“Adolf Hitler: Sieg Heil!”
The feeling of speaking as one, moving as one, was oddly comforting. He thought of Beck and the sensation of being led through synchronized calisthenics — at times in full darkness — with 200 of his fellow cadets, acting as one collective organism, was as essential as breathing. He dreaded the absence of his morning routine more than he feared the castle itself.
Sensing Wolf’s wandering attention, Nagel placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him out of line. “First initiate,” he announced, guiding Wolf to the chair in the center of the room alongside the tray of knives and needles. “This is Sebastian Wolf,” Nagel told the physicians. “Age 15. Blood type O.”
He was ordered to remove his jacket and shirt. He obeyed quickly, hoping to disguise the trepidation coursing through his body. One of the physicians pressed him into a reclining position and raised his left arm over his head. The physician held a large, two-coil tattoo machine that had the letters MADE IN THE USA imprinted on the copper-colored metal. The needle was fat, tapering to form a point at the end. A wire covered by thick black insulation protruded from the bottom, snaking across the floor to some unseen power source.
“This will hurt,” the attending physician said unapologetically. He took hold of Wolf’s arm, pressing it alongside his head, flush with Wolf’s left ear. The primary doctor touched the tattoo machine needle to the underside of Wolf’s bicep. Painful vibrations flashed through his body as the machine whined.
Nagel turned and spoke to the other boys. “The identification of blood types was innovated through the ingenuity of the German people,” he said. “But SS officers alone have the privilege of wearing the blood type tattoo. In the event that you need a transfusion and are unconscious, this mark may save your life.”
The physician was not gentle, but he was at least efficient. In less than a minute, a seven-millimeter ‘O’ was tattooed on the underside of Wolf’s arm. Wolf allowed himself a tight smile as the physician wiped the blood away. He had no sooner let his guard down than the assisting physician gripped his right arm and pressed it back against his right ear.
The primary moved in with the needle and began the procedure again, boring into the soft, sensitive skin. Now Wolf was delirious with pain. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his mother. But he could not. He saw only his dead father, cold and sullen in the coffin.
At last the high-pitched grind ceased. Sensing a shadow over him, Wolf opened his eyes and found Nagel holding a small pocket mirror, angling it so that Wolf might see the new markings. He focused on the tiny smudge of newly inked skin. Not another “O.” This was Tyr, the spear-shaped rune.
Nagel gave no explanation for this, and none was needed. Lessons about the meaning of ancient Nordic myths dominated Reich School literature classes. Tyr, the Nordic god of war. Tyr, the symbol that German runologists associated with energy and magic, connecting the heavens and earth with man. Tyr, the rune Himmler ordered carved into the steel of daggers, swords and even infantry rifles.
But to carve Tyr into one’s flesh was overtly mystical. It was said to have been done by ancient Nordic warriors so that if a Valkyrie decided that they must die in battle, they might be recognized as a true warrior and brought to Valhalla, the magnificent hall of dead warriors ruled by the Norse god Odin.
The commandant helped Wolf to his feet, where he stood shirtless and bleeding from both arms. Nagel held a golden chalice before him, on which an eagle with eyes of garnet clutched a swastika-emblazoned world.
The newly marked recruit took the chalice in both hands. It was heavy, containing several semi-coagulated ounces of reddish-purple fluid. He did not know whether the blood in the chalice was human or animal. His stomach soured at both prospects, but it did not matter much. He would have to drink or die.
“Now you will share in the eternal bond of the Ahnenerbe,” Nagel said.
Wolf brought the cup to his lips. As the metallic-tasting slime passed his teeth, tongue and throat, he tried to imagine that it was his mother’s sausage gravy.
Central Train Station
Frankfurt
The night train bound for Paris smelled of pipe smoke and boot polish. Wolf and Lang followed an elderly conductor through a coach car, occupied largely by Wehrmacht soldiers, en route to a separate car that consisted entirely of private cabins.
Other than the MP-40 submachine guns and their packs, they had no baggage. The conductor opened a door for them, and the boys they stepped into what was easily the most spacious and elegant mode of travel they had ever seen. The private cabin was nearly as large as Wolf’s bedroom in Munich. Opposing brown leather couches were accented with golden stitching. A small bar stocked with liquor and highball glasses was built into shelving just beneath the window.
The silver-haired conductor entered the room, shut the door behind him and pulled an overhead handle, revealing a fold-out bed. “Silk linens,” he said smiling. “Imported from Istanbul.”
“We won’t be sleeping,” Wolf assured him. “We’re expecting a third.”
In their first official assignment, they were to board this train, where they would meet Dr. Rudolph Seiler and accompany him on a mission to Paris. Dr. Seiler’s security was their sole concern. They had been given no other details.
Seiler was a noted authority on Rome, ancient Nordic society and the Middle East. Wolf had, in fact, seen his work referenced in the official Ahnenerbe journal, Germanien. His new book, The Mastery of Runes, had quickly become a staple of the Reich School curriculum.
Wolf caught his reflection in a full-length mirror behind the door. It was the first time he had seen himself in uniform, as they had only been issued and tailored a few hours earlier. Brown shirt with black leather buttons, tied with a black tie. Black pants. Shiny black jackboots. Black tunic with the red, white and black swastika armband on the left sleeve. The Ahnenerbe Tree of Life stickpin in his lapel.
On his collar, sig runes on one side and a silver button pip on the other indicating his rank: unterscharfuhrer, or junior squad leader. Several ranks more than he had deserved, to be sure. It seemed that graduates of the Reich School never started at the bottom, even when they had been recruited two years ahead of schedule.
The conductor opened a storage compartment and lifted Wolf’s pack. He raised it to waist-level and then fell back against the door, apparently dizzy.
Wolf relieved him of the heavy pack as Lang guided him to one of the leather seats.
“My dear boy,” the conductor said as he caught his breath. “I apologize.”
“You shouldn’t be lifting baggage at your age,” Lang scolded.
“I retired in 1934, and not a moment too soon. Can you imagine my surprise when a minister from the Reichsbahn called me? Said they were desperate for labor. Obviously the tourist trains are no longer running, but it seems there are substantial military needs. He said they were running 40 times the number of routes that they had during peacetime. Forty times! Can you imagine?”
“Astonishing,” Lang answered without enthusiasm.
“It seems the train crews have been decimated by Wehrmacht conscription, and also by saboteurs. You must have heard.” He paused, waiting for further comment from the soldiers. When none came, the conductor seemed to backpedal, saying, “Not that I mind the risks, you understand. The Fatherland needs every man, woman and child right now. I am happy to serve.”
With this, he stood, saluted and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Both boys laughed. After six of the most intense weeks of their lives, they could hardly believe their luck. Lang picked up a crystal decanter with a stag head on top. It was full of amber liquor. “Should we live a little?”
A knock at the door interrupted the celebration. With his submachine gun still slung over his left shoulder, Wolf opened the door.
He recognized Dr. Seiler from an official Ahnenerbe photograph that Nagel had given him. The professor’s small blue eyes searched Wolf from beh
ind wire-rim spectacles. Although he was a civilian, he nevertheless wore a red, white and black swastika band around the left arm of his black overcoat. Lang took his luggage — a small leather overnight bag — and showed him into the private compartment where they would spend the next five hours together.
Seiler was irritated, demanding to know why they had not left for Paris from Cologne. He explained in excited, verbose sentences that he taught at the University of Halle, in Mittenburg, and that Frankfurt was several hours out of the way, costing him a full day of extra travel.
“We are sorry for the inconvenience,” Wolf said. “Cologne has suffered heavy air raids since May. I’m sure the obergruppenfuhrer had only your safety in mind.”
Wolf was merely speculating. He and Lang had in fact assumed that Frankfurt had been chosen to accommodate Dr. Seiler. Nevertheless, his explanation seemed to satisfy the professor, who removed his heavy coat and sat down just as the train began churning away from the platform.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the opposite couch. He removed a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his brown blazer and offered the boys a smoke. Lang demurred. Wolf took one, lit it, and puffed it in an exaggerated manner, not knowing whether to inhale or exhale. The government campaigns against smoking had been remarkably effective with the boys at the Reich School. This was his first cigarette.
“You must be hungry,” Lang said.
Seiler shook his head, studying his young bodyguards. “Bavarian accents. Well-spoken. Are you from Munich?”
“Yes. But for the past two years we attended the Reich School in Feldafing.”
Seiler’s eyebrows danced. “So you’re not just any SS brutes,” Seiler said. “You must have a few brain cells between you.”
He removed his black fedora. He was bald, and made no attempt to comb over what hair remained on the sides of his head. Wolf had originally taken him for a man in his 30s. Now it was clear that he was older, perhaps in his late 40s.
“Have you been to Paris?” Seiler asked. Wolf and Lang shook their heads. “I see. Well, the charms of Paris can be quite distracting, so be warned now that this is not a pleasure trip. We must be alert. Despite what you might hear Goebbels say on the radio, we are still very much at war in France. The resistance is always looking for opportunities to kill Germans. That goes double for those who are seen as threatening of its cultural heritage. I expect you to be vigilant so that I can focus on my work.”
A polite knock interrupted Seiler’s rant. The conductor had returned. He passed a yellow telegraph envelope to Dr. Seiler. The professor opened it immediately. His face tightened as he read, as if he had eaten something sour. “SS-1 will rendezvous and pickup at Gare du Nord upon arrival.”
Wolf did not understand. “SS-1?”
“Himmler’s personal car,” Seiler said with distaste. “Unexpected. This was to be a quick fact-finding trip. I can only assume something new has come to light that will undoubtedly turn it into a circus. With Himmler it is always a circus.”
Suddenly deflated, Seiler leaned against the train window, removed his eyeglasses and rested the fedora over his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Occupied Paris
The black BMW 335 bore the license plate SS-1. The car sped down the Quai de la Tournelle, tracing the southern edge of the Seine River. It seemed to Wolf that they were cornering too fast for such a drizzly night. From the vehicle’s cramped rear row, he pressed a leather glove against the window and wiped away a layer of condensation. The silhouette of Notre Dame Cathedral’s massive central spire appeared against the rainy Paris skyline.
The priests of Notre Dame were forbidden from illuminating the cathedral at night, so as to deprive Allied bombers from a valuable aerial landmark. With only the dimmed lights of Paris as a backdrop, the silhouette of gothic architecture cut a forbidding, jagged figure in the night sky.
Heinrich Himmler rode in the front passenger seat, peering at the Parisian skyline through round wire-frame glasses. “Turn right at the bridge,” he instructed his driver. The BMW’s tires squealed as it turned onto the bridge to Ile de la Cite, the oldest part of Paris.
Dr. Seiler rode in the middle of the rear row, between Wolf and Lang. He and Himmler had shared little conversation since the rendezvous at Gare du Nord.
Wolf gazed up in awe as the car crossed over the river and neared the cathedral’s front facade. Notre Dame, a place he had only dreamed of. Except for the Sistine Chapel, it was the most revered cathedral in Europe. Wolf recalled from his history courses that Napoleon had been married here, as well as countless members of French royalty. It was even said that the Holy Crown of Thorns, forced upon Jesus’ head before the Crucifixion, was kept within its walls.
The car crawled the last 20 meters over the cobblestone square, its headlights illuminating the cathedral’s western entrance. Wolf and Lang were the first out, exiting the car before it came to a full stop. They knelt in defensive positions, MP-40 submachine guns tucked tightly against their shoulders as they scanned the rainy square.
On the far end of Rue de la Cite, Wolf spotted a figure watching them — a hooded man in a long robe on a bicycle. It was too dark to see his face. Wolf whistled and waved for the cyclist to move away. The figure turned the bike eastward and pedaled into a side alley.
Satisfied, he rapped twice on the BMW’s roof, giving Himmler’s driver, Obersturmfuhrer Franz Hoffman, the all clear. Hoffman shut off the motor, but left the headlights fixed on the cathedral entrance. Himmler stepped out of the car, using the finger of his glove to smooth his narrow mustache. The reichsfuhrer’s five foot nine frame was dwarfed by the youthful, textbook Aryan physiques of his bodyguards. Seiler was out of the car next, walking slightly behind Himmler.
Himmler’s eyes searched the plaza. “Where are the others?” he asked Hoffman.
“We’re early. Perhaps we should wait in the car.”
“No. The professor and I will keep the priest occupied upstairs while you begin.”
Himmler turned, appreciating the first of three elaborate portals leading into Notre Dame. “Besides, I will be the first to admit that there is much to see and admire.” His eyes danced excitedly at the statues engraved into the stone entranceway. A decapitated Saint Denis, holding his own head. A demon trying to extinguish the candle of Saint Genevieve. Mary on her deathbed, surrounded by Jesus and the 12 disciples. “Magnificent,” Himmler muttered, and with his entourage following in line behind him, he wordlessly moved toward the center entrance, the Portal of the Last Judgment. The carvings surrounding the heavy wood doors were even more violent. A sculpted figure of Christ displaying his wounds. Warrior angels bearing spears and crosses. The Virgin Mary and St. John kneeling at either side. Dozens of tormented souls writhing in hellish agony.
“Catholics,” Himmler muttered to no one in particular, “have always understood the power of symbolism and fear.”
“Precisely,” Seiler said. “That’s why the church has survived two thousand years.”
Hoffman focused his attention on Wolf. “What are you waiting for? Check inside!”
Wolf pushed the front doors wide, revealing the most cavernous, grandiose structure he had ever laid eyes upon. Germany’s own Trier Cathedral did not begin to compare. Only the majesty of Munich’s urban palace even came close. Notre Dame’s vaulted ceiling was impossibly high for a building created some 800 years earlier. How had mere mortals done this?
There was no mass at this time of night, but the rear pews were nevertheless occupied by a handful of worshippers in silent meditation. Behind and above him, eight thousand massive organ pipes clustered before a circular spectacle of stained glass that seemed, with every step deeper into the cathedral, to fan out like the feathers of a magic peacock. He was overcome with emotion. With his superiors still outside, he quickly dropped to one knee and crossed himself, mouthing a Hail Mary. Only then did he compose himself and return to the entrance to give the all clear.
The Nazi
presence in the cathedral was felt before it was seen. The half-dozen worshippers in the rear pews broke from prayer to turn and regard the invaders. Although the red armband bearing the swastika on Himmler’s sleeve was a well-known ancient Tibetan symbol. To the faithful in Notre Dame, the swastika was antagonistic — a twisted, deliberate perversion of the holy cross of Jesus.
Himmler removed his trench coat and handed it to Hoffman, revealing a new black dress uniform that Hugo Boss had personally designed for him. The uniform was both elegant and sinister, resurrecting the skull-and-crossbones imagery of the early 1920s German Worker’s Party uniforms. Black tie with swastika tiepin, twin death’s head patches on his cap, and a silver dagger on his belt. A fitting costume for the high priest of the Nazi religion.
Wolf noted a hooded figure on each side of the hall, lighting prayer candles. They were wearing the same style of brown robe he had seen on the cyclist on the street. Simple wooden crosses strung with strips of black leather hung from their necks. Perhaps they were monks.
He tightened the rifle against his shoulder and checked his weapon to ensure the safety was off. However confidential the nature of their mission, Wolf imagined that news of Himmler’s presence in Paris would travel quickly.
With the professor on his heels, Himmler stomped down the long center nave, looking for the priest on duty. An elderly clergyman emerged near the main altar. He was dressed in a white collar and a simple black cloak that reached the tops of his shoes. As the Nazi entourage approached, he pressed his fingertips against his chest, outlining the four points of the cross. It seemed to Wolf that he was steeling himself for unpleasant business.
The priest lifted his arm in a perfunctory sieg heil as he greeted them. Such a gesture would have been unheard of a year earlier. But that had been before the disappearance of hundreds of thousands of French citizens over the summer and fall. “I am Father LeFevre,” he said in passable German. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
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