CHAPTER 4
21 July 1936
‘I want my men to enter a marriage in which they can find a rassisch wertvolle gesunde deutsche Familie,’ Himmler told Ernst during their second meeting. ‘A healthy family, deserving of the honour of German heritage. You will need to go through the process of the Verlobungs- und Heiratsbefehl.’
Ernst stared at him blankly.
Himmler drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘It is a collection of rules concerning the choosing of a fiancée and marriage partner worthy of an SS officer, my boy. It’s all very straightforward. You will supply both of your family trees, going back as far as 1800.’
Ernst scratched his chin, a habit born of the long months in the East surrounded by snow, where his beard grew wild. Herta often told him how handsome he was – good teeth, a full head of hair and an impish smile – though it still bothered him that many of his colleagues in the SS towered above him, strapping examples of Aryan perfection. That said, he could outrun anyone through the harshest terrain, bounding up ragged slopes like a mountain goat.
‘I want you to marry soon,’ Himmler said. ‘You have had a restless, demanding life and it is crucial for you to have the stability of a wife always waiting for you at home. My own Marga is my biggest support. Even though the pressure of my work keeps me away from her much of the time, we write every day and when I do see her, she makes me so proud. A beautiful, pure home is where you can keep the filth of the outside world at bay.’
Himmler crossed something off a list on his desk. ‘I will have to insist this girlfriend of yours attends a short Mütterschulungskurs. I will see to it personally that my dear friend, Frau Scholtz-Klink, enrols her in the next available place at her renowned bride school right here in Berlin. There is a long waiting list, you know. It is considered the very best in Germany.’
‘That is very kind of you, Herr Kommandant.’ Ernst wasn’t sure if he should tell him he recently proposed to Herta. SS officers were supposed to seek Himmler’s approval beforehand and he didn’t want to risk angering his superior.
Himmler pulled out a photo from a file that lay open on his desk and held it up for closer scrutiny. ‘Although Fräulein Völz is certainly a beauty, she will also be required to undertake the Reichssportabzeichen as a test of her physical strength and endurance.’
He paused and turned the photograph of Herta towards Ernst. How much more might the man know?
‘I must ask you one more thing, though.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’ve never suffered from any problems, my boy?’
Ernst cleared his throat. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kommandant.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘It’s okay. You can tell me, man to man. I’m not recording any of this on your file. It stays confidential; just between you and me. You haven’t been playing around with those whores in Philadelphia, perhaps? You’ve been away from our glorious Fatherland for a long time and we all know what loose morals they have over there.’
‘No, Herr Kommandant.’
‘Or perhaps there was a little exotic delicacy on the side, to warm those cold winter nights in the wilds of Tibet? A man can get very lonely out there in the wilderness.’
‘I would never do such a thing. You have my word.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Himmler said. He looked over at the door and leaned in closer, his voice an oily whisper now. ‘A little tipple on the side is quite natural for a man, take it from me. But just make sure you keep it home-grown and restrained.’
Ernst pulled at a loose thread on the seam of his trousers.
‘I’ll have my dear colleague Herr Doktor Schwartz organise a thorough gynaecological examination for your little friend soon. One can never be too careful, you know. After all, we want to make absolutely sure this girl’s pelvis is of the right dimensions to bear you a large brood of healthy German children. I’d hate you to be wasting your time on unfertile soil, as it were. Understood?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
He picked up a book and handed it to Ernst. ‘Here, a gift. Written by the late Professor Max von Gruber, who was a brilliant professor at Munich University in his day.’
Ernst glanced at the title: Hygiene des Geschlechtslebens. He opened it to the contents page and saw a list of chapters dealing with every aspect of how to have a healthy sex life.
‘You will find some fascinating and practical information here, such as how often it is advisable to have intimate relations. His research concludes that any more than twice a week puts too much strain on the body. And there are some crucial facts on onanism, with helpful tips on how to distract yourself from the urge to spend your seed outside a woman’s vagina.’
Ernst sat motionless.
‘Don’t be embarrassed, young man. Healthy body, healthy mind, I always say. I take very good care of all my officers, but you are a high priority for me right now. You will help bring this country the glory it so richly deserves.’
What Ernst assumed would be a simple process was going to take several months to complete. Himmler told him he needed to provide testimonials from the mayor of Waltershausen, as well as the dean of the University of Göttingen. Photographs were required of both Herta and Ernst standing beside a measuring stick to prove their correct height, along with albums of their extended families on both sides. Ernst was to fill out lengthy questionnaires about their health and endure intimate medical examinations. The whole idea behind the screening, Himmler explained, was to weed out partners who were ill or infertile, or who harboured a genetic flaw.
With another abrupt ‘Heil Hitler’, Ernst’s meeting with the Reichsführer concluded. Ernst thought of how humiliating the application process would be. Besides, it was such a pointless waste of time and resources. He couldn’t understand why they needed to endure the whole process, both coming from good, honest German families. No one would ever find out about Margarete.
CHAPTER 5
Ernst’s laboratory at the zoo was a refuge, his private slice of the wild. Here, he surrounded himself with creatures brought back from all his travels. Their rigid bodies sometimes dissolved into the grey mists of his memory, in which he imagined their feathers quivering or their ribs inhaling small breaths. Those stirrings made him feel strangely at home.
Ernst sipped his morning coffee, scanning the pages of the Völkischer Beobachter he bought daily so he could keep up with the latest party news and views. The newspaper’s headlines boasted about the Olympics. Much to Ernst’s surprise, Himmler, who had taken such a shine to his young protégé, invited him to the opening ceremony, held the day before. Ernst had found himself sitting on the podium with Herta overlooking a throng of 100,000 spectators. The newspaper reported almost a million people lining the Via Trumpalis, between the Lustgarten and the stadium, to watch the Führer’s motorcade procession. They threw flowers, saluted and fervently shouted Heil Hitler and Sieg Heil as he passed. When the torchbearer arrived early that morning, he was welcomed by loud whistles from all the new industrial plants surrounding Berlin. The ruckus of celebration lasted well into the night.
Ernst would have far preferred to keep working on his specimens than take part in this circus. He scoffed at all the pomp and pageantry inside the shiny stadium. A three-thousand-strong choir, all dressed in white, performed the new Olympic Hymn. Herta was excited to see the elderly composer Richard Strauss conducting a military orchestra. They gawked at the Hindenburg, a bloated giant floating above as it trailed an Olympic flag under the threat of grey, heavy skies. A cloud of 25,000 pigeons was released into the air just a minute before a round of cannon-fire. Ernst was glad he and Herta kept their hats on, stifling his laughter as bird droppings showered down on the crowd. But the spectacle could never compare to a beautiful sunrise over a faraway lake, or the thrill of chasing a bear across rocky terrain.
The newspaper reprinted the opening speech of Dr Theodor Lewald, the head of the German Olympic Committee. Gossip had spread that the Reich covered up the
fact he was a Mischling, part-Jewish, on his father’s side, to avoid international embarrassment. Herta and Ernst whispered to each other, while Lewald spoke, that it would only be a matter of time before the Nazis jettisoned him from his honorary post. Ernst almost fell asleep in his seat listening to the stuffy, bald man drone on about the huge black cauldron that stood at the top of a set of concrete steps.
‘In a few minutes the torchbearer will appear to light the Olympic fire on this tripod, when it will rise, flaming to heaven, for the weeks of the festival,’ he announced. ‘It creates a real and spiritual bond of fire between our German Fatherland and the sacred places of Greece founded nearly 4000 years ago by Nordic immigrants.’
All this talk of Nordic ancestors. It seemed to be the only thing that interested anyone nowadays, especially the people at the Ahnenerbe. You could hardly get a project off the ground if it didn’t show some kind of link to the investigation of Nordic heritage. Ernst needed to play the game if he wanted the Ahnenerbe to fund his expedition, but he would still seek additional backing to cover any shortfall. He was far from naïve; he knew the importance of making contacts. Although a fundamental principle of science was that only the experiment and results mattered, in reality it helped if the scientist who presented his findings had the support and backing of influential people. That was why Ernst had made sure to attend an event the night before the opening ceremony, in which the renowned Swedish explorer Sven Hedin delivered a formal address. In a ‘Call to the Youth of the World’, he urged young people to strive for what they didn’t even think they were capable of – to aim for the unattainable.
Ernst had strategically manoeuvred his way across to his childhood hero, taking advantage of the opportunity to chat with him after his speech. He asked Hedin, now in his seventies, if he might consider contributing to sponsorship of the expedition. A confirmed bachelor, famous for mapping huge swathes of hitherto undiscovered regions of the Himalayas, Hedin confided that although he had been in love many times, Central Asia was his true bride.
‘She has held me captive in her cold embrace, and I have been faithful to her, that is certain,’ he told Ernst. He explained that he too held a firm belief that Tibet was the cradle of the Aryan race.
‘My friend Himmler has told me about your great mission. I’m sure the science of Welteislehre will lead you to extraordinary discoveries there.’
Ernst bit his tongue. Was the whole scientific world going mad?
‘Thank you,’ he forced himself to reply, finding himself playing along with the old man. ‘Of course. Just because something is unobservable doesn’t mean it is totally anathema to physics, or to science as a whole. But surely, the more truth becomes elusive, the more it needs to be examined scientifically.’
‘Precisely, my boy. According to the Theory of Relativity, postulated by that Jewish scientist Einstein thirty years ago, a thimble can hold a quintillion atoms. That is something very hard to imagine. Current-day equipment might just not be up to the task of detecting the unseen.’ Hedin smiled and scratched his grey moustache. His eyes darted about the room searching for someone more important to talk to, and he excused himself from the conversation as soon as he saw Himmler enter the room.
How could Ernst have held this fawning old man up as a hero all these years? Intuition could not be accepted as proof of a thing’s existence. Ernst’s work, in its own way, aimed at invoking the undetectable, but finding creatures unknown by scientists was not only important, it was good for mankind. Generations later they would still be writing of the great Ernst Schäfer’s achievements, with or without the help of Sven Hedin.
As Ernst sat at his desk finishing his coffee, he thought about how it was Herta who believed in him more than anyone else. She knew there was always a blurry line between what was observable and what lay hidden or imperceptible. Ernst liked the way she challenged him, kept him sharp, but she held an angel’s feathery view of the world. Although she had led such a sheltered life, she was still able to penetrate his innermost feelings. He was glad she had agreed to be his bride.
Ernst tossed aside the newspaper and went back to inspecting the skin of the Tetraogallus tibetanus, a Tibetan snowcock.
Over the next two weeks, his lovely fiancée tucked under his arm, Ernst did the rounds of all the grand parties and receptions, where guests were plied with expensive champagne. Visitors from around the world strolled along Unter den Linden, the new trees sporting Olympic banners, and loudspeakers booming Achtung! to draw their attention to the radio broadcast of the latest results. Whenever a German team won, the speakers would blast out the full rendition of the ‘Horst-Wessel-Lied’.
One evening, an elaborate party was thrown by the self-appointed Reichsjägermeister, Hermann Göring, and his wife, the actress Emmy Sonnemann, at their city palazzo. Opulent decorations included lights that were mounted on neighbours’ roofs, suspended from trees or submerged in a swimming pool where swans floated gracefully. Guests were greeted by the ‘master of the hunt’ himself, who lounged with his wife on a divan in front of a tea pavilion. Ernst and Herta strolled through a replica eighteenth-century French village, stopping at the re-created post office, inn and bakery. The State Opera’s corps de ballet performed during a lavish dinner; Herta observed that Göring possessed the limitless appetite of a parvenu. Afterwards, there was a huge festive carnival with a merry-go-round and peasant folk-dancers doing traditional knee-slapping. Ernst felt most comfortable milling around several shooting galleries that were flanked by performing bears, their muzzles bound with leather straps. Trainers held them tightly leashed as the huge creatures paraded around on hind legs. Herta sat quietly on a couch beside him, staring at her lap.
Seemingly not wanting to be outdone, a week later the Minister for Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, threw a lavish affair on the Pfaueninsel. The small island was decorated to resemble a giant movie set, complete with trees clipped in the shape of animals, elaborate bandstands, torch-bearing half-naked young actresses and a stunning firework display after dinner. Ernst and Herta sat by themselves again, drinking beer and watching the parading peacocks of the human and animal kind. It was all such a spectacular bore. Ernst would have given anything to escape, be somewhere out in the forest, his trusty shotgun slung over his shoulder.
His first kill in the wild had been an accident of play. In early spring, when afternoon stretched out like a lazy cat, Ernst would flee the confines of his home in Waltershausen and seek out solitude in the Thuringian Forest, scrambling through the dense, tangled undergrowth between luxuriant pines and tall birch trees. He would circle the roosting places of the pied avocet, in search of its speckled eggs – a delicacy also sought after by squirrels – ignoring the desperate antics of the parent bird on guard, who would fake a broken wing to try to distract the intruder’s attention away from the nest. On one particular day a flash of reddish fur ran up a nearby oak, giving Ernst a fright. Forgetting about the eggs, he took out the worn slingshot, a present from his father for his fifth birthday, and aimed. The squirrel fell on top of a bed of pine needles, an acorn spurting out from its mouth, the furious rise and fall of its tiny breast slowing to a halt. He watched the creature shrink into stillness. With the realisation that killing was such a simple act, a strange feeling of exultation mixed with awe crept up on young Ernst.
He carted the dead squirrel back home and hid it under his bed for a week, until the maid complained to his parents about the stench coming from their son’s room. As punishment, his father, an accomplished horseman, stopped taking him out on rides. He also banned him from Sunday walks with the family, depriving him of paddle-boat rides on the lake. But young Ernst’s escapades only widened in scope and daring as he set off across distant fields and forests. He would leave as soon as the school day ended, returning home at dusk muddy and scratched. He grew stronger, his chest and shoulders broadening as spring passed into summer, then autumn. The bondage of winter curtailed his adventures, the cold winds from the north bringing sno
w and ice. His need to be outdoors felt even more urgent and uncontrollable during those months, so he made do by turning his room into a miniature woodland, hibernating there until spring.
Sometimes he heard his mother tiptoe softly across the floorboards upstairs. Ernst knew she was listening on the other side of his door to the strange sounds coming from within – the scratching whimpers of mice, the operatic trills of birdsong. From the corridor, the melodious warbling of his common whitethroat might have sounded like a breathless plea: a sad, fretting call, begging for release.
The evening of Ernst’s first kill in the wild, as Frau Schäfer sat darning her young son’s socks, there would have been no mistaking Ernst’s cries for any bird’s shrieking. Her husband’s incoherent grunts caught her breath as she tried not to think about what cruel form of punishment was taking place behind the study door. It was no use trying to cage her son; she could see she would lose him soon enough. He had changed from a gaunt and ragged waif into a fiercely independent and headstrong youth. His mother understood that Ernst was a boy who would never be tamed.
CHAPTER 6
2019
Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia
My veins are filled with polyurethane, winding their way up my limbs towards the heart-shaped hole in my chest. Beside me lie rocks, ghostly bamboo forests and a pool into which they have me gaze sometimes, though no reflection looks back. I prefer the days they move me closer to Glass, towards the left side, behind Guard.
The Hollow Bones Page 4
