Ernst’s honoured guest left camp with his mules groaning under the abundance of gifts, including bags of potatoes, rubber boots, woollen socks, chocolates and tinned vegetables. Ernst penned a diplomatic letter in which he expressed his deepest wishes to visit Tibetan monasteries and learn more about the beautiful culture. He even gave away all their soap, glad to be rid of the final smell of civilisation.
CHAPTER 25
November 1938
The old peasant woman smiled, her eyes squinting like two deep wounds. She was so frail she might have flown away with the slightest snowdrift blowing across from the surrounding mountains. Yak fat smeared on her cheeks to protect her skin from the wind and sun, she squatted barefoot in front of Ernst, holding out a makeshift tray. On it she had arranged a line of dead mice of various colours and sizes, the larger ones’ tails hanging stiffly over the edge. Ernst sat at a spindly table, sipping tea from a metal cup. He was rugged up against the cold, wearing a woollen sweater and leather pants.
Word had spread far and wide that the Germans, as well as acquiring all sorts of artefacts such as weaving looms or decorated wooden tables, were also collecting dead animals. When it came to wildlife, Ernst had developed a reputation among the locals as the man who bought everything that once had a pulse. Each day people would arrive on foot, travelling long distances from remote villages to trade their meagre wares for a handful of rice or sugar. Bartering with the natives had become a form of entertainment for Ernst and his men; they took it in turns to see who could cut the best deal. Krause, the team’s entomologist, had so far claimed victory, having collected thousands of dried bumblebees brought to him by natives. He allowed Ernst to use his Leica camera, capturing him proudly displaying the insects laid out on a blanket.
‘You and your annoying bugs,’ Ernst said; he loved to tease Krause.
‘If the world’s insects stopped buzzing, life on this earth would collapse. They comprise the vast majority of all forms of life on earth, more important than all your mammals and birds combined.’
It was not only insects Krause was collecting. He had also accumulated 1600 varieties of barley, 700 varieties of wheat and 700 varieties of oats. Himmler was particularly interested in these seeds, hoping to develop hardy new crops for the colonies he planned to establish across Eastern Europe. He believed that, in the future, German scientists might plant them to control the weather in Tibet. The reclamation by Aryan settlers of ancestral lands would increase dew, create clouds and force rain to make a more economically viable climate.
While Ernst haggled with the woman, he looked at the corpse of a yak, laid with its feet up, just outside his tent. Flies crawled out of its nostrils. Kneeling on the ground, Mandoy picked up his knife and carved along the length of its bulging abdomen, disembowelling the huge creature. Black blood was congealed inside its veins. A rigid sparrow lay on the ground beside the yak, its death so tiny and neat by comparison.
Ernst hadn’t been feeling well. His attempts to find a way for them to enter Tibet were still not bearing fruit. The British were doing their best not to cooperate, since political tensions had heightened between the two countries. He started to think they might have to resort to the plan his sympathetic British friend Francis Younghusband had furtively suggested: ‘Just sneak over the border.’ Meanwhile, Karl Wienert was trying to ward off a different enemy – rust. Generated by the onslaught of petulant storms, it became a constant threat to his precious equipment. He complained the others didn’t understand how vital the instruments were to his mission as a geophysicist. If Ernst lost a rifle he could always buy a new one from the natives, but try replacing an expensive Hildebrandt theodolite or chronometer in this wretched nowhere-land.
When Wienert had raised his concerns one night at their campfire, Bruno drew on his pipe, scoffing at the man’s reliance on equipment: ‘Even if it were all to fail, you still have your notebooks, as well as your memory of this majestic landscape. How hard can it be to draw a simple map?’
Ernst tried to keep the peace among his men. He knew Wienert regarded anthropology as a soft science, and Bruno as a fool. Unlocking the earth’s mysteries was the Holy Grail for German geologists and geographers; a person’s heritage was intimately connected to the ground upon which he trod. Wienert was frustrated that Bruno couldn’t acknowledge that; it took a deep scientific understanding of the importance of geographical space to see how it held the very future of the German race, the Volk. It was something felt in one’s bones. Wienert had expressed to Ernst the irony that Bruno, the expert among them whose job it was to examine and collect exotic skeletons, had not an inkling of the connection between Blut und Boden. Blood and soil.
This trip was the culmination of all that Karl Wienert had learnt. He had been preparing for it throughout his studies, and now all those hours spent in lecture halls and classrooms at university were starting to pay off. He had completed his doctorate eighteen months before, and now phrases like Lebensraum and Drang nach Osten – the push to populate Slavic lands with hard-working German folk – made sense here in this vast land even further to the east. His teacher Wilhelm Filchner, himself an ardent explorer who had trekked solo right across Northern Tibet at the turn of the century, had tried to instil the idea in his students that not only was it a geographical imperative, it was also a sacred right. Wienert’s task was to establish a series of geomagnetic stations across the Himalayas. The bizarre power held by the earth’s mysterious magnetic field could turn explorers’ compasses into crazed harpies, setting entire expeditions blindly off course. Too often, teams of men and their animals were snatched from the face of the earth, vanishing into the ice and wind. His work would enable men who followed in his own footsteps to leap with certainty across the white space on their maps.
Wienert’s research required a variety of intricate instruments, all heavy and cumbersome to lug across such hostile terrain. The porters had to carefully load and unload the mules at the beginning and end of each day, ensuring theodolites were strapped snugly back into their wooden cases, and magnometers rested inside their specially crafted brass boxes. The measuring tent not only protected both the geologist and his equipment from the vagaries of inclement weather, it also allowed covert measurements to be taken, away from the prying eyes of the natives.
Ernst thought about all of these logistical challenges, thrown his way by man and nature alike, as he appraised the dead mice on the tray. He patted them and picked up the largest one by the tail. The shopkeeper smiled broadly, revealing a row of blackened, rotting teeth. Through Kaiser, Ernst struck a deal with the woman, after much bargaining and laughter among his men, to purchase her wares for a mere 100 grams of sugar.
After picking off bloated leeches from their ankles and thighs at the end of the day’s explorations through sodden, muddy valleys, the men bathed and prepared for dinner. At night, gathered round the campfire, they recounted their day’s adventures. Each man read from his field diary, in which both scientific and personal observations were noted. Ernst had insisted on this daily ritual from the start, to remind them of the true purpose of their expedition.
By the following afternoon, heavy rain had set in, sending them all to hide inside their tents and huddle under blankets. Ernst preferred to be alone with his thoughts after everyone retired. At first, he had tried to soothe his nerves by playing simple tunes on the harmonica Herta had given him on their wedding day, but instead of the music calming him, it only made him feel lonelier. More and more, his diary became his trusted companion. He often grew weary of his colleagues; the blank page was where he could pour out his frustration as well as his joy without fear of anyone’s mockery, especially that of Bruno. Perhaps, one day, when he was famous or long dead, or both, these pages would become precious artefacts of a glorious bygone era.
He looked at the date: 9 November. A year had passed since that day hunting ducks on the lake at Carinhall, with Herta seated at the opposite end of the boat, smiling at him with such hope in her eyes
. He pressed his pencil firmly on the page:
Sometimes, when the haste becomes too much, when the problems become too unfamiliar, too incomprehensible, too involved, when it is difficult to come to conclusions because of constantly changing opinions, I grab my shotgun and flee into nature.
The gun was his consolation. He kept it beside his mattress. On cold, lonely nights, in the throes of guilty heat, he fondled its shaft, sinking back into dark rapture, an escape from the conspiracies of men. The British had always done birds well, grooming the wild countryside to accommodate the sport of the shooter, but there was a greater thrill hunting game in the true wilderness. A sudden shriek, a blur of feathers above the trees, a flash of red wings flailing, and Ernst would be off in pursuit.
Herta hadn’t always called Ernst’s love of the hunt a bloodlust, nor had she always looked upon his curated collection of specimens – those alive and those breathless – as a kind of freak show. When they were children she had held him in awe, as he shared with her the treasures he had collected. His prized possession was a feather that came from an eagle-owl, Bubo bubo. On one occasion, while Herta stroked it with her finger, Ernst had taken out his notebook and, with the concentration and dedication of a biblical scribe, traced the details of the rachis, its spine, from which the barbs, barbules and barbicels radiated out, woven together in communion. The feather was waterproof, oiled and made airtight by a layer of down.
‘It has branches like a leaf,’ she said, lifting it onto her palm. ‘And it’s almost weightless.’
He reached over and pulled at the white bow on her head. ‘Feathers are dead. Just like your hair.’
She held the feather aloft and let it go, watching it gently spiral down. Ernst caught it in his palms before it reached the ground.
Ernst read everything he could find about the natural world, sneaking into his father’s study whenever he was away on business. Young Ernst would devour the exciting travel adventures of a Karl May or Jules Verne novel. But his favourite book was the one that sat permanently on his father’s desk. It was an antique copy of the Egyptian Book of the Dead, a collection of magic spells that guided the dying through the mysteries of the afterlife. Ernst would hunch over it, engrossed in tales such as that of the god Anubis, half-jackal, half-man, and the goddess Ma’at, who would measure the weight of human hearts against the feather of truth, plucked from an ostrich. Those with heavier hearts were devoured instantly. Only those with buoyant hearts were permitted entry into the realm of the dead.
While Ernst was writing, immersed in memories of Herta, Bruno walked into his tent unannounced. ‘Why are you sitting here all alone?’
‘I enjoy my own company.’
He sat down on a rickety stool. ‘Listen, I need your help, Ernst.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m not making enough progress with my research.’ Bruno opened up his field diary, throwing it down in front of Ernst. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing to some squiggles. ‘The lower class of Tibetans that most of my measurements have come from are a mongrel race, with strong mongoloid tendencies. We need to get closer to Lhasa, where I can focus my work on the aristocracy. That’s where I’ll find traces of true Aryan blood.’
The tent was lit by a kerosene lamp that sat hissing on a camp table.
‘I’m doing all I can to get us to Lhasa. You know that. And as I’ve said to you countless times, I’m afraid you are abandoning real science for a skein of flimsy lies, my friend,’ Ernst said. ‘The research of the Ahnenerbe is constructed on treacherous ground.’ Ernst pulled a tattered book from his pocket and threw it across the table. ‘You need to read this.’
Bruno picked it up and flipped through the pages. ‘Ach! I have no time for this fantasy rubbish of yours, Ernst. I, for one, have important work to do.’
‘That’s just the point I’m trying to make, you imbecile!’ Ernst thumped his fist on the table, upsetting an empty teacup. ‘Don’t you see? Faust is an academic who has reached the limits of his learning. He seeks a more meaningful life, wants to gain knowledge about nature and the universe.’
Akeh interrupted their parrying, placing yak-butter tea and snacks on the table.
‘I don’t follow your point. What has this got to do with my research?’ Bruno was unflinching. ‘Science is the natural order of things and, as such, it must follow the swastika.’
Ernst bit into a stale biscuit. Bruno’s field diary lay open in his lap, collecting the crumbs.
The lamplight flickered in Bruno’s eyes. ‘We have no choice but to answer das Gefühl, the pride of being German, the call of our race.’
A strong wind whistled outside. The sound of someone splitting wood, the edge of the axe crashing down, echoed around them. In the shadows of the tent some trunks were huddled one on top of the other, filled with telescopes, binoculars, rifles and film equipment. Ernst shifted slightly in his chair. He did not like to be challenged by his men, and somehow Bruno always managed to get right under his skin.
‘Has your sermon finished now? It’s making me sleepy.’
‘Don’t play naïve with me, Ernst. Our work is not just about our own selfish interests. Science must take into consideration the important things happening in our time; there are such huge opportunities we cannot ignore.’
‘Science is pure and elegant in itself, not a pony to be ridden around a circus ring. We must be left to our own devices, to follow Truth, free as birds to fly to dizzying heights.’
Bruno smirked. ‘You are the one who shoots birds down from the sky.’
Ernst inhaled sharply, his pulse soaring. ‘Enough of your insolence.’
‘You won’t shut me up so easily, you hypocrite. You have been courting powerful benefactors your entire career and are finally tasting the rewards. You’re not the only one who can quote from your beloved Goethe: “Tell me with whom you associate, and I will tell you who you are.” The only reason we are here now is because you sought the patronage of the Reich.’
‘We are men of science, not followers of fairytale and superstition. This notion of a lost civilisation of Atlantis rising up somewhere in the desolate foothills of these mountains is a fatuous lie, and you know it. It corrupts our expedition and the reputation of German science. Himmler is verrückt, twisting it for his own gains.’
‘Now you think he’s crazy? You don’t seem to have been too reluctant to cosy up to Uncle Heini. I’m sure your dear patron and his colleagues at the Ahnenerbe will be interested to hear his Wunderkind’s real views. We are dealing with far more than your bottled frogs and ragged bird carcasses here.’ Bruno stood up and puffed on his pipe.
Ernst lunged at him, landing a blow to his cheek. His friend toppled over with a crash, landing on the lamp. Tongues of flame leapt up in an instant, licking at the canvas walls.
‘Akeh, quickly! Hand me that jug!’ Ernst’s loyal servant, clasping the tray he had been holding, didn’t move. Ernst reached across and doused the fire with the freshly brewed tea.
Bruno rushed out of the tent, swearing at Ernst under his breath.
They needed to get to Tibet soon. This state of limbo was taking its toll on them all.
The dog found it first; they heard the loud crunching before turning to see the skull clamped firmly in its mouth. The place was deserted, the moon low on the horizon as light seeped out of the evening sky. A pile of prayer stones and tattered flags signalled they had stumbled upon a Tibetan grave, rather unusual to find in such a remote village. Ernst and Akeh worked quietly to unearth the body.
A scrawny dog had followed them along the path from the village, circling around them, scratching and sniffing at the growing pile of dirt they had dug up. Ernst felt unnerved as the creature fixed him with a bloody eye. It looked uncannily like a stray that had shadowed him on the way home from the laboratory one evening in Berlin. He had wondered if a wild cat had escaped from its cage at the zoo. It had moved closer and closer, until Ernst could smell its foul breath and see its black eyes. A curt
ain of fog had parted and the scrawny creature limped forward, as though strolling onstage to deliver a soliloquy. The animal panted loudly, stopping every now and then to scratch its fleas. Ernst had encountered a multitude of fascinating creatures in his short but illustrious career – beasts that any circus master would give his right hand to lead around the ring – but this dog didn’t seem to fit any category or breed Ernst had ever seen. Could it have magic ally reappeared now in Tibet? He must be losing his mind.
The dog had gone back to digging and found the prize they were all searching for in a matter of minutes. Ernst tried to lure it away but the mongrel growled, eyeballs rolling wildly, its snout covered in dirt. He was not going to watch such a fine specimen become a mangy mutt’s dinner. A Tibetan skull would fetch an excellent price back home. Ernst pulled a dry biscuit from his pocket and held it up as an offering in exchange for the skull. The dog glanced at it slyly for a moment but went straight back to its bony banquet. Ernst, flushed with rage, reached out to grab the skull but the dog sank its jaw into his forearm, shaking its head. He wrestled the dog for the bones, playing an ugly tug-of-war. With his free hand Ernst reached for the pistol strapped to his belt, drew it and swiftly shot the animal in the head. The dog jerked in protest, before the last quiver of life left its body. Ernst lifted the skull from the dirt where the dog had dropped it. He stood holding it in his hand and stared, like Hamlet, into the disconcerting blankness of the eye sockets.
The Hollow Bones Page 18
