The Fellowship

by William Tyree

  Fleischer seemed bored, or at the very least, far from convinced of the evidence’s authenticity. Wolf envied his skepticism. He wanted to believe that this was all a fairy tale, as Fleischer seemed to. But his heart could not let it go.

  *

  The sound of shuffling papers filled the room as the team eagerly devoured the intelligence brief. Dr. Hahn munched from another helping of cooling sausage, Ritter chewed his nails anxiously, and Fleischer continued to chain smoke.

  Nagel checked his watch. “We must stay on schedule,” he urged Dr. Seiler. “Please push on.”

  “As you will read,” Seiler continued, “It seems that by the second century, the secret location of the ossuary – which had been buried in what is now the grotto underneath St. Peter’s Basilica – was passed from one pope to another through a single apostolic messenger. The secret was apparently well-kept for nearly 1,800 years until the Napoleon invasion of Italy. Pope Pius VI was taken prisoner and, in the weeks after his removal to the Citadel of Valence, he grew ill. At some point in the weeks before he died, Napoleon learned of the ossuary, perhaps from the pontiff himself. And so he secretly moved the bones, along with much of the Vatican archives, to France.”

  Ritter sat up, in rapt attention. “Where, specifically?”

  “As some of you may be aware, the relic of a saint was placed underneath an altar stone of every Roman Catholic church. These relics come in various degrees of importance, ranging from a tooth to a bone or a keepsake to an entire skeleton. Having come into possession of the ossuary of Jesus Christ, Napoleon could think of no better place with which to hide it than beneath the altar of Notre Dame Cathedral.”

  For the first time, Wolf observed the look of utter surprise on Nagel’s face. “And this was the reason for the Paris operation?”

  “Correct. It is Himmler’s opinion, and mine, that the fierceness of the ambush on our anthropological team in defense of the ossuary only confirms its authenticity.”

  “And who was it that ambushed us? French Resistance?”

  Dr. Seiler shook his head. “The assailants were a group known as the Black Order. They have ruthlessly protected both the ossuary and the pope for hundreds of years.”

  “I was under the impression that we had the pope under our control,” Nagel said.

  “The Black Order appears to be beyond the pontiff’s reach. The Holy See seems to have even less knowledge of their operations than we do.”

  Nagel turned his gaze to Fleischer, whose aura of smug negativity seemed to be eroding. “What do you say now, Bruno?”

  “I must admit that the historical significance of this ossuary is interesting. The war strategy is far-flung, but ingenious. I’m still not clear on how this proves anything in regards to ethnicity.”

  Seiler looked up at Fleischer. “You have no doubt examined thousands of living and dead skulls with conclusive results, have you not?”

  Wolf remembered a photograph his father had taken of Fleischer in Tibet, which had eventually been published in the Ahnenerbe journal. He was using his skull calipers on natives and recording the measurements in a moleskin notebook.

  “I have indeed,” Fleischer confirmed.

  “And through this work, you have discovered patterns in cranial structure that indicate Germanic ancestry.”

  “I have,” Fleischer agreed as he imagined his calipers measuring the nearly 2,000-year-old cranium of Jesus Christ.

  “Himmler believes,” Seiler said, “That this evidence, taken together with our other research, would be all that would be needed to persuade the führer of its authenticity.”

  “And what if the bones are not in good condition?” Ritter asked. “What if they have crumbled?”

  Dr. Hahn cleared his throat. “I spoke earlier about apparent breakthroughs in blood identification. I am told that our scientists in Switzerland are making equally exciting progress in the study of DNA. One emerging theory is that genetic identification may be achieved through bacteria that have remained intact within bone marrow.”

  “And barring that,” Seiler continued, “it’s possible that symbols on the ossuary itself might offer compelling evidence. The presence of runes, perhaps.”

  “Where is the ossuary now?” Fleischer queried.

  Nagel stood and went to the map. “Our spies tell us that the relic has been taken to Italy,” he said, his fingers tracing a rail line stretching between the Austrian and Italian Alps. “The Black Order intends to return the ossuary to its original resting place in the vast grottos beneath St. Peter’s Basilica. But as they are well aware, the perimeter we have set up around Vatican City will make that difficult. Therefore the decision was made to place the ossuary in one of two temporary locations until the end of the war.”

  Dr. Seiler stood. “Any final questions?”

  Fleischer finished the last of his whiskey-spiked-coffee. “Just one. Who’s going after it?”

  “You,” Nagel responded.

  The unflappable Fleischer looked fearful for the first time. “You must be joking. I’m an anthropologist.”

  “And an excellent marksman,” Nagel countered. “We have no other options. The situation in Stalingrad is grim, gentlemen. All available reserve officers with combat experience have been deployed to the eastern front to stop the inevitable Russian advance. Your orders are simple: Bring the ossuary to Wewelsburg Castle by any means necessary. The outcome of the war depends on it.”

  *

  The double doors opened once more. Nagel’s aide reappeared in the doorway. “Sir, the reichsführer requests your presence in the crypt.”

  “Very well,” Nagel nodded. He took a flashlight as big as a police baton from the table and turned to the group. “Follow me.”

  Wolf, Lang, Ritter, Fleischer and Dr. Seiler followed Nagel out of the hall, into the corridor and to the southeast wing of the castle. There they descended a winding stone staircase until they found themselves in a vast wine cellar. At approximately 56 degrees Fahrenheit, it was substantially warmer than the castle’s upper floors.

  The aroma of mustiness, oak and fermenting wine was immediate and overpowering. The unit proceeded through row after row of barrels stacked nearly to the ceiling. Nagel seemed intent on reaching some predetermined destination, and yet there seemed to be no obvious path through the cavernous space. It was as if the barrels had been deliberately arranged in a sort of maze that twisted illogically through the room. Nevertheless, Nagel pressed on, following a path that he clearly knew by heart.

  Fleischer dropped back until he was walking alongside Wolf. “I knew your father,” Fleischer offered.

  Wolf glanced up at Fleischer as they navigated the path through the room. He did not want to give the smug anthropologist the satisfaction of knowing that a photograph of him still hung in his father’s empty study in Munich. “You worked together?” Wolf asked.

  “Tibet,” Fleischer nodded. “Your father was a good researcher. We all caught strange illnesses over there. I nearly died myself.”

  “Was it worth it?” Wolf pushed, earning a sideways glance from the older man. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Wolf explained. “I just want to know.”

  Fleischer shook his head. “I suppose not. There was no Aryan connection in Tibet. Just a lot of good hunting.”

  At last they came to a chain link gate fitted with a sign that read ATTENTION! DANGER! SALT MINE ENTRANCE!

  Nagel unclipped a ring of keys from his belt, plucked a long jagged one from it, and unlocked the gate. Once the others had passed through, he shut the gate behind them, rattling it to ensure it was properly locked.

  He switched on his flashlight and led them down a lightless hallway. Wolf’s heart began beating hard in his chest. He began counting his steps in case he had to find his way back in the dark.

  “Halt!” a voice shouted from farther down the second corridor. Wolf was temporarily blinded as a spotlight that seemed as bright as the sun itself swept across the group.

  “Obergruppenfü
hrer Nagel,” one of the voices said. “You may proceed.”

  The spotlight flashed off. Wolf, his eyes still blinded by spots, forced his feet forward, using the sound of Nagel’s boots against the concrete as a guide. They turned a corner, where he saw a lift entrance with a guard sentry on either side. One of the guards presented Nagel with a clipboard. The castle commandant scrawled his name and date on the visitor form, and then passed it to each of the men in the group.

  At last they boarded the lift, where the lighting was much easier on the eyes. The lift platform was roughly the size of a car, easily the largest Wolf had ever seen. As they began their descent, Wolf peered at the cut earth through the chicken wire surrounding the lift.

  “The shaft is 800 meters deep,” Nagel noted.

  Wolf’s mouth instinctively yawned open as a plugging sensation overtook his eardrums. Soon he could hear, over the whirring of the lift cables, the sound of metal on stone. A steady chipping that was rhythmic, if not perfectly syncopated.

  “How many prisoners died digging this hole?” Fleischer asked.

  “Not so many,” Nagel replied. “Perhaps two thousand.”

  At last the walls flickered with shadows. The lift slowed and bounced gently at the shaft’s bottom, sending Dr. Seiler wobbling against Lang for balance. The group stepped onto a floor of freshly poured concrete.

  The room was lit with tunneling lights and filled with stone carvers in jumpers that were caked with white dust. The finished walls were carved with scenes from ancient Nordic myths. Against the far wall, a pair of enormous stone lions flanked the entrance into a second room. The sight reminded Wolf of photographs he had seen of the ancient tomb of the Egyptian king Tutankhamen.

  Nagel led the men through the antechamber, between the lions, through the portal – which was easily 10 meters tall – and into a torch-lit crypt that was elaborately decorated with dozens of German noble flags. Hung high above was the Lucas Cranach painting of the Last Supper that Wolf had seen previously in Himmler’s private museum. A lit cauldron burned in the center of the room, smoke drawing up through a ventilator that had been bored into the ceiling.

  Heinrich Himmler stood in a corner, surrounded by three personal bodyguards. His shadow danced in the torchlight behind him, larger than life against the enormous rune-etched walls. He did not speak, but rather pointed to the eastern wall. Hahn, Ritter and Seiler led the way, followed by Wolf and Lang.

  Cut out of the wall were five extravagantly decorated marble crypts. Wolf sensed an inner darkness grip him as he, along with the others, approached the first crypt. Despite an overwhelming sense of dread, curiosity propelled him forward until he was close enough to make out the engraving on the marker:

  HEINRICH I - HENRY THE FOWLER

  KING OF GERMANY

  876– 936 AD

  This defied all reason. It was common knowledge that the king had been buried at Quedlinburg Abbey for a millennium. Had Himmler actually disinterred the body from its ancient resting place to move it here? He quickly moved to the second crypt, where a large portrait of Frederick II hung. The nameplate read:

  FREDERICK THE GREAT

  KING OF PRUSSIA

  PRINCE-ELECTOR OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE

  1712 – 1786 AD

  He struggled to make sense of this spectacle. This crime. Had these bodies been moved for their own protection? Was a Russian invasion really so certain? Or was this just another manifestation of Himmler’s sorcery?

  The third sarcophagus was lavishly covered in medals and decorations from the Great War. A portrait of Paul von Hindenburg was suspended overhead, along with a bevy of rifles and swords.

  FIELD MARSHAL PAUL VON HINDENBURG

  PRESIDENT OF GERMANY

  1847-1934 AD

  The fourth sarcophagus was as yet undecorated and apparently empty. The nameplate read:

  FÜHRER ADOLF HITLER

  FIRST LEADER OF THE THIRD REICH

  36 HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR

  20, April 1889 AD -

  Now the meaning of their visit here – 800 meters below Castle Wewelsburg – was perfectly clear. Should they be successful in their mission, this was where their prize would rest for all eternity.

  Wolf’s hunch was confirmed as soon as he caught sight of the fifth chamber, which had recently been cut into the stone wall. The nameplate read:

  JESUS CHRIST

  O – 38 AD

  Venice

  January 2, 1943

  It had been a long time since Wolf had seen a city so boldly lit at nighttime. The wrath of British and American air raids had forced Munich, Berlin, Frankfurt and even Paris to observe nightly blackouts. And yet the good citizens of Venice seemed to have no fear. The orange-hued city flickered, dreamlike, through a layer of fog that rolled from the marshes across the lagoon.

  The boat churned through the Grand Canal, its engine seeming to grumble more than hum. Wolf sat on a wooden bench in the aft alongside Lang and three other young soldiers – Adler, Bauer and Kalb. They had been entrusted with the task of finding the ossuary and bringing it to Germany.

  Of these soldiers, Wolf was considered the least green, considering that he had both killed a man and also been wounded. And maybe they were right. He was no longer the same person that he was when he had left Munich for the fall semester at the Reich School. Not damaged, exactly, but certainly altered.

  Bruno Fleischer stood at the stern, wearing a thick overcoat that, on such a cold evening, was the envy of every boy in the unit. Their leader had kept details of the mission to himself. The stern resolve he now possessed had come about gradually. They had traveled two days by train, coming south through Frankfurt, by way of Munich, through the Alps. Bolzano, Innsbruck, Verona. And finally, Venice. Throughout, the fantasy of holding the skull of Jesus Christ in his hands had grown on Fleischer. During the train ride to Italy Wolf had watched him fill the notebook in his pack with dozens of sketches. He talked excitedly of measuring the roundness of the cranium and presenting his findings to Hitler personally. Fleischer was already the most famous racial researcher in Germany. Soon he would be the most famous anthropologist in the world. “When the new German Gospels are written,” he told Wolf, “perhaps I will be credited as an author? Just imagine it. My name would be learned by German schoolchildren for the next thousand years.”

  With each passing hour, Wolf felt more certain that the ossuary must be kept out of Fleischer’s reach. It had been Lang who had first broached the idea. Just after the train departed Bolzano Station, Lang had followed Wolf into the lavatory, jamming his foot into the door, wedging his way inside. Although they had been virtually inseparable at Wewelsburg Castle, the two old friends had not spoken privately since Christmas.

  Lang had stood with his back against the train door, his face deadly serious, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the track. “Do you believe it exists?”

  A question with so many possible meanings. And yet no translation was needed. He spoke of the ossuary, obviously. The same thing that was on everyone’s mind.

  “I think it’s possible,” Wolf admitted. He was just as surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth as Lang was. “What if it happened the way Seiler described?”

  Lang’s eyes flashed in judgment. Looking back over the past months, it was obvious that Albert’s death had formed the first wedge in their friendship, and Lang’s cowardice in Paris had driven them further apart.

  “You sound like a heretic,” Lang whispered.

  “If it’s not real,” Wolf retorted, “what were those monks in Paris fighting for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They must have believed. If they’re right, and I am right, then you’re the heretic.”

  Lang swallowed hard, his small eyes seeming to condemn his friend to eternal hellfire. “Either way, they can’t be allowed to possess it.”

  At last someone else had said what Wolf had been thinking. Himmler’s collection of stolen Christian art w
as simply repugnant. But the thought of the body of Christ taken to a crypt some 800 meters below the earth – where it would lay alongside Von Hindenburg and Adolf Hitler for all of eternity – was intolerable. Himmler was unworthy. The entire country was unworthy.

  But there were other considerations. There were lives at stake. Potentially millions of lives. “Maybe they will really use it to end the war,” Wolf said.

  Lang shook his head. “If they believe they have found the Aryan Jesus, they will only use it as justification to kill more Russians. And more Jews.”

  There was no use denying it. Lang was right. “What should we do?” Fear prickled up Wolf’s spine as he asked. He had the feeling neither of them would ever see their mothers again.

  *

  The boat passed under the Rialto Bridge, cutting through the patchwork of fog hovering over the canal. In the dim lamplight, Wolf caught his first glimpses of the crumbling city. Walls that looked as if they had not been painted in centuries. Cafés that seemed as if they had been there since the beginning of time. Figures in heavy coats and fur hats that could have been ghosts from any point in history.

  But Wolf could not enjoy Venice’s shadowy old world charm. His mind was cluttered with uncertainty. How was Lang going to keep the ossuary out of German hands? Was he going to sabotage the operation?

  Now Fleischer turned and whistled, pointing at Wolf. The boy got to his feet, walked to the boat’s stern, and stood next to the driver in the boat’s open air cockpit. The captain held the wheel with his right hand and operated a spotlight – which only seemed to magnify the soupy fog in the canal – with his left. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, burning unevenly.