by Mat Nastos
After giving the device a couple of solid raps on its side, MacAndrew looked up past the German at the ceiling above and answered, “It’s all the stone and earth above us. Their transmission is far too weak for me to get a signal down here. Help me gather up the receiver and generator and get it all above ground.”
It took the two men nearly an hour to maneuver the mass of wires, cables, and boxes to the topmost part of the church that remarkably remained standing – a second floor library, its furniture and books long gone – and less than five minutes before the futility of the situation was realized.
“Bah!” spat MacAndrew, kicking the side of the main radio receiver with enough force to dent its steel outer casing. “Nothing! The equipment has given up the ghost and I’m nowhere near familiar enough with its inner workings to make it right again.” The Scotsman looked up at the form of Grimm hovering nearby. “I’m afraid we’re on our own, lad.”
Overhead a raven cawed, grabbing the attention of both men. For a moment the two warriors stood in silence, watching as the bird flew high in the evening sky, alone at first before it was joined on the wing by a second ebony bird. The sight elicited a broad grin from Grimm.
“No, my friend. The All-Father watches over his even now.”
Chuckling, MacAndrew replied, “I don’t suppose the old gray beard knows anything about electronics? Because if he doesn’t, then we’re going to have to find another way to get our bearings on what’s been happening since I took my sleep.”
Grimm gestured wide, causing MacAndrew’s eyes to follow the path of the great white arms. In the distance, surrounded by the harsh white light of man-made bulbs, Prague Castle loomed. In the waning light, Ian could just make out a roiling mass of humanity as it flowed into the fortress’s front gates. Something big was about to happen.
“The peasants have been told the Butcher himself will speak this night, Odin tells mem” said Grimm, the ice that seemed to form his eyes blazing off into the distance. “Perhaps we should attend?”
Nodding, MacAndrew agreed to Grimm’s proposal, but he wanted to make a stop first.
“I want to get Rela to safety first, and then we can deal with Heydrich.”
CHAPTER 11
TRIUMPHANT RETURN
May 31, 1942. 7:00 PM, Prague Castle.
Hans Hagan, eyes tinged with the yellow more closely associated with animals than humans, watched as a veritable army of native Czech citizens and imported German military men worked with a forced efficiency to finish preparations for the evening’s festivities.
The last of the peasant-loaded boxcars had arrived from the tiny hamlet of Lidice earlier in the day – seven in total, each loaded to capacity with its bewildered and terrified peasantry. All those within were quickly and quietly vanished into the depths of the underground dungeons where Heinrich Himmler and the newly awakened Reinhard Heydrich awaited.
Construction soon began on an elaborate stage and celebration area located in the center of the eleven-hundred-year-old fortress that dominated the heart of the capital of the Bohemian-Moravian province.
Tall banners, set with the Nazi swastika on a blood-red field, were draped from nearly every open space on the high stone walls surrounding the large inner courtyard. Massive golden effigies of eagles and of Winged Victory herself were set to overlook a quartet of fire pits large enough to threaten the sun itself with their flaming hearts. Hidden speakers played the triumphant cords of Wagner’s operas, ready to throw the words of the reborn Heydrich to the awaiting ears of those he ruled even as they were broadcast over the airwaves.
Above it all, loomed the main stage, nearly twenty feet off the gravel-coated ground. The onyx and crimson podium from which the Nazis would address the crowd of Czechs recruited at gun-point , raised up like a devil’s horn amidst the chaos below, unaffected and aloof.
The event was to be a spectacle to end all spectacles, a tableau of the might and majesty of the Fatherland that would dwarf all save the grandest of the Führer’s pageants. It was to be a showcase of the unrelenting power of the Edda Society, and the foolishness of any who would dare to oppose it.
For Hans Hagan, exiled to the walls with his men, it was an exercise in frustration.
He was frustrated that as a warrior who acted as the fist of the Edda Society, he had been relegated to a common guard, idly walking the thin pathways that led from parapet to parapet while his hunter’s eyes searched for imagined enemies in the shadows of the streets below. Frustrated that the task of bringing the town of gypsy rebel-lovers in at gunpoint to power the machines that would help to awaken the black wolf, Garm, had been given to another. And frustrated that each of his requests to speak with his master, Heydrich, had been denied outright by the sniveling Austrian doctor, Karl Gebhart.
The physician, comfortable in his protection under the aegis of Heinrich Himmler himself, had given the assignment of bringing Lidice under control to a mere corporal in the SS – and a human one at that. The traitors were found to have been harboring the rebels and their pitiful English keepers who had committed the attempted assassination on Herr Heydrich. The honor of such a duty should have gone to the Schwarzbär. Dispatching Sturmscharführer Krupke amounted to a slap in the face from Himmler. Worse still was Private Eicke’s reassignment to one of the local Waffen garrisons.
The highly-decorated captain could make no sense of it, a fact that had angered him nearly beyond control. Upon hearing of Krupke’s mission to Lidice, it had taken four of Hagan’s stoutest men to retain him when his rage cut loose. Two were still in the infirmary back at Bulovka Hospital.
“Bah,” spat Hagan, rubbing a rough palm into the spot on his forehead just above his eyes. He’d had enough. Leave the political back-stabbing and maneuvering to worms like Gebhart and his ilk. All Hagan wished for now was to be back out on the front lines with a gun in his hands and the throat of the enemy in his teeth. Perhaps he could convince Herr Himmler to reassign his unit to the Russian front. There was little fulfillment to be had in the protected center of the Third Reich. Little call for the skills or fervor of warriors such as Hagan and his brothers.
Hagan slammed his fist against one of the walkway’s merlons. A slab of thick stone fell away, and splinters of rock showered the open area thirty feet below. Hagan stormed off to the north-eastern bastion; his anger built to the point where he missed the two sets of eyes watching him curiously from behind stained-glass windows set into the castle’s main keep.
* * *
Himmler stood in contemplative watch over the scene playing out in front of him. From the mass of ants rushing to and fro below to complete their work in time for the upcoming speech and unveiling of the restored Reichsprotektor, to the disgruntled posturing of the Schwarzbär commander high on the walls across from him. Hands clenched together behind his back, the world passed beneath Himmler’s gaze, although foremost in his mind was the condition of his friend.
If Frank and Wittgenstein proved insufficient to the task of restoring Heydrich to a hale and hearty status, then all of the Bohemian state would burn. Prague with its thousand-year-old buildings and art and culture would be ground to dust. As it was, even if the quest to bond poor Heydrich with the power of Garm failed, the country would have to be made an example of. The gypsies would need to be taught their place in the great scheme of things, far below that of their betters in the Reich.
Himmler’s thoughts of revenge and retribution were interrupted by a military man who stood apart in his gray Wehrmacht uniform, separated from the gang of SS soldiers in black who stood in a tight group near the opposite end of the great hall. At their backs ran the grand stair case leading to the floors above and below.
“Hauptsturmführer Hagan is most displeased with his situation, Herr Himmler. Reports say he injured two members of his own unit in a rage,” said Corporal Krupke. There was little doubt the man’s spirits were riding high on his success
in Lidice, and his want to be inducted into the Edda Society was plain to see – all wanted the power associated with it. “Perhaps sending the Bear away would be prudent? Better to unleash his famed bloodlust on the enemies of the Führer than on his soldiers, I think.”
Shaking his head, Himmler turned away from the pale, electric radiance that flowed through the multi-colored glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. He half-smiled at the way the light played prismatically across the stark white cloth of his parade uniform.
“No, Krupke. It does good to remind men like Hagan of their place, and of the value of patience. It is a lesson he is in dire need of learning. If he doesn’t master control of the beast that bubbles just beneath his skin, it will consume him as fast as it does his enemies.” Twitching his right hand, Himmler silently ordered a thin Czech servant to fetch him one of the goblets of ice water resting on the single piece of furniture in the great third-floor hall.
It had been nearly thirty minutes since the final few peasants had been given over to Reinhard Heydrich and the two scientists who had attended him for every moment since he had come back from the lands of Hel. “However, once the ceremonies are over, I’ll send him and his killers out to help pacify Bohemia. The lesson the peasants need, I’m afraid, is one of blood and of fear. They need to be reminded once more who their masters truly are.”
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” agreed Krupke. Even the corporal knew not to press Himmler while his commander was in the presence of a squad of heavily-armed, soldiers.
Staring at the ten-foot-high double doors that dominated the south end of the hall, Himmler’s head cocked to one side in a return to his contemplations. “I would have words with the two deviants… Wittgenstein and his man, Frank. The hour of our revealing is at hand and I must know if our good friend Reinhard will be ready. Bring them to me, ” commanded Himmler without turning his face from the spectacle being erected in the courtyard before him.
“Of course, Herr Himmler.”
A sneer barbed with derision stabbed into the back of the departing soldier. Himmler could sense the man’s desire to gain entry into the ranks of the Edda Society, but, as loyal and punctual as Krupke was, the man did not possess the drive, charisma, or intelligence enough in any significant amount to be more than a common foot soldier. Even Hagan, as volatile and explosive as he had proven to be of late, was far more likely to rise in power because of the fire burning brightly behind his eyes.
Thoughts of the warrior known as ‘The Bear’ amongst the common troops of the Wehrmacht pulled Himmler’s attention back to the castle’s parade grounds and the men splayed within its confines. Such an event, the return of the leader of Bohemia and Moravia, so recently befouled at the hands of the traitorous peasants, would likely attract another attempt on Reinhard’s life. Lapses between patrol units and the great distances from one mounted machine gun nest to the next screamed out as lax. Would it be enough?
“Captain Meier,” Himmler called out to one of the black-uniformed soldiers milling nearby. “Have enough troops been deployed to protect this castle? After the attack on Reinhard, I fear our security in this god-forsaken country has become lax. Perhaps there has been too much latitude with our men… too much familiarity with the gypsy scum.”
The newly-promoted Harold Meier snapped to attention. His former commander – and the man most directly associated with the failure to protect the Reichsprotektor days earlier, Captain Jurgen – had been arrested and escorted from his post at Prague Castle. He had not been seen, living or dead, since he had disappeared into the darkened halls beneath Bulovka Hospital. The same dank dungeons where hundreds of men from Lidice ‒ both youthful and well-aged ‒ had vanished. The only indications they had been there at all were the horrendous screams reported to have been heard for the days to follow. No bodies would be returned, and no explanations would be given.
Whatever the scientists had done was above Meier’s pay grade and, by the timbre of his voice, not something the man wished to ever know.
“Reinforced companies have been stationed around and inside the castle’s walls. Three hundred sons of the Reich are ready to lay down their lives against enemy incursion.” Refraining from answering his subordinate’s statement Himmler remained with his back to the nervous captain. Meier added hesitantly, “There is no place safer in all of the Fatherland itself this night, Herr Himmler. Everything is under our control.”
“Your life, Captain. Are you willing to have your life stand against that statement?”
Meier stuttered out an affirmative, sure no force on Earth could pierce the cordon his men had set up around Prague Castle.
The answer pleased Himmler. He was tired of his underlings’ recent failures and their lack of understanding of what those failures would mean to their own continued existence. Better to be blunt and up front. Such was the way of dealing with inferior men.
The giant double doors on the opposite end of the long hall scritched open, allowing two disheveled men to slide into the Reichsführer’s view. Ludwig Wittgenstein and Philipp Frank, standing slightly hunched and wrapped in garments wrinkled from wear, bowed in greeting to the man who had summoned them.
Exhaustion filtered from every pore. The men were weary, sleep having become something altogether unfamiliar for either scientist in the preceding days. Frank, the elder of the pair, seemed to be in worse condition, being hit equally hard by fatigue and a level of worry that had obviously become nearly unmanageable as their time spent under the thumb of the Nazis continued. His eyes, dark and set back into the shadowy overhang of their sockets, twitched constantly, darting back and forth, examining every face and every motion nearby. It wouldn’t be long before the man’s psyche cracked from the anguish, or the genius did something stupid. Himmler flashed the facade of a warm smile at Frank, making mental note to have his men increase watchfulness on the scientist.
Wittgenstein, on the other hand, thrived on the chaos and the challenges tossed at him. Whatever physical languor the man felt – regardless of the days he’d gone without rest – seemed burned away by the blazing light in his eyes. Solving the mystery of the cold iron machines and breaching the walls holding the Great Old Ones in the frozen halls of Jotunheim seemed to be sustenance enough for the Austrian. Where it looked like Frank wished for the entire experience to be over and done with, his lover thrived and reveled in it. Even tainted as he was by the blood of the Jews, Wittgenstein’s intellect stood head and shoulders above any in the world. It would be a shame when he would finally have to be put down. Before then, the Edda Society would drain every bit of value from him they could.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Herr Wittgenstein and dear Philipp.” A quick elbow from Philipp Frank, almost hidden behind his back, silenced any seething remarks with which Wittgenstein might have responded to the ridiculous statement. “How goes our work? Will our beloved Reinhard be ready for his unveiling to the masses of Prague… and to the world?”
Thin fingers ran through even thinner hair while Frank attempted to reply to a question upon whose answer, he knew, hinged his life. He exchanged glances with Wittgenstein and opened his mouth slowly, carefully. “There were some complications with the merging,” started Frank, doing his best to remain calm.
When Frank’s explanation was not as forthcoming as Himmler would have liked, Wittgenstein added, “And with the feedings.”
“My colleague means, with the powering of the cold iron machines, of course.”
With a bored glare, Himmler agreed. “Of course. Continue.”
“Even with the… complications, Herr Reichsprotektor Heydrich should be fine for your ceremonies.” Frank’s speech stalled again.
“Spit it out, man!” Himmler was quickly growing tired of Frank’s spinelessness. The only thing that saved the man from a firing squad – or worse – was Wittgenstein. If Frank hadn’t been romantically involved with the half-Jew, he’d have b
een long dead by now. The Edda Society, and Himmler himself, had little patience for cowards or weaklings.
“He has changed. He has touched the Jotnar themselves,” said Frank, his worry about the reaction Himmler would have to his revelations, plain to see. “Reinhard Heydrich will never again be the same man you once knew.”
Himmler nodded. To a man like the Reichsführer such things made practical sense. One does not stare into the Eye of Eternity itself and come back unaltered. “Show me.”
Frank stepped back, eagerly allowing his partner the honor of opening the fifteen-foot-high cedar doors to lead the new Reinhard Heydrich into view.
“Mein Gott.” The response from Captain Meier upon seeing Heydrich was immediate and powerful.
Shuffling from the darkened antechamber he’d been hidden away in since his arrival at Prague Castle earlier in the day, Heydrich’s appearance in the brightly-lit hallway sucked the air out of the entire room, horrifying and stunning every man present. Every man, that was, except for Himmler.
He was delighted nearly beyond words by the disquieting figure confronting him. “Fantastic!”
From below the navel to above the collar bone, Heydrich’s torso was completely encased in a strange apparatus that seemed to obey no known laws of geometry. Weird angles that threatened viewers with madness upon extended observation loomed out. Wires and tubes filled with unclean liquids slithered along its sides, gripping vine-like to any free surface they could find. Lighting, the color of fireflies, danced across the runes carved into the metallic surface of the casing, off-center of which spun an engine the size of a man’s fist that dripped with arcane energy.
As eerie as the chest-plate was, what stared back from the left side of the Reichsprotektor’s face was infinitely worse. Melded into the very flesh of Heydrich’s upper cheek, from just below his brow, down along his nose, and to the scarred corner of his mouth, was a device similar in nature to a goggle. A hideous eye-patch that seemed to glow with a devilish viridian color, powered by an inner light source that lay far too deep to be properly contained by the dimensions of a human skull. It was a distant beacon that glared back from the covered socket.