined English accent. ‘Rumour has it you are here under false pretences.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ernst, exhausted from the trip, tried to keep his composure, gently pushing against the man’s chest. ‘Please let us pass.’

  The reporter persisted. ‘But there have been speculations about espionage.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Ernst grew agitated.

  The team were being jostled by the eager crowd. Shouts came from every direction – Spies! Nazis! Himmler’s men! – in a blur of accusations.

  ‘We are here on a peaceful, privately sponsored scientific mission,’ Ernst retorted.

  ‘Lies!’ the young man taunted. ‘The papers are reporting that you are all members of the SS. How can this not be a Nazi-led expedition?’

  Ernst took the bait. This smear could mean the end of all he had dreamt of for so long and, with it, everything he had sacrificed in order to ensure this expedition went ahead. He wasn’t going to let some puny foreign reporter ruin things for them. No longer able to control himself, he flew into a violent rage. Geer tried to hold him back, but it was too late. Ernst lunged at the journalist, pounding him with his bare fists. Within moments the wraith was lying on the ground, a gash across his cheek, blood pouring from his nose. Geer dragged Ernst away in the midst of all the commotion, yelling out to the others to follow. They ran into the relative safety of the customs hall, where two police officers barred entry to the vultures that had swooped across to peck at Ernst’s eyes with their flashing cameras.

  The team stood in line among businessmen and families. Breathing heavily, flustered by all the unexpected attention, Ernst tried to pull himself together. He opened his bag and took out a leather pouch that held all their documents.

  ‘This could threaten our entire mission,’ he whispered to Bruno.

  Throughout the lead-up to the trip, Ernst had taken great care to downplay any SS connections, but as soon as they reached their hotel he could see all his efforts had been in vain. On top of the check-in counter lay the Indian Statesman newspaper, with a front-page article boasting the headline ‘SS Expedition Leaves for Uncharted Regions of Tibet’. After making some urgent enquiries, he learnt that by now both the British and Indian press were running stories in all the major newspapers that screamed a warning: ‘NAZI INVASION – Blackguards in India!’

  He wired Himmler immediately:

  Unheard-of attention in the press in India. Worried re: difficulties to be faced in Calcutta.

  It came to light that, just before they had boarded the Gneisenau to leave Europe, the Völkischer Beobachter had crowed about the SS connections of the expedition all over its front page. This news had caught the attention of the British ambassador in Berlin, who alerted the Foreign Office about the team of so-called scientists.

  Nonetheless, the men were soon granted access for the expedition after Himmler had secured clearance through a volley of diplomatic telegrams. They were to be allowed a month in Sikkim. Once they were there, Ernst would figure out his own way to forge ahead into Tibet, with or without permission from the damned British.

  He had never been good at waiting; his very being railed against the heavy inertia of time. Telling Ernst Schäfer that he could not have something only made him want it more. Obstacles served as a call to action, in a war against what felt immovable or unattainable.

  Once they reached Calcutta, Ernst undertook a six-hour journey north to meet for high tea with the Viceroy, Lord Linlithgow, requesting permission for his team to have their stay extended to six months in Sikkim, ostensibly to observe and film wildlife. This would buy him even more time to apply for permission to enter Tibet.

  By mid-June the team reached Gangtok, a busy hub for the wool trade with Tibet. They set up camp at Dilkusha, a lodge near the British residence, while murky sheets of rain clouds threatened to engulf the skies. There they met Sir Basil Gould, the British Consul stationed in Sikkim, a tall and quiet man. Although he received the team politely, checking that all their documentation was in order, Ernst knew Gould was likely concerned about the presence of five German SS officers in the state. Sikkim was a British protectorate, nominally governed by the chogyal, or monarch. It was obvious Gould was determined to find out the political motives behind the German expedition; when it came to wiliness, Ernst had met his match in the British statesman. Gould allowed the team to use the grounds of the British residence to organise logistics and hire porters for the next part of their trek. This meant he could keep a careful eye on all their comings and goings.

  Ernst chose a dozen strong local men, as well as a cook and an interpreter who spoke Tibetan. They called him bara-sahib, or ‘great master’; he enjoyed the deference, which was more than his own men ever showed him. He would have preferred to be remembered, though, by the real meaning behind his name – Schäfer, a shepherd. He did, after all, tend to his flock. Instead of a master, this was how he saw his role among men: to guide them through the treachery of the wilderness so they might find peace and sustenance surrounded by nature, in the same way he did. But the natives’ minds worked in peculiar ways, and their strong belief in magic and myth turned their bara-sahib into a mystical being and symbol. All of his colleagues were endowed with special titles: Bruno was known as doctor-sahib; Geer, who was in charge of pro visions, became store-sahib; and Krause, whose job it was to photograph and film the day-to-day adventures of the expedition, a special kind of magic to the natives, was called picture-sahib. Wienert, who was in control of their contact with the outside world by fiddling with the dials on their radio transmitter, earnt the rather obscure title of tar-sahib, the meaning of which remained as mysterious to the team as the sounds emitted from the small wooden box were to the natives.

  Ernst taught some of the locals how to skin the creatures he shot on his first tentative hunting forays. The authorities would forbid them from hunting once they entered Tibet, but there were certain perks of the expedition he was not willing to forgo. He needed to make sure the men took care not to spoil the pelts and feathers, as these lovely samples were likely to fetch high prices on the international market. Ernst knew he had to rule with an iron fist and be watchful of the natives, who were so sentimental when it came to the killing of animals. The locals were pleasant enough, but they were hopelessly spooked by religion. They baulked at the slightest notion of hunting and had absolutely no understanding of science. Superstition poisoned man’s rational will, and Ernst found these peoples’ traditions and rituals to be nothing short of barbarism.

  There was the vulture, for example, a filthy creature the natives called the dur bya. It hovered over mountain funeral pyres, a key partaker in gruesome sky burials the likes of which Ernst had never seen before. The Tibetans did not bury their dead. Corpses, swaddled in sheets, were carted by mules up to a hill outside the village. There, they were unwrapped and hacked into quarters by ragyapa, outcasts wearing white aprons who wielded whetted meat cleavers. Thei
r job was considered holy by the Tibetans. With rotting human flesh exposed to the elements, it didn’t take very long until the birds, flying gluttons, dived to pick the corpse apart. Holding bones in their beaks, they soared into the sky and dropped them to smash on the rocks below. They would glide back down, circling in spirals with the wind, and peck at the marrow dribbling out. It wasn’t the way Ernst would have chosen to be sent from this world, at the mercy of those vermin, especially when he compared the ritual to the beautiful shrine at Wewelsburg Castle, with the grand funerals held there for respected SS officers.

  Early one morning, Ernst rode out into the wilderness accompanied by his new guide, Akeh, with a small bamboo cage strapped to the saddle. Inside, a bird with rose-pink feathers fluttered around, trying to escape. They stopped at a rocky outcrop and the shy Akeh watched his master dismount and carry the cage over to a dusty clearing. Ernst tied the cage to the trunk of a lone gnarled tree, then scattered some seeds on the ground. The bird started to flap excitedly and, as Ernst opened the miniature door, he motioned for Akeh to follow him. They hid behind a large boulder. The bird quickly jumped down from its prison and ran straight to the food, pecking hungrily as it strutted about. Akeh’s eyes widened as he watched Ernst cock the trigger of his gun.

  ‘Schmuckgimpel,’ Ernst whispered. A Himalayan rosefinch.

  He threw a small pebble at the bird, which startled and flew towards a branch of the tree. He caught it mid-flight, the shot echoing across the mountainside. Akeh watched as the bird dropped, landing in the dirt.

  ‘Precision.’ Ernst lowered his rifle. ‘That’s what I want to teach you. Catch it while it’s in the air.’

  ‘It’s wrong to shoot a bird while it flies, bara-sahib.’ Akeh turned his back on Ernst and walked towards the rosefinch, whose wings were beating feebly, trying to escape from its own demise. He lifted the creature and held it in his hands.