The Nuremberg Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  “Sieg Heil,” they said, respectfully, as the Führer approached.

  Hitler returned the salute. He shook hands with each man.

  “A blessed victory has been granted us, Mein Führer,” said Nuncio Orsenigo, in German. He bowed his head, as he shook the Führer’s hand. Hitler pulled his hand away quickly, though whether it was to hide the slight tremble that afflicted him that morning, or out of distaste for Orsenigo, it was hard to tell.

  “Show us our spoils, Orsenigo,” he said. He squeezed the Nuncio’s arm as they walked through the doors.

  Orsenigo waved at the view in front of them, as if offering the great basilica to Hitler.

  Hitler’s smile was thin, but his eyes were wide, as if savoring a feast. “You got here quicker than me, Orsenigo. Your job in the Fatherland is perhaps not enough for you?”

  “I am blessed with my position, Mein Führer. I thank the Lord every day for allowing me to carry out my duties.” Orsenigo leaned close to Hitler as they walked through the doors. He pointed forward toward the apse, where the gloom of the nave was brightened by a row of tall candles. The candlelight reflected onto the giant mosaic which filled the curved wall high above the altar. The mosaic glistened with gold. At its centre, Jesus’ arms were outstretched against a sky blue background.

  “Our Lord approves of your conquest.” He stopped at the first row of wooden pews, looked up at the mosaic, put his hands together, as if in prayer. The pews had been empty all the way up to the altar. The only other person that could be seen was an old bald priest standing to the right of the main altar, which was above the level of the rest of the church, beyond wide stone steps.

  “Do you know the will of God, Orsenigo?” said Hitler. He turned, taking in the rows of tree trunk-like stone pillars running up the basilica on each side. Nearby, Speer was talking excitedly to Speidel in a low voice. His words, in German, fell into the hushed interior of the basilica like heavy stones dropping into a smooth pond.

  Hitler breathed deep, closed his eyes. Lingering smells of incense and candle wax drifted in the air.

  “Come, let us talk about the will of God, Mein Führer.” Orsenigo was leaning close again, as if his words were only meant for Hitler.

  He walked away, looking back only once to check that Hitler and his entourage were behind him.

  The sound of leather soles slapping hard on the pale mosaic floor made the priest who had been watching them step back, in fear. Orsenigo went straight past the man without even a nod in his direction. Behind Hitler, one of the other two men in cassocks paused briefly and whispered something in French to the priest. The priest blessed himself and walked fast towards the bronze main doors.

  Cesare Orsenigo, Papal Nuncio, the Vatican’s Ambassador to Berlin, approached the side of the main altar and pushed open a door in the bronze lattice screen. It separated the altar from the main body of the church. As it creaked on its hinges Orsenigo stepped through.

  Hitler followed without hesitation. Then the two other churchmen passed through. After they had done so, the last priest, a tall man with a long aquiline nose and skin as thin and gray as his hair, turned and raised his hand to stop Speer and the others in Hitler’s party following.

  “We will look after the Führer from here,” said the priest, in a soothing voice.

  Hitler turned and watched as Speer hesitated at the other side of the door.

  “Wait here,” said Hitler. He slid his hand across his forehead, pushing a stray hair into place. He rose up a little on his toes as he continued, his accent strident now.

  “If I don’t return in thirty minutes, you have my direct order to burn this place, and every other Catholic cathedral in the Reich to the ground, and then take every blackened nail and candlestick and melt them down in a furnace to make bullets for the Fatherland. Understood?”

  Speer gave the Nazi salute.

  The gray-faced priest stared at Hitler, as if he’d cursed them all.

  Orsenigo stepped forward.

  “Nuncio Valerie will stay outside with your colleagues, Mein Führer.” He bowed, then waved at the third prelate. This man had hair which was oiled to his scalp, round glasses and a prominent chin. He stepped back through the bronze lattice-work door and pulled it closed with a click, as if he was long used to taking orders and responding promptly, no matter what he was asked to do.

  “Follow me, Mein Führer,” said Orsenigo. They passed a row of thick candles. Orsenigo turned and went to the side of the carved stone altar-piece, though it seemed as if there was no place for him to go. Hitler watched as Orsenigo pressed a small square stone carving on the back wall. The wall behind it moved. A low roofed passage became visible behind the altar.

  “Another church of secret places,” said Hitler. “I should have guessed.”

  Orsenigo didn’t reply. The sound of footsteps disappearing could be heard as Hitler approached the hidden door. He looked behind before going through. The altar screen blocked any view of the rest of the church at ground level. He felt for his silver-handled Walther PP pistol in the polished leather holster under his coat. He loosened his coat buttons, headed down the circular stone stairs. The walls were white, like the stone of the basilica up above, but after two turns the stone turned darker, rougher.

  “Another of your ceremonies, is that what you have up your sleeve?” said Hitler, loudly. Thick yellow bulbs lit up the stairs, but as they were set widely apart, there was a deep gloom in the stairwell in places.

  “I want to show you the oldest part of our sacred Church, Mein Führer. It originates from before the Benedictine nuns took over the site a thousand years ago. There is something important I want you to see,” Orsenigo replied, his voice drifting up from below.

  They kept going down.

  There was a dank smell now. Hitler sniffed, then patted his moustache down, as if a nervous tick had struck him. They reached a small room at the bottom of the stairs. The walls were made of stone slates piled on top of each other, ancient brickwork. Orsenigo passed through a narrow door opposite the bottom of the stairs. Hitler followed.

  The underground room they entered was laid out as a small chapel. There was a small altar, made of pale green marble at the far end, and stone pews, for people to rest their knees on, in rows in front of it. There were no seats. At the back of the altar was a large gold tabernacle, with a face, with closed eyes embossed thickly on it. A row of yellow electric bulbs hung from each wall. They flickered occasionally.

  “What is this place?” said Hitler.

  “Mein Führer, this is the first Christian prayer room built on Montmartre. It was crafted by the followers of St. Denis, more than fourteen hundred years ago,” said Orsenigo.

  Hitler walked towards the corbelled wall. It curved, beehive-like, towards a point in the roof. He put his hand out, touched the wall, as if he was stroking a cat.

  “This reminds me of the old Germanic tombs we find in the Black Forest.”

  “It has been in continuous use from 357A.D., when the Roman Emperor Julian visited here. He wanted to unify the empire, as you want to unify Europe today.” Orsenigo smiled. “He was told that if he kneeled and prayed to his Saviour, his wish would be granted.”

  “Julian failed, Orsenigo. Can I assume from that, that he refused to kneel?”

  Orsenigo shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “The city above was saved from Attila the Hun by prayers at this wall,” he said, pointing at the wall behind the altar. “Your visit to Paris is doubly blessed by coming down here to this holy place, Mein Führer. We have prayed for your victory here. We have appealed to all the saints and to all the archangels, that your victory would be swift, and that His peace will once more reign, under your guidance.”

  Hitler walked towards the tabernacle.

  Orsenigo put his hand out, as if to prevent Hitler touching it. Then he blessed himself. “Mein Führer, I will show you everything, but in a moment.”

  “Good, but let it be clear.” Hitler’s tone was angry
. “I am not here to worship relics, Orsenigo. You said you wanted to discuss how we can work together in France if I came here.” He rocked on his heels, a questioning look on his face. Then he pushed his hair across his forehead again, flattening it into place with his hand.

  Orsenigo bowed, deeply. “You will have our support from every pulpit, in every church in France for your new regime here, Mein Führer. This is what we offer.”

  Hitler sniffed, paused, made Orsenigo wait for his reply. “And in recognition of this, the Catholic church will take its rightful place back at the heart of French life, as it does in the Fatherland. This is agreed.”

  Orsenigo nodded, took a gold key from the deep side pocket of his cassock. He walked forward, then leaned to the centre of the altar, put the key into the tabernacle and opened it. It spilt apart, the two doors folding noiselessly to the side. The temperature in the room dropped. Orsenigo turned and motioned Hitler forward to see what was inside the tabernacle. Hitler came up behind Orsenigo, then took a step back, surprised by what he saw.

  There was an opening at the back of the tabernacle, beyond a thin shelf. The opening was about two-foot square, big enough to slide through, if you were a child or a small young man. On the shelf inside the tabernacle was a letter in a white envelope, edged with yellow. Beyond the shelf he could dimly make out a large space, and bones, lots of gray bones, all small or medium sized, and stacked up, all the femurs and tibias and fibulas and small skulls together, piled up against the far wall.

  It looked as if a charnel house had been emptied into the space behind the wall and someone had arranged every bone with meticulous care.

  “Martyrs, Orsenigo?” said Hitler.

  “They all died for their faith, Mein Führer.” He blessed himself, then handed Hitler the letter with the yellow edge.

  Hitler turned it over. On the front, Adolf Hitler, Führer, was written in a large florid script.

  “I hope this is what I expect, Orsenigo.” He ripped the letter open, breaking a gold wax seal on the back. It had a crown and keys embedded on it. A piece of the seal fell to the floor.

  Hitler took a sheet of thin yellow paper from inside the envelope. He read what was written on it, then slapped the paper with the back of his hand.

  “Tell the Holy Father that my answer is yes.”

  Orsenigo blessed himself, faced the tabernacle, chin up, then turned to Hitler.

  “We pray only for your victory, and for the Fatherland’s, Mein Führer.” He bowed.

  Hitler nodded, then looked at the letter in his hand again. He licked his lips. His eyes were bulging.

  “Assure the Holy Father that Russia will be subjugated within one year.” He pointed at Orsenigo. “I will keep my word. The communists will not know what hit them.”

  He put the letter in the inside pocket of his coat.

  “But I expect absolute support from every priest in every town in every country where we rule.” His voice rose. “The Fatherland demands it, Orsenigo.” Spittle flew from his mouth. He was pointing at Orsenigo now. “Never, ever forget it. We take each stop together.”

  “You will receive our support, Führer. The will of God our Father and all the angels and saints will be done through you.” Orsenigo raised his arm, blessing Hitler again.

  Hitler brushed his hair to the side. His hand was trembling.

  “The whole world needs us, Orsenigo,” said Hitler. “Europe will be overrun with Jews and communists without us.”

  He went to the tabernacle, looked through it at the bones. “Whose bones are those? They look new.”

  Orsenigo came up beside him and whispered in his ear. “This is the other matter we need to discuss.”

  25

  “What do you mean, he’s dead?” Bile rose in Sean’s throat.

  “I don’t mean to alarm you, Herr Ryan.”

  “Someone murdered him? But why?”

  “We cannot be sure.” Kurt shrugged.

  “How do you know?”

  “His body was dumped in the Pegnitz River. He had a bullet wound in his forehead. It appears to be a professional job.”

  “What the hell’s happening in Germany?” Sean’s voice shook. “This is the fascist era coming back.”

  Kurt sat upright in the hotel chair, stared straight at Sean.

  “I can tell you one thing, for certain, Herr Ryan. There are a lot of German people who will stand against anything like that returning.”

  Sean bent his head, groaned. “But Jerome is dead. And Eleni too!” His voice cracked. He pressed his fist to his chest, bent forward. A strangled groan poured from his throat.

  “My uncle was hanged by the Nazis in 1940,” said Kurt, softly. “He was seventeen. His only crime was to speak out against them in beer halls here in Nuremberg. My grandfather was forced to help bury him. Then he was forced to join the Nazi party.”

  Sean looked at Kurt for a minute, the concept of burying your son in such circumstances sent a further twist into his gut. “You are right to be proud of your uncle.”

  “I think he would have spoken out now too.” Kurt pursed his lips.

  “There is a darkness in Germany again. If you are against refugees and people who are different, you get interviewed on TV and in the newspapers. Commentators don’t challenge these people. Refugees are painted as demons, rapists. Hate is turning to violence everywhere.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill Jerome and Eleni?”

  Kurt pointed at Sean. “Here in Bavaria we have a number of anti-refugee groups. One of them is called the 39 Boys. You can read about them on the internet. They are dangerous. Very dangerous. They stir up trouble so that right wing politicians will get elected. Every member of that group should have been put in prison a long time ago and their pay masters. I expect this group, or people like them, murdered your friends.”

  A shout echoed from the street below. Kurt went to the window, looked down.

  “Punks.”

  “If you know who the people in this group are, are your colleagues going around knocking on their doors, arresting them?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re not even questioning them? But you’re interviewing family members as if they’re guilty. What the hell is that about?”

  Kurt opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he leaned forward. “What I will tell you must not be repeated, Herr Ryan, understood?”

  Sean nodded.

  Kurt sounded angry, when he continued. “We had a security breach at the national police computer system a few months ago. All records of the 39 Boys and two other anti-refugee groups were deleted.” He sat back.

  “What about backups?” Sean’s tone was angry.

  “Everything is gone. Every file. Every backup. I only found this out when I tried to check on a suspect. There wasn’t even an official announcement about the security breach.” He shook his head slowly, an amazed look on his face.

  “That’s incredible. How could this be allowed to happen?” Sean shifted in his chair.

  “I reported my concerns to a member of the Landtag of Bavaria. To someone who sits on the Committee of National Security.”

  “You trust politicians?”

  “This one, yes. She holds people to account. She is one of the good guys, isn’t that how you say it? I’m doing my best, Herr Ryan, but things are moving fast.” He pointed at the TV. “Have you been watching the news?”

  “A little.”

  “CXN Deutschland have been covering something, which you should see.” He picked up the TV remote from the bed, flicked through the channels. “Ja.” He’d found CXN.

  On the screen a young woman with swept back blond hair was standing outside a modern 3-storey building talking fast in German, an ambulance with a strobing blue light flashing behind her, sending pulses of blue through her hair.

  “What’s she saying?” Another ambulance pulled up.

  “There’s been an outbreak of some unidentified disease. Twenty-six refugee
s have died in Nuremberg in the past twelve hours. Two in Munich.”

  Sean was trying to work out the words that were moving across the bottom of the screen. All he recognised was a number – 31.

  He pointed. “Are there 31 people dead now?” His skin pricked. Was there a connection between Jerome and Eleni’s murders and this? Was that what Kurt was implying?

  “Ja, that is the death toll now.”

  “Something’s spreading among refugees?”

  The prickling on his skin grew warmer. Someone had planned to infect a demonstration with a virus in London a few years before. Hatred had inspired that sickening attempt. He thought about Isabel and Alek back in London. He was glad they were there, not here. Any member of the public could be an enemy, a soft target, these days.

  Kurt bent his head, as if something was weighing down on him.

  “What do you make of all this?” Sean spoke fast, waved at the screen.

  Kurt replied quickly. “All the people who have died so far are from north Africa, Herr Ryan. I don’t like that.”

  Sean let out a snort. “It’s a coincidence. It has to be. There couldn’t be a virus that just infects one group.” His voice rose. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm to his forehead.

  “You think someone is trying to infect refugees?” He put his hand down, gripped the edge of the chair.

  Kurt didn’t respond. They started at each other.

  “You think someone has developed a way of infecting just one group they want eliminated?”

  Kurt pointed at the screen. “It has to be a possibility for these deaths. We have to consider it.” The outside broadcast had been replaced by a studio shot of a white-coated doctor, captioned, Doktor Oskar Strausse.

  “Be quiet, please.” Kurt put his hand up to stop Sean talking.

  He listened, shook his head, slowly.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “This doctor says all these deaths are likely to be caused by a viral infection brought in to Germany by refugees. He’s talking about the need for secure camps to separate possible carriers.”