He walked through his old neighborhood, noting with regret how quickly the architectural perfection of Marienplatz was being changed by the war. The façade of a bank had been reduced to brick during the September air raids. In response, two anti-aircraft batteries had been erected on opposite sides of the square. Several Hitler Youth patrols roamed the streets. The patrol leaders were younger and more aggressive than ever before. As dusk fell, a pack of boys went door to door, ordering shopkeepers to turn off their lights so as to deprive Allied planes of ground targets.
On another corner, a pair of boys harassed a young woman for being too thin. Slim women were not good for childbearing, one of them told her. She should fatten up and find a husband.
“And how is she supposed to do that?” Wolf shouted as he came up behind the youth patrol. The boys stood at attention at the sight of Wolf’s uniform. “All the able-bodied men are at war, and the government is rationing food. What is she to do? Boil wallpaper and marry one of you?”
The girl – she could not have been more than 17 – flashed Wolf a grateful smile as she slipped away from the stunned youth brigade. He stood unmoving for a time, surprised at how his presence seemed to freeze the boys where they stood while the crowds in Marienplatz moved around them. There were six of them. He guessed they were 12 or 13 years old, although they seemed jaded beyond their years. He had heard that some of the youth brigades had been taken on field trips into Poland, where they practiced giving orders to political prisoners living in the ghettos. Show no pity, they were told. He was quite certain this bunch would have no trouble with that.
He dismissed them. They dispersed like a pack of puppies, moving to the other side of the square, where they would no doubt refocus their harassment on someone else. Wolf sighed in relief. If one of the little punks had so much as gripped his left shoulder, he would have been driven to his knees.
The Glockenspiel clock tower on the town hall was covered with a draping red swastika banner. Wolf walked under it, through the main archway and into the interior courtyard. He descended two sets of stairs and stood just above one of several Ratskellar dining rooms. As he had hoped, it was not busy. A few tables occupied by old men.
A maître d’ in a smart suit approached. “Table for one?”
Wolf straightened his posture, working through the pain as he brought his shoulders into alignment. “I’m meeting someone. Take me somewhere private.”
He was led through the first room, into a smaller secondary dining room, where there were fewer lights. Wolf sat at a corner table with his back to the wall. He pulled out a silver cigarette case and opened it, revealing several dozen food stamps. He presented them to a waiter and ordered two beers.
He didn’t have to wait long. Leo Kruger arrived at the precise moment that the drinks were delivered to the table. Kruger sat down uneasily. The sullied blue shirt and dirty face told Wolf that he hadn’t had time to stop home from work yet.
“Father Kruger,” Wolf said. He gestured toward the second beer. “Please.”
Kruger sat, but did not touch the mug. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear at dinner,” Kruger said. “I am no longer a priest.”
Laughter swelled from the adjoining hall. Kruger turned to look.
“Don’t worry about them,” Wolf said. “It’s good to see you. Of all the teachers, you were the best. Do you remember how you would sometimes let us stay after school? We could ask you about any subject, and you would talk for hours.”
“Don’t be delusional,” Kruger snapped. “Everything has changed. What do you want from me?”
Wolf reached into his overcoat and removed a piece of paper. He set it on the table and unfolded it. On it he had written the foreign letters that he had watched Hoffman write with his own blood. “Do you recognize this?”
A waiter walked past on his way from the kitchen to the next room. Kruger turned and waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. “Where did you see this?”
Wolf hesitated. “France,” he said, but thought better of providing more details.
“Odd,” the priest said. “At the Louvre, perhaps?”
“No.” Wolf sipped his beer, relishing the way the bubbles percolated on his tongue.
“The writing is an ancient form of Aramaic,” Kruger said, his demeanor warming slightly. He slurped the foam from the top of his own mug. “And why is a Nazi asking me to translate a language that is most commonly associated with ancient Jews?”
“I’m not a Nazi,” Wolf said in a voice that was at once defensive and yet barely audible. “At least not by choice.”
“We all have a choice, Sebastian. I chose not to indoctrinate my students with propaganda. For that I spent three years in Dachau prison.”
The bite in Kruger’s tone was palpable. “I admire you for what you did.”
“What good did it do? The result of my pride is sitting right in front of me.”
Wolf felt suddenly small. “I was drafted,” he explained. “Besides, the Ahnenerbe is a sort of research organization, full of academics.”
“That description is generous, if not completely inaccurate. The Ahnenerbe generates politically convenient propaganda through the study of ancient Germanic cultures.”
“Well, you could –”
“That’s not up for debate. So I’ll ask you again. Why is a Nazi asking me about a language spoken by ancient Jews?”
Wolf lowered his voice a notch. “I watched a man die while writing those letters in his own blood. He seemed to think they were important, and I’m trying to find out why. I owe him that much.”
The ex-teacher took a long drink from his beer stein. He studied the writing once again. “The words are very simple and clear. Yeshua bar Yehosef. Jesus, son of Joseph.”
The young soldier sat back in his chair, contemplating what he had just heard. The Holy Ossuary. Could it be true? Could it be the ossuary of Jesus? The Gospels and the apocryphal texts differed slightly on some points, but the primary narrative was well-established. Jesus had been crucified, and had died at some time before Longinus the Centurion had come with his famous spear. A wealthy man named Joseph of Arimethea, with the help of Nicodimus, had volunteered to take the body. They applied myrrh and aloes and placed the body in a tomb that Joseph had in fact created for himself. Three days later, Mary Magdalene had visited the tomb with two others and found it empty. The body had vanished. Soon afterwards, she had been the first to witness the resurrected messiah. Not as a ghost, but in the flesh. The existence of a Holy Ossuary would call into question the literal interpretation of the resurrection itself.
Wolf did not care what Himmler believed. He did not care what Dr. Seiler believed. They weren’t even Christians. But the fact that the ossuary with Jesus’ name on it had been kept in one of the world’s great churches was another matter. Clearly, someone powerful within the church had believed it.
If only Kruger were still a priest, Wolf thought. Then I would confess what I saw. I would even confess what I have done.
“I learned Aramaic when I was a young apprentice,” Kruger volunteered. “Back in the days when his Holiness Pope Pius XII was known as Nuncio Pacelli, I had the pleasure of serving him here in Munich. He knew of my fondness for languages. We would often speak Italian and of course, Latin. One summer he and his housekeeper, Sister Klara, arranged for me to apprentice in the Vatican Archives.
“I could not believe my luck,” Kruger went on. “By day I worked long hours doing grunt labor. But the evenings were mine to explore. I gravitated towards the oldest works. The ancient codices. Fragments of cloth with ancient text printed on them. It was then that I encountered the languages that Christ had known. I was exhilarated.”
The former priest drank more ale.
“Does the Vatican,” Wolf said, pausing before he finished his sentence, “possess any alternate histories of the resurrection?”
Kruger’s face was suddenly serious. “Alternate history? Everyone has doubts, Sebastian. It doesn’t mean we c
an retell the stories as they suit us.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Wolf said. “Is the manner of the resurrection ever debated behind closed doors? Is it possible that Jesus returned in spirit form only?”
Kruger shook his head. “Handle me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones, as you see that I have. Luke 24:39. Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing. John 20:27.”
Hearing scripture quenched something deep inside Wolf’s soul. He had not been able to read the Bible, much less attend mass, since leaving for the Reich School years earlier. But the question remained unanswered.
“What of the other witnesses?” Wolf countered. “For example, Jesus is said to have told Mary specifically not to touch him. Paul also did not experience the flesh. He claims to have seen a light from heaven and heard Jesus’ voice. Luke and Mark both related that Jesus appeared in a form other than his earthly self. Only later did they recognize him as Jesus, at which point he vanished like an apparition.”
“As I have said repeatedly, I’m no longer qualified to give you spiritual advice. But I should warn you – interpret the story literally, but not the words themselves. After all, when Jesus spoke to crowds, he always spoke in parables.”
“You did not answer the question.”
“Christ returned from the dead. The salvation of believers was confirmed. The form in which he rose does not matter.”
But it did matter. The truth was everything to Wolf. If Himmler sought the bones of Jesus Christ, then, for the sake of his mother, Wolf was content to play along so long as the bones did not really exist. But if they did exist, then everything he had ever believed would be called into question.
Wolf reached into his tunic and removed the octagon-shaped fabric Lang had purportedly found in Hoffman’s mouth. It was stiff in his hands, crusted with a combination of Hoffman’s saliva and blood. He placed it on the table.
Kruger bent to read the Latin inscription, but he did not touch it. Wolf thought he saw recognition in the old Jesuit’s eyes. And fear.
“You’ve seen this before,” Wolf said.
Kruger stood up and put on his weathered coat. “You are into something that you cannot possibly imagine,” he warned.
“What is this?”
The former priest paused before leaving. “It’s safer if you don’t know. I urge you to find another path, Sebastian. May God keep and protect you.”
Wewelsburg Castle
Wolf, Lang and nine other young Ahnenerbe paramilitary soldiers stood in a neat row atop the Wewelsburg Castle’s North Tower. A light snow had dusted the castle and the surrounding forest the preceding night. Wolf’s nose, which had been running earlier, had frozen solid. He rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet to avoid losing the feeling in his toes.
He peered through the notches between the tower battlements and saw the movements of the prison workers on the distant hillside. Had Nagel been truthful when he had said they could go free at any time, if only they would renounce their beliefs and fight in the army? If so, the conviction of their beliefs was remarkable. They were doing what millions of Germans did not have the courage to do.
The noisy stomp of Nagel’s jackboots echoed up the stone staircase, then fell quiet as he reached the freshly powdered tower landing. All right arms stiffened in a salute. Nagel prowled behind them for several moments without speaking. He had not seen any of them since they had deployed to France, yet he did not offer them a general greeting.
“Wolf!” Nagel suddenly barked. “Step forward.”
His mind exploded with possible infractions. Perhaps someone had seen him at the BMW plant, using his uniform to gain access to Father Kruger. Or with Father Kruger at Ratskellar. Or perhaps it had been the way he had chastised the Hitler Youth patrol as they harassed the girl in Marienplatz. First among the Reich’s Ten Commandments would surely be Show No Pity.
He took one step, careful not to lose his footing on the icy flagstone. He felt Nagel pace behind him, and then saw him circle in front. His expression was grave.
“During the operation in Paris,” Nagel announced, “Mr. Wolf showed extreme bravery. Even while wounded, he exacted lethal force to facilitate the reichsführer’s escape from a hostile environment.” Nagel opened his right fist, revealing an oval-shaped slice of black German steel. The design featured a swastika-emblazoned helmet with two swords crossed behind it. “It is with great pleasure that I now present him with the War Wound badge.”
Wolf did not breathe as Nagel unbuttoned his coat and pinned the decoration to the left breast of his tunic. He watched as the commandant stepped backwards robotically and shouted “Heil Hitler!” The unit echoed the sentiment by repeating in unison.
He had only twitched when Nagel said, “Stay where you are.”
Now he paced slowly in front of the unit. “But why was Wolf wounded at all?” he said, glowering at each of them. “Why were three of his fellow unit members killed in action? Why was the object we were to retrieve snatched out from under us?” Nagel looped behind them. “Lang? How about you? Can you tell us?”
“No sir,” Lang responded with uncertainty in his voice.
“Because the enemy was waiting for us, my boys. They knew precisely when we would arrive.”
The morning silence returned for an instant. A frozen wind blew, carrying the voices of the prison workers at the bottom of the castle. And then it was overshadowed by a light gurgling sound. A gasp. The irregular rhythm of shuffling feet.
The body of Matthias Ulrich fell out of line, collapsing face-first against the thinly dusted brickwork. The snow around him grew red and then began to melt as the hot blood rushed from Ulrich’s jugular. Nagel stepped over his body. His dagger hung loosely from his left glove, shimmering with Ulrich’s fluids.
The castle commandant turned and let the boys sweat for several moments. “Would Ulrich’s partner in crime care to confess now? I promise to forgo summary execution, and recommend a fair trial.”
There were no utterances from the ranks. Only the flapping of a swastika banner that hung from one of the battlements.
*
Matthias Ulrich was the only cadet to die atop the North Tower that morning. While the other eight surviving members of their unit were escorted downstairs, Wolf and Lang were quietly led inside the North Tower’s upper room. It had been off-limits to the unit during their six-week training, and the shaken soldiers were surprised to find a lecture hall with modern amenities. A professor presented to an audience of civilian and military Ahnenerbe leadership.
Wolf and Lang stood in the back. Cold and traumatized as they were, they were captivated by a large projection screen showing the faces of two men, an adult woman and a baby. The woman had the letters OO typed beneath her face. The men were labeled A and AB. A question mark loomed below the baby’s face.
Dr. Gustav Hahn, a plump, balding 63-year-old with a bushy, silver mustache, spoke at the podium. Wolf remembered Hahn from a conference his father had hosted at the University of Munich in 1937. He was the professor of Racial Studies at the University of Leipzig, and also headed the Society for Blood Group Research.
“In this case,” he said as he pointed a fat finger at the screen, “a question of paternity between a Jewish male and an Aryan male left some question as to whether the child could be considered German.
“Three years ago, our former colleague, Karl Landsteiner, published a paper confirming the presence of the Rh factor in all known human blood. This past summer we were able to infuse Landsteiner’s research with our own findings and determine paternity, confirming German citizenship for the child.”
The audience clapped enthusiastically. But who was Karl Landsteiner? Wolf had never heard of him.
A man in a gray suit stood and began talking about the implications of the study on government legislation. As Hahn listened, smoke rolled off the Leitz Parvo 100, a slide projector like the one Wolf
himself had operated at the Reich School. Professor Hahn quickly unplugged the projector, bent over it and blew. Hahn’s breath hardly cooled the lamp – the shiny, heavy, black machine suddenly burst into flames. The audience roared with laughter as Hahn tore off his suit jacket and used it to smother the fire.
Heinrich Himmler stood, raising his arms above his head to restore order. Wolf had not noticed the reichsführer sitting in the front row. “Professor Hahn,” he said, “The case study is almost as impressive as your firefighting.”
The audience laughed again, which Himmler tolerated for a moment before renewing his call for silence. “Professor, does this mean that we can now conclusively determine racial identity through blood testing?”
Hahn removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe sweat from his neck and forehead. “Herr Himmler, I can always count on you to get to the heart of the matter. Under the right conditions, we can now identify some genetic traits commonly associated with race at about 72 percent certainty.”
“You seem very sure of your figures.”
The professor nodded. “Last year we performed a double-blind study in which we exhumed the bodies of 200 deceased prisoners. Through an examination of the bodies and interviews with those who knew them, we documented hair color and eye color. At the same time, we gave a research team only dried blood samples from the prisoners for examination, keeping them ignorant of any other information. Using the techniques we developed, the team was able to properly identify nearly all the blue-eyed prisoners and most of the green-eyed prisoners. They also properly determined hair color in a minority of the prisoners.”
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