Priestess of the Floating Skull

by Edwin Benson

  He felt the skull lift gently from his fingers and saw it apparently float through the air in response to her alluring beckoning. He knew that invisible wires were supporting it, but all the same he felt the hackles on his neck rise in eerie response.

  The audience drew in its breath as a single individual. Vorosh stole a look at Hitler. The Fuehrer was staring, his slack mouth half-open in the same fascination that gripped all those around him.

  “She’ll do it!” breathed Vorosh to himself. “He’ll be a sucker for it!”

  Vanja now was facing the audience. Vorosh stood in the shadows, arms folded. All that he was to do was to act as her stooge in the manipulations of the floating skull. She crouched down now, kneeling in seeming obeisance to the skull hovering before her. It was gleaming in the eerie light.

  It floated down nearer to her. She rose on one knee, reached out supplicatingly toward the skull, palms extended. It descended slowly. At last it touched her fingertips.

  SO DEFTLY that even Vorosh could scarcely determine her movements, she disengaged the skull from its wires and suspended it to her own fingers. Then she rose swayingly to her feet. The music grew in volume, its weird notes filling the theater with sound. Then, as Vanja finished her ritual, it died away. Silence fell over the spellbound audience like a cloak.

  Under Vanja’s deft touch, the lights inside the skull began to glow until they made it shine in her hands with a macabre effect that was truly startling. The light limned the curves of her body with alluring highlights; picked out the high color of her cheeks; deepened the violet depths of her eyes; shadowed mysteriously the hollow of her throat.

  Softly her voice came, calling a name. Several times she repeated it. At the rear of the theater a soldier stood up. Vorosh listened and watched in admiration as Vanja went through her act, read his mind, answered his halting, embarrassed, and obviously frightened questions; frightened because the Fuehrer was present.

  Suddenly Vanja lifted an imperious hand, stood rigid.

  In Vorosh’s mind her voice rang suddenly.

  Peter! Come slowly toward me; kneel and take the skull from my hands. Then begin calling out, mentally, the name of Rudolf Hess. Do as I did to you that day in your plane high above Buffalo. Tell him to sleep, to relax, to free his mind of all thoughts. You will continue doing that, keeping your forehead close to the skull, touching it if possible, while I go on with Hitler. Repeat over and over the German words I taught you.

  Vorosh, feeling a queer sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, almost like the feeling that accompanied a steep dive in a P-40, moved slowly forward in response, knelt and took the skull from her. He held it before him, bent forward until his forehead touched it. Then he began concentrating mightily.

  Rudolf Hess! Rudolf Hess! He called urgently with his mind. Du bist schläfrig. Sehr schläfrig. Schlafe, Rudolf Hess. Ruh dich aus.[5]

  Dimly Vorosh was aware that Vanja was speaking in German.

  He continued his desperately directed thoughts.

  Out in the audience there was a stir; then sharply, so that it startled him for a moment, made him forget what he was doing, came the voice of Adolf Hitler himself. He was shooting a harsh question at Vanja.

  Vorosh thrust the voice from his mind, tried to dull his ears to the sounds around him. He repeated Hess’ name over desperately, and urged sleep, deep sleep, on the distant mind he sought to reach.

  Once he thought he heard a faint “Ja” in his mind. The mental voice of Hess! Or was it? Just someone in the theater? It was not repeated.

  Vanja’s hand touched his head, and he heard her voice in his mind, speaking in Russian this time.

  Give me the skull.

  He surrendered it to her, backed away, resumed his former position at the side of the stage. He saw now that the audience was in confusion, awed. Hitler stood erect in his box, eyes intent on Vanja. There was amazement, bafflement and a fantastically inspired look on his face. He seemed like a man who has seen a vision of his own coming greatness. He was flushed, his hands clenched and unclenched.

  “Holy smoke!” muttered Vorosh to himself. “What did she tell him?”

  VANJA seemed to be going through her customary ritual before leaving the stage, but in his mind Vanja’s voice (as abruptly as that of Hitler had intruded on his mind before) began speaking in German. Several times he heard the name of Rudolf Hess. It was quite a long speech, and it was repeated urgently several times. Then her voice ceased.

  Now the curtain swung closed and a burst of applause came from beyond. Several times the curtain opened and Vanja took bows. Then it remained closed; but not before Vorosh had seen Hitler triumphantly smack his doubled fist into his palm, then wheel and march past his companions, whose faces were serious. Von Holder and Goebbels were frowning. Vorosh wondered why.

  Back in the dressing room Vorosh was impatient to hear what Vanja had broadcast to the distant Hess. But Vanja flung her arms around him and hugged him tight in glee.

  “It worked!” she said enthusiastically. “It worked so wonderfully well!”

  Vorosh planted a kiss on her lips, and she returned it almost automatically. Then she realized how natural the act had been and drew back blushing.

  “Exactly what did work so wonderfully well?” asked Vorosh, quelling the curious thrill that tingled on his lips.

  Vanja seated herself at her dressing table and began combing her hair.

  “Well, while you were concentrating on putting Rudolf Hess to sleep with the German words I taught you, I was calling up a few of the things that we learned from Hess, subtly, of course, so that no one else in the audience, except perhaps Hitler’s immediate staff would read the truth in them. I even hinted at the invasion of America’s island possessions.

  “Hitler was certainly surprised, because right in the middle of one of my revelations, he jumped up and challenged me.

  “I told him then several things which I kept very close to the truth, and then told him that very soon he would receive an extremely important communication from a very good friend and compatriot of his who was not in Germany, but in an enemy country on a very important mission. I assured him that this communication would contain information that would have immense possibilities to mould his future destiny as the conqueror of the world.

  “I told him that the information he would receive would give him a great tactical advantage, and that if the knowledge was used along the lines that the friend would suggest, a great victory in a land to the east would be assured.”

  Vorosh looked puzzled.

  “I don’t get it. How can you assure him of anything like that?”

  “Because the information that Hitler will receive will come from the most unimpeachable source of all, from Rudolf Hess in England.”

  “So that’s what you were telling Hess!”

  “Yes. I discovered that your insistent mental voice had achieved the result we desired, and placed Hess in a hypnotic state he was absolutely ignorant of. Actually a person cannot be hypnotized against his will, but when he does not realize he is being hypnotized, it is easy.

  “I told Hess exactly the information I wanted him to convey to Hitler, convinced him that he received it from his usual authoritative sources, impressed on him how true it was, and how vital, and how urgent. Then I told him that he would not question his source, not doubt its authenticity.”

  VOROSH looked at her in admiration.

  “So when he wakes, he will carry out those orders without question!”[6]

  “Yes. And now I must convey the plan of action to General Vidkov. When Hitler acts on the Moscow front as he will when he gets the information from Hess, he will find that the Red Army can really fight!”

  “But what was that information?” asked Vorosh desperately curious. Vanja smiled at him.

  “I cannot tell you that,” she said. “And—” she hastened to add as she saw the gathering frown on his face “—not because I do not trust you. If I tell no one, there cannot be a sl
ip-up—and there must not be a slip-up!” Vorosh looked at her, then drew his brows into a puzzled frown.

  “But how can you be sure that Hitler will act as you think he will? If the Red Army makes plans for a certain tactical maneuver, and it does not develop, they will be in a trap of their own choosing.”

  “Hitler will act as I want him to,” Vanja assured him. “Hitler is a mystic, and he believes in such things as happened to him tonight.[7] When the message from Hess comes as I have predicted, he will be sure it is something marvelous, and true that has come to him out of destiny’s web itself.”

  Vorosh pictured his last glimpse of Hitler in his box, smashing his fist into his palm, and nodded agreement to this statement.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think he will. In fact, I think he’s already decided to act. When the information does come, it will be the clincher in his mind. And—” Vorosh grinned suddenly. “—a couple of Nazis I know aren’t going to like it a little bit! If I remember rightly, his generals resent his interference in their tactics . . . and anything so drastic as the plan you must have in mind, with its obvious danger to German arms, will stick in their craw. And if I have Hitler tagged right, that’ll be the one factor that will make him do as you want!”

  CHAPTER X

  The Battle of Russia

  PETE VOROSH swung around as a hand dropped cordially on his shoulder in the tiny bar where he sat morosely sipping, ironically, a Russian champagne.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Vorosh,” said the American consul, Briggs. “How is my ‘miracle flier’ today. Any new stratosphere flights?”

  Vorosh grunted, took another swallow of his drink.

  “First time I see you since we shook hands, and you stab me in the back,” he said. “Right now I don’t feel like being ribbed.”

  “Sorry, old man,” said Briggs, sliding into the seat beside him. “No offense meant. But you do look sort of glum. What’s on your mind? You still have several months before you have to join the Russian air force.” Vorosh swung about angrily.

  “More needles! Can’t you cut it out?”

  “What’s eating you?” said Briggs bluntly. “Maybe I can help you.”

  “Fact is,” said Vorosh, “I’m getting just a bit bored. I wasn’t cut out to be a stage dummy . . .”

  “That’s what was getting under my skin too,” confessed Briggs. “That’s why I looked you up. What’s keeping you here? Why don’t you hike for Russia and join up now?”

  “A mastermind like you ought to be able to figure that out,” said Vorosh significantly. “Obviously I am engaged in espionage; and Miss Nilchenko and I are slowly but surely undermining the Third Reich!”

  “Now who’s being sarcastic?” asked Briggs. “And to retaliate a bit, whatever happened to that Jap invasion you were screaming about?”

  Vorosh glared at him.

  “It’ll come! It’s just been delayed.”

  “Your information comes straight from Hess?” smiled Briggs.

  Vorosh stared for a moment, then broke into a grin.

  “Let’s call it quits, Briggs. To be quite frank, I’d like to talk things over with you. I won’t be impolite and disregard your question, though. Yes, my information does come from Hess. And if I don’t miss my guess, Hitler has been getting some information from the same source. It’s just what information he’s getting that’s got me buffaloed.”

  “You mean the girl hasn’t told you?” asked Briggs innocently.

  “Have a drink?” asked Vorosh.

  “Sure,” Briggs grinned. “And nice going. Well, Vorosh, what can I do that will serve to dispel the clouds from your brain?”

  “WHAT’S going on—here and in Russia?” Vorosh quickly took advantage of the offer. “I am having a tough job following the news. I don’t understand German, so these newspapers and the Sondermeldung[8] over the radio don’t mean a great deal to me.”

  Briggs looked doubtful.

  “They don’t mean a great deal to anybody,” he observed. “Even to the German people! Since October tenth, the Russians have been licked a dozen times. In fact, since that date, a very strange confidence has evidenced itself, from Hitler on down, and they’ve been jumping the gun on announcing victories before they were won. I can’t understand it myself.”

  “I can,” said Vorosh, grinning queerly.

  “Eh?”

  “Go on,” prodded Vorosh. “Let’s have your opinion on it.”

  “Well, on the fighting front, the Germans have taken Vyasma and have stormed on past the Bryansk front. Which is damned near Moscow. If they can keep on . . .

  “According to the Sondermeldung, Stalin’s armies have been wiped out, have, according to Dr. Dietrich, “ceased to exist.’ Strangely enough, those nonexistent armies have been creating horrible havoc, largely through what the Nazis please to call “bolshevik barbarism,” such as lying down in front of Nazi tanks, then inserting dynamite in the treads, so that they blow up twenty feet further on; surrendering with dynamite in their pockets, then blowing their captors and themselves to hell.

  “Latest reports indicate that Rostov is about to be taken by the Nazi armies . . .”

  Vorosh interrupted.

  “Is all this true?”

  “Which?”

  “About Nazi advances.”

  Briggs shrugged.

  “I have no reason to disbelieve it. I don’t believe the Russians are wiped out, but they are retreating. Nazi columns have taken Bryansk, and are reported on the verge of springing a great trap on the Russians who are wiped out but still fighting. Incongruous, isn’t it? As for Rostov, there I think the Russians are taking a terrible licking. It looks to me as if Hitler will not have to wait for next spring to take the Caucasus, but can barge right on through.”

  Vorosh groaned.

  “Maybe he didn’t believe Hess!” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” said Vorosh. “Just talking to myself.”

  A STREET urchin appeared behind them, thrusting out a paper speechlessly. Vorosh spotted the two-word headline in giant red letters and snatched a copy. He thrust a coin into the urchin’s hand and he ran off. ROSTOV EROBERT! Vorosh read. “What’s that mean?”

  Briggs snatched the paper.

  “It means ‘Rostov taken.’ The Germans have captured Rostov!”

  “That’s not so good, is it?” Vorosh asked worriedly.

  “No. But strangely enough, it seems to vindicate Hitler.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Hitler’s generals, von Leeb, von Bock, and von Rundstedt have been insisting that the time has come for a retreat to more secure winter lines. Hitler has been for smashing on and winning the victory at once. The generals have claimed this was impossible. Now, I don’t know. The fall of Rostov may open the way to a winter offensive that can take the Caucasus.”

  Vorosh downed his drink with one gulp.

  “Listen, Briggs,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon me. I’ve got to run off. There are some things . . .” His voice trailed off. He got to his feet, shook hands hastily, and left. “. . . Some things I’ve got to have explained,” he finished to himself as he walked out the door.

  Reaching the door of the hotel where Vanja was staying, Vorosh almost bumped into a uniformed man coming out. It was von Holder, who greeted him stiffly, looked at him with a strange gleam in his eye, then strode on. It seemed that he was perturbed about something.

  Vorosh stared after him a moment, then shrugged and entered the hotel.

  He found Vanja in her room. He showed her the paper.

  “Look, Vanja,” he said. “Isn’t it about time you told me what’s going on? If you ask me, I think your plan is going all wrong.”

  Vanja looked at the paper, and amazingly, seemed pleased.

  “Come,” she said, seating herself on the sofa. “Sit down beside me and I’ll tell you all about it. Nothing can stop events now, so it can do no harm to tell you what I’ve done.

 
“Shortly after that performance before Hitler,” she began, “Rudolph Hess transmitted the information I gave to him under the hypnotic spell. Hitler has been acting upon it. Briefly, what I told Hess is this:

  “Stalin, in his effort to save Moscow, has planned a flanking and encircling movement on the Nazi armies attacking along the Vyasma-Bryansk line. The plan is to push to the north, then circle, come down behind the German lines at Vyasma and cut off the Nazi armies rushing forward sure of success. Then, cut off from supply lines, they can be cut to pieces.

  “Also, Stalin has taken, for this purpose, the bulk of the army behind Rostov, and shifted it to the Bryansk front, to stop the Nazis there, believing that the Germans do not plan to attack the Caucasus this winter.

  “BUT all this is not true. Actually, General Vidkov has a plan of action which he has worked out with Stalin. The great action is to take place at Rostov, under the direction of General Semeon Timoshenko, one of the most brilliant of all Russian generals. The plan is to drive the Nazis back at Rostov, as far as Odessa, if possible. And the plan at Bryansk is to feint a frontal and northern thrust, to bear out the encirclement illusion, then attack from the south as the Nazis turn north to complete their own encircling maneuver. They will find themselves attacked from the rear.”

  “You mean that the Russians have strong armies at both Bryansk and behind Rostov, and that the Nazis, believing that the Caucasus armies have been shifted north and the defenses are almost nonexistent, will drive on past Rostov and be trapped?”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “What if the Russian armies are not strong enough to turn the Nazis back on either front?” asked Vorosh bluntly.

  “Then Russia will be lost,” said Vanja simply. “Lost, insofar as further resistance this side of the Urals is concerned.”

  “It’s a terrible gamble,” said Vorosh. “The fate of Russia staked on a hypnotic suggestion to one man!”