The Fellowship bc-2

by William Tyree

  He strained his neck slightly forward and took in a view of several adjacent buildings, red-tiled and elegant in the fading winter light. He raised his hands and regarded the raw crimson wounds that were starting to scab over. They were shiny with oil. His skin was wet with perspiration, but his mouth was dry. He thought he might choke on his own tongue. He began coughing.

  Dr. Enzo Marchesi was suddenly at his bedside with a spoon. As he had last night, the doctor slipped the spoon into his mouth before Wolf could resist the foul-smelling liquid. “I give you ancient hyssop oil for the cough,” he said. “Another something from biblical times. Bees like it.”

  The oil immediately squelched Wolf’s cough, but the taste was unbearably powerful. A nurse was at his side now, holding a small white cup trimmed in gold. She raised it to Wolf’s lips. “You are a lucky man,” she said in a native Bavarian dialect. “This water has been blessed by His Holiness, Pope Pius XII.”

  Wolf drank it eagerly. Only a few moments later did he pause. “The pope? Really?”

  “Yes. His Holiness developed a certain fondness for Germans during his time there.”

  He looked up, half-expecting to see the raven-haired librarian. The woman who had offered him holy water was not the librarian. She was not even a nurse. She was a nun in a broad, crisp habit that framed her face and shoulders. Golden eyebrows arched over blue eyes.

  “You have an odd look in your eyes,” she said.

  “It’s been a long time since I have seen a nun,” Wolf said.

  “I understand that many of the sisters in Germany have been forced into factory work.”

  “I think you mean the priests,” Wolf said, thinking Father Kruger’s job in the BMW aircraft factory. “I would be surprised if nuns worked in the factories. The Ministry of Propaganda has been quite clear that the role of women is to have children.”

  “That’s just another kind of factory work.”

  He tried to guess the woman’s age. Although she had beautiful bone structure, her habit hid every inch of hair, and her robes were formless, revealing nothing.

  “Would you like to pray together?” she said.

  “Not just now,” he said. “May I have something to write with? I had a vision, and I want to write it all down.”

  “Careful how much trust you put in your dreams,” she said. “The doctor gave you opium.”

  “It was not a dream,” Wolf said. “It was God.”

  The woman retrieved a leather-bound notebook and pencil from another room and left him as he began to write. The library. The girl. The Karl Landsteiner book. The scriptures that were at once so familiar and yet so new. He recalled them word for word without effort, as if God himself were whispering them into his ear. And the Shepherd will devote himself to bringing all that is concealed into the light.

  *

  Wolf moved his arms, surprised to find that the restraints were removed. He sat up on his elbows and moved his legs to one side of the bed, gingerly moving them lower until the balls of his feet touched the floor. The notebook he had written in was on a wooden stool beside the bed.

  The nun had returned. She sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, watching him.

  “Am I free to leave?”

  The nun went to the window, looking out. “That would be dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He stood and went to the window, feeling cold air ventilate the open-backed white linen gown. Just beyond the red-tiled rooftops of the Vatican museums stood a great wall, which he knew from photographs was the edge of Vatican City. A pair of Swiss Guards in flamboyant blue, red, orange and yellow striped uniforms stood guard at a gate. Just outside the walls, two Wehrmacht soldiers sat atop a Panzer II tank. Although they were several hundred meters in the distance, Wolf instinctively drew back from the window.

  “Are they here for me?” he said.

  “Not specifically,” the nun said, crossing the room to sit in an armchair covered with purple fabric. “The soldiers have been outside the walls for weeks. Every week there are a few more.”

  “How did I…”

  “You and your friend were brought in through the tunnels.”

  Wolf wheeled around. “But when I asked the doctor about Heinz — ”

  “Mr. Lang is quite safe,” the nun said.

  “Can you please summon a diplomat?” Wolf said. “I want to request asylum for both of us.”

  The nun returned to her chair. “I’m afraid I must deny your request.”

  Wolf was incredulous. “You cannot possibly be qualified to make that decision!”

  The nun continued to sit quietly, deliberately controlling her voice. “We were not properly introduced. I am Klara Kohler, the pope’s personal secretary.”

  The name was familiar to him. Father Kruger had mentioned a Sister Klara who had helped arrange for him to apprentice in the Vatican Archives. But he had said that she was the housekeeper for the pope when he lived in Germany and was still known as Nuncio Pacelli.

  “You are surprised,” she said.

  “Yes,” he admitted. In Germany there were virtually no women in positions of power.

  “I am quite accustomed to being taken for domestic help. In fact I was head of a nunnery when the pope was known as Nuncio Pacelli, and I eventually oversaw his staff. Afterwards I was in Berlin, where I served him during his ambassadorship. Now I am His Holiness’ voice on a number of diplomatic matters, including communications with the Holy See.”

  Wolf could not comprehend what he was hearing.

  “The Black Order took mercy on me. Why won’t you?”

  The nun flew out of her chair, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You are hardly deserving of charity. You are only alive because they thought you were blessed with the stigmata.” She paused, turning toward the window before resuming in a calmer voice. “There are those within the Vatican that may be distracted by such parlor tricks. I remain focused on the protection of the Church and the Holy Father through diplomatic means. The vultures at the gate are a reminder that the slightest change in public position will be our undoing.”

  “You can’t protect the pope with talk,” Wolf said, testing the waters. “Unless Germany loses the war, your new master will be Hitler himself.”

  He was not sure whether the nun heard him. She continued to pace, stopping occasionally to glare out the window at the German soldiers in the street. “His Holiness walks a fine diplomatic line,” she said finally.

  “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “If they discover that we’ve been sheltering you, the diplomatic scandal will be the tipping point that will send tanks through our gates.”

  Impressed as Wolf was by the nun’s bluster, he did not take it at face value. It stood to reason that someone with substantial influence had brought him to the Vatican. Had the Black Order intended to hand him back to Germany for the sake of diplomatic relations, it would have been far easier to leave him in Venice, or simply to kill him there in the church. But someone in their ranks had saved him and brought him to Vatican City.

  He decided to test Sister Klara’s limits a bit further. “I have heard rumors,” he said. “They say that the Vatican is a safe haven for downed British pilots.”

  “Mere rumors.”

  “Others say there are American spies within these halls.”

  “Pointless conjecture.”

  “I served directly under Heinrich Himmler,” Wolf said. He was stretching the truth, but not far. His mother had been wrong about the Reich School education keeping him from harm, but she had been right in thinking that it would provide him with elite access.

  The nun turned to face him. “All the more reason for us to turn you back to the Fatherland.”

  “I have information the Americans can use. The locations of aircraft factories. Munitions factories. And I know the mind of Himmler. I know what he plans to do.”

  “No,” she shot back. “That sort of i
nformation would only bring more bloodshed. Innocents would die. It would be immoral to knowingly cause so much death.”

  “Doing nothing would be worse. Besides, things are already going badly on the eastern front. And we all know what will happen if the Russians get here before the Americans.”

  The nun did not argue. Since the Soviet Union had declared Atheism its official doctrine, more than 25,000 churches had been closed. More than 100,000 priests were said to have been shot. Hundreds of thousands more had been sent to labor camps.

  The nun turned toward the door. “I will pray on it.”

  *

  He slept very little. He was too excited by the dream of the great library and the book and the scripture. When he did sleep, he dreamed about the ossuary. Was it real, or was it just another of Himmler’s myths? He did not think it was a myth. Whatever the Black Order was, surely its soldiers would not kill Germans in Paris and in Venice to protect a false idol.

  It was before sunrise when Wolf heard his door open. Dr. Enzo Marchesi was soon at his bedside. He set his lantern on the desk and took Wolf’s left hand in his, checking his wounds. “Good morning. Your hands look improved. Any cough last night?”

  Wolf sat up. “No.”

  “Good. You will need your strength today.”

  Wolf felt suddenly uneasy. What were they going to do to him? Had the nun really decided to hand him over to Himmler? He watched as the doctor once again listened to Wolf’s heart and dropped almond oil onto his palms. It didn’t sting as much now.

  “Your conversation had an interesting effect on Sister Klara,” the doctor said as he worked. “She spent most of the night praying in the Basilica.”

  “I didn’t realize the pope’s secretary could be a women.”

  “Sister Klara may be the first,” the doctor smiled as he poured some hyssop oil onto a spoon. “She rules the palace with an iron fist. They call her…” The doctor looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure that the door was still shut. “They call her La Popessa.”

  Wolf and the doctor shared a smile. He understood immediately that the term La Popessa was something of a backhanded compliment.

  The doctor pointed to a blue garment folded on the dresser — a less flamboyant, standard duty Swiss Guard uniform. Wolf immediately understood. The uniform was mean to disguise him from the spies the nun had warned him about.

  “Please get dressed,” the doctor said. “With luck, I will see you tonight.”

  Several minutes later, Wolf was led by two actual Swiss Guards down a staircase to the Curia’s lower floor. They passed several priests in black robes and countless nuns that appeared to be employed in domestic capacities. On every wall, and down every hallway in the enormous palace, he was met with a new artistic masterwork. He did not pay them much mind. The only treasure he wished to see was the ossuary. What exactly had the church been hiding from its believers all these centuries?

  He was finally led into an administrative room with no windows. Two men in black cassocks sat at a worktable with notepads and steaming cups of coffee before them. He was shown to a chair opposite them.

  The priests did not introduce themselves, but when they began speaking American-accented English, he knew that they were also not what they seemed.

  The Americans wasted no time on pleasantries. The olive-skinned American began asking the questions. An exhausting list that, at times, did not even seem organized into broad topics.

  Where are the V-2 rocket factories? Where are the Messerschmitt factories? Where are the Stuka factories? Where are the Panzer tanks made? Did you see any Allied prisoners working in the factories? What foods are still available? How scarce was meat?

  Wolf answered the inquiries as fast as they came at him, marking locations on elaborate topographical maps. And the Shepherd will devote himself to bringing all that is concealed into the light. Although he was confident in the righteousness of this work, he thought often about his mother. He knew that in collaborating with the Americans, he was putting her at risk too. But she was already at risk, he reasoned. Would she rather not die than live to see the plague of national socialism rule the entire earth?

  The Americans chain-smoked cigarettes. They were neither friendly nor hostile. They simply listened and took notes, seeming to question nothing and be surprised by nothing. The interrogation continued throughout lunch and into the afternoon. They stopped only for occasional bathroom breaks.

  Wolf wasn’t sure what time it was when the debriefing abruptly stopped. Two Swiss Guards appeared to escort Wolf back to his room.

  In his room, a plate of bread and olives awaited him. Soon Dr. Enzo Marchesi visited him, checked on his wounds, and administered more herbal medicine. Wolf had so many questions of his own, but he was too tired to ask them. He fell asleep before the doctor had completed his examination.

  *

  Wolf saw the Americans for the next two days. Their questions were endless. How many Hitler Schools were there? What were their names and locations? What was the purpose of the Hitler Youth? How many divisions were there? What roles were the Hitler Youth expected to play in the event of an invasion? Were there any regular meetings where the top leadership gathered in a single place? What could he tell them about the labor camps in Poland? What could he tell them about the Jewish resettlement program?

  He told them everything he knew, holding nothing back.

  At night, the doctor tended to his wounds. Wolf asked about the Black Order, but the doctor didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. And Sister Klara did not return.

  On the third day, Wolf decided he had had enough.

  “I have done my duty,” he told the Americans. “Now I should like to be repaid in kind.”

  The olive skinned one lit a cigarette. He looked at his companion, who gave a nod of approval. “We’ve already made arrangements. You’ll be taken overland through the Alps tomorrow. We have a contact there that will take you to Spain. From there, you’ll be taken to Washington D.C. for further debriefing.”

  It was not what Wolf had expected. He felt suddenly winded. “I want asylum here,” he said. “Not America.”

  He wanted to know about the ossuary. He wanted to see what was really in the Vatican archives. He wanted to know the truth. He deserved that much.

  “Look kid,” the American said, interpreting Wolf’s silence as defiance. “If you don’t want to cooperate in D.C., we can send you to a work camp in Alabama, but you’re not gonna like it.”

  “I want to see Heinz Lang,” he told them.

  He could tell by the looks on their faces that they had either met Lang or knew of him. The olive-skinned one whistled for the Swiss Guard. Wolf was taken back to his room, where he sat detailing his thoughts in the notebook where he had documented the vision and the prophecy.

  *

  The cell door opened sometime after ten. Two Swiss Guards pushed a figure inside the room. Wolf took the candle from the bedside and raised it. It was Lang.

  His friend’s hands were cuffed before him. He was dressed in white linens identical to those Wolf had been wearing since his arrival. Wolf got up and embraced him. Lang’s return touch was merely cordial.

  “Are you hurt?” Wolf asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you talked to the Americans?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “We have to help them,” Wolf said. “Better that the Americans drink themselves into a stupor at the Haufbrauhaus than the Godless Russians.”

  “I will keep that in mind.”

  “They want to send me to America, Heinz. I told Sister Klara that I want to learn about the Black Order and about the ossuary.”

  “You have to forget about that,” Lang said. “The Black Order doesn’t exist.”

  “What are you talking about? You saw them!”

  “I saw nothing. One of the monsignors here said the Black Order was shut down centuries ago.”

  “And you believed him? Don’t deny your own
experience! They hit us in Paris and Venice. If they are real, then the ossuary has to be real.”

  “It was just the Resistance,” Lang said. “A well-organized insurgency. That is all.”

  “Heinz, listen. I had a vision. God spoke to me.”

  Lang stood and headed for the door. Wolf sprung from his chair and grabbed Lang by the arm, toppling him over with his enthusiasm. Something metal clanged in the near-darkness. Lang scrambled to his knees, searching the dark floor for the object.

  Wolf found it first. He stood, holding the shiny object up to the light. It was a long key inscribed with the papal crest.

  “Heinz,” Wolf said. “How did you get this?” Even with such limited visibility, he could make out the terror on Lang’s face. “Why would you have a key like this?”

  And suddenly Lang was screaming for the guard. Wolf moved in to silence his friend, and the two boys were soon wrestling on the floor. “Was it you, in Paris?” Wolf asked as the door flew open behind them. Wolf threw a punch, splitting Lang’s lip. “Did you tell them we were coming? Did you help them murder Hoffman?”

  The guards separated them. One of the guards held Wolf on the ground, and he looked on as Lang got up of his own free will and stood in the doorway. “Blessed be the Lord, my rock,” Lang said, “Who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. My loving kindness and my fortress. My stronghold and my deliverer. My shield and He in whom I take refuge.”

  “Do not hide behind scripture!” Wolf screamed. And then he began to feel the heat on his skin. His cheeks and palms were suddenly wet. But unlike Venice, he did not feel at peace. He felt as if all of Europe’s rage was contained within him, bursting to get out.

  And when his palms began to bleed once more, and the crimson tears fell from his eyes, he expected Lang and the guards drop to their knees and pray as the hooded ones had in San Giacometto. But they did not. Horrified, they groped for the door handle, found it, and escaped outside, locking it behind them.