The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘I would thank the caller for saving my life.’

  ‘Ah, but perhaps you wouldn’t have been killed at all? Perhaps during the course of events you would have met someone of great importance, someone who would have led you to a different fork in your path, a fork that would have led to another and another? In any event, imagine that because you did not take that train you are now crossing the road at the exact time that a car’s brakes fail and it ploughs into you, killing you. Karma was the caller – but the choice was yours to take the call. Freedom lives in that choice. One can’t imagine how many choices one makes in the course of a day, choices that affect not only one’s future, but the collective future of all humanity. No, you are here because you have made a choice to be here.’

  I looked at him, trying to see where he was going with this, but his face betrayed nothing. ‘But what about you – you also made a choice when you invited me to come here?’

  ‘Did I?’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you also free to create your own forking paths?’

  ‘Sometimes we do things not out of our own need, but out of a desire to further the evolution of the world.’

  ‘A sacrifice, you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘Take the sniper who had Hitler in his sights and who decided, at the last moment, to let him live. Imagine how different the world would be now: how many writers, artists, poets, musicians, scientists, mothers, fathers and children would have contributed to the world had it not been for one man’s poor choice. Perhaps when that sniper died he had to relive that moment over and over again, until he realised that his own personal goodness was a puny concern, in comparison to the many lives he could have saved.’

  I sat forwards and set down my cup. ‘You are saying that if the sniper had pulled the trigger and killed Hitler, he could have secured a different destiny for the world, even if it meant sacrificing his own personal karma?’

  ‘Precisely. That soldier was there to kill Hitler, that was his karma, you see? He chose not to follow it.’

  I had to smile. This strange man intrigued me.

  ‘You find this interesting?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘The moment that lies between what drives us from the past and what pulls us towards the future is the one moment in which we are completely free, completely conscious and completely alive. So, imagine we are in this moment. If this were a novel as yet to be written by you, and I were your character, poised in that moment, what would you have me do?’

  ‘I would have you tell me why I’m here.’

  ‘Touché!’ He was pleased. ‘I would say you’re here because you want to know how it begins.’

  ‘How what begins?’

  ‘Your new novel.’

  ‘And how does it begin?’

  ‘It begins with a telegram, an invitation to meet someone mysterious. Now, let’s say your character guesses the invitation must be from a fan of his work, because the telegram offers the prospect of a patronage. Let’s assume that the message could not have arrived at a better time. His last book isn’t selling well, and he needs funds to research another book. Let’s imagine that in the meantime, he is surviving by the barest margin, living hand-to-mouth. So when the offer comes to meet a generous benefactor in an apartment in Berlin, well, he does the only logical thing a man in those circumstances could have done – he finds himself in Prinz Albrechstrasse.

  ‘The street has changed little since his childhood, except these days it houses the Gestapo and the headquarters of the SS, and everywhere on shop front doors and on walls two words are written: “Juden Unerwünscht” – Jews Unwelcome.

  ‘When your protagonist arrives at the fashionable apartment building, he checks the address against the telegram and the time against his pocket watch and looks up. The sky is steel blue and the sun is cold. He stands like that, in his rather shabby double-breasted suit that does little to keep off the swift breeze, trying to resist the impulse to turn around. But where could he go? The financial embarrassment that led to his rather hasty expulsion from France meant he couldn’t return. At least not until his circumstances had improved enough for him to pay his creditors. It’s no wonder the poor are all Communists! He sighs, looking again at the telegram.

  YOUR BOOK SUPERIOR WORK STOP A THOUSAND MARKS A

  MONTH FOR SECOND STOP FURTHER SUM TO SETTLE AFFAIRSSTOP BERLIN FEB 18 15:00 7 PRINZ ALBRECHTSTRASSE STOP

  ‘Shortly after receiving this telegram, a small fortune in deutschmarks was wired to him and a letter followed, containing a first-class train ticket from Paris to Berlin. How could he resist such a generous offer? It was a balm to know that someone appreciated his work enough to pay for it. Still, he was full of misgivings. Why had the publisher or benefactor not given his name? Why did he want to meet in an apartment? Could he be one of those Jewish publishers that had been shut down by the Nazis?

  ‘Perhaps I should say something about the state of Germany at that time. Your character had arrived back in his homeland when there was a general feeling of enthusiasm for the promise of a new life and for the return of German pride. After all, the re-arming of Germany had been achieved without conflict, and the endless political wrangling of Weimar was over. These events were like the herald of a new age.

  ‘The supposed Nazi vision of cultural rebirth should have fitted quite nicely with your character’s own idealistic views, had he been a man of his times. But he was not a man of his times. If you were to ask him about the war against the Cathars, or something concerning Spanish politics at the time of the Reconquista, he would have expounded clear and concise views that were based on genuine insights; if you had asked him about Don Quixote, or Parzifal, or even Sherlock Holmes, he would have had you listening for hours! You see, when it came to the happenings of his day, he could tell you about the latest Georg Wilhelm Pabst film, or the most recent jazz recordings by Django Reinhardt – and not much else. The truth is, talk of politics sent his mind into a fog and for this reason he was not in the least bit interested in Hitler. This confounded his friends and irritated his family. They argued that Hitler had united the nation by erasing inflation and reducing unemployment and poverty; they even pointed out to him the language of symbolism used by Hitler, as a way of raising his interest, but your character was simply not convinced. He felt there was something rather sinister about the way the little moustached man used the ideal of oneness that all Germans longed for, and the symbols that they only half-understood, to gain power over them. These things your character sensed, in the same way a deer senses the presence of a hunter. It was an instinctive disquiet. For the ruthlessness of the new leaders had not yet become outwardly apparent – except for the issue with the Jews.

  ‘In his view, Hebrews were as well educated, as polite, astute, sensitive and cultured as any other race. In fact, quite a few of them were exceedingly talented in diverse fields and were, for the most part, possessed of impeccable ethics and moral dispositions. He couldn’t understand Hitler’s obsession with blaming them for everything, from the “stab in the back”, to bad weather. On top of that there was the regime’s stern attitude towards homosexuals, Communists and artists. In France he had grown rather fond of bohemians and, he had to admit, since his return to Germany he had found it rather bland. He was starved for good conversation! Where were the intellectuals? Where were the poets, artists and philosophers?

  ‘Right now, standing before that apartment, he weighs the risks. Who would believe him should it turn out to be a Jewish publisher, or an enemy of the Reich, or a homosexual, or a liberal, or a Communist waiting for him in that apartment? On the other hand, he knows he can’t continue his research into the Cathar treasure without money. After all, there are only so many radio interviews he can do – and only so many times he can recount his exciting experiences potholing in the caves of southern France looking for the Grail – without feeling like a parrot. Moreover, his scripts for the filmmaker Pabst have come to nothing, and he’s had enough of traipsing about
the country working on film sets for a pittance. No, this interview is his last resort and he resolves that should he not like the look of the publisher, he will thank him politely and simply walk out. He need never see the man again. After all, no one is going to hold a gun to his head!

  ‘He knocks on the door. There is no answer. This is the fork in the road, so to speak.’

  ‘What does he do?’ I said, watching the fire.

  The Writer of Letters allowed a little silence to pass. ‘If he had done differently, perhaps you wouldn’t be here? Perhaps there would be no need for you to write this book at all? No, he knocks again and when he hears nothing, a sudden relief washes over him. Providence has saved him, he thinks – but from what? The truth is, had he left one minute earlier he would never know, but his hesitation on descending those steps now means that he is visible to the man who has, by now, unlocked the door behind him. When he turns, he recognises the uniform. Who in Berlin wouldn’t have?’

  2

  In the Belly of the Dragon

  ‘But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanour.’ Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’

  Berlin, 1938

  A long corridor led to an elegantly furnished room overlooking the street. At the threshold to this room a peculiar calmness came over Otto Rahn. He could have screwed up the telegram or even refrained from knocking on that door, but he hadn’t, and now he had to surrender to the moment, for good or ill.

  In a chair by the window sat a man dressed in full uniform: black hat with the Death’s Head emblem; long black leather boots; shining buttons; sig runes; swastikas – the whole regalia of the SS. His face turned only slightly, and he looked at his visitor with those small myopic eyes ensconced behind pince-nez. To Rahn he looked like an accountant, someone who, at another time, might have lived an inconsequential life, perhaps as a disliked but tolerated clerk, a civil servant with shabby domestic cares. Rahn could see him riding a bus to work, thinking about money or illness, shuffling through his life unperturbed by the great problems of fate and goodness. But destiny had dealt him different cards and here he was.

  When the man smiled – white, thinly spread and shrewd – it caused a tremor to pass over his left cheek. He blinked and blinked again, adjusting his lenses.

  Rahn realised he must do something, so he stiffened his back and raised his right hand in what to him felt like a rather comical version of Hitler’s salute.

  The other man didn’t stand. He gave an effeminate little wave and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’

  Rahn waited while the seated man stared with an expression much like that of the mouse that has tricked the cat in those American cartoons. He almost expected the man to say, ‘Boo!’ and laugh heartily, but he didn’t. Instead he looked Rahn over, scanning him from head to toe, no doubt ticking off a mental check list of features that displayed the Aryan ideal: green-grey eyes; smooth hair; fair skin; tall with good bones; not terribly athletic but nothing that a good stint in training couldn’t cure.

  When he spoke, his voice sounded small, as if it were coming from inside a radio speaker. ‘Otto Rahn! Delighted to meet you at last. Will you take a seat? I did wonder if you would answer my mysterious telegram. Sorry about that – it couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. Correspondence in and out of Germany has to be considered carefully these days. One never knows who is listening in. Still, I had a feeling you would come and here you are! Tell me, are you astonished? It isn’t every day you find the Reichsführer waiting in an apartment to greet you?’

  Rahn faltered. To say he wasn’t surprised might seem to be acknowledging some form of guilt. On the other hand, to say that he was surprised might sound as though such a thing as Heinrich Himmler coming to meet a man in an apartment in Berlin was altogether ludicrous. So he said nothing. He simply returned the smile and sat down. It was an impossible situation. Beyond his fear and awkwardness he began to speak, but Himmler interrupted him with a raised hand.

  ‘There’s no need. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. Many people feel sick when they see this black tunic,’ he said. ‘But this is the desired effect, you see! Our aim is to be as much feared by the criminal, as we are regarded by the German citizen as a trusted friend and helper.’

  With immense effort, Rahn answered, ‘Of course, in truth, Germany has never felt a safer place.’

  ‘Correct.’ Himmler gazed at him, his eyes laconic and expressionless and his features stagnant.

  For a moment, the only sound Rahn heard was the passing of a streetcar below. This situation was far outside his experience and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. He had a terrible desire to let go a nervous laugh, but he coughed politely into his hand instead.

  ‘Let’s get to the point, shall we?’ Himmler reached for a book on the table. It was a German copy of Crusade Against the Grail, Rahn’s book. The Reichsführer leafed through it for quite a time, pausing now and again to read something before speaking. ‘When you wrote this, you brought yourself to the attention of the Führer. The Führer is very attentive, always on the lookout.’

  ‘If I have offended—’

  The man laughed a small, clipped laugh. ‘Are you listening, Wolfgang?’ he called to his bodyguard. ‘Our author believes he is going to Dachau!’

  The guard nodded as if such a thought did not go beyond the realm of possibility.

  ‘Well, I shall let you in on a secret – you are off the hook, as the Americans say.’

  Rahn felt a sneeze coming on, which he tried to suppress.

  ‘No, our Führer agrees with me that your work is erudite and Aryan to the highest degree, an example of the German creative spirit and an inspiration for our men. In actuality, he believes you are closely connected to the Reich, through your destiny . . .’

  Rahn didn’t know what to say to this, nor indeed if anything was required of him, so he said nothing.

  ‘You are not only an expert on history, Herr Rahn, but you also have a good working knowledge of the occult – something we regard highly. In fact, we believe that many lives have prepared you precisely for the moment when you could offer your gifts to the Reich. And I am here to tell you, personally, the moment has now arrived.’

  The reischführer stood and Rahn followed.

  Himmler was tall, with long legs and arms and a short body marked by a potbelly. Everything about him seemed immaturely made and awkward, as if the bones had grown faster than the muscles that supported them. Rahn imagined Himmler as a boy, being made fun of by his peers for running into desks and for tripping over carpets because he couldn’t see where he was going.

  ‘What is your next book?’ he said, breaking into Rahn’s thoughts.

  ‘I am writing about the siege of the Cathar castle at Montsegur, comparing that massacre with the crucifixion at Golgotha,’ he said.

  Himmler went to the window. ‘Well, you must forget that. The Führer would like you to write two books, which you will produce over the space of two years. He is interested in the lineage of the Grail and how it is linked to the Aryan peoples. He is also impressed by your ideas on the Cathars and your knowledge of mythology.’ He turned around again to face Rahn with an impassive expression. Rahn sensed that the niceties were over. ‘You will receive a handsome advance and ample freedom to do what research you need. We might even send you back to France, or to the north, to Scandinavia. In a few days you will be given an office at headquarters and you will meet your superiors. Until then I would suggest you sort out your affairs and prepare yourself for the tasks ahead. In time you will be accepted into the SS, but for now you can consider yourself a provisional member. No need to thank me – I know what an honour it is.’ He looked about him, his eyes quite far away. ‘I sense you will accomplish great things, Otto Rahn. I trust you will not disappoint me.’ He looked at Rahn penetratingly for a moment before say
ing, ‘Heil Hitler!’

  He walked out then, snapping his heels on the polished wood floor.

  3

  Calm Before the Storm

  ‘Make yourself honey and the flies will devour you.’ Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

  It goes without saying that Rahn was agitated after that meeting with Himmler. To refuse the man’s offer had not been an option, so he decided to make the best of it, burying into the deep recesses of his mind the nagging doubt that he was walking into a trap. After all, there was something to be said for his move from the flea-ridden guesthouse to the Grand Hotel on Wilhelmstrasse, and he was able to use part of that large sum, left by Himmler with the desk clerk, to purchase a good black coat and a new pair of boots – he could now walk without undue concern for rocks and puddles. In fact, he didn’t know how much he had missed having doors opened for him, beds made for him, and dinners cooked for him! And to not have to wash out his shirt and socks one day, so that he could wear them the next day, was an exquisite luxury.

  In the following days he threw himself into the multitude of tasks that began to crowd his new life. His boss was Brigadeführer Karl Maria Willigut, or Weisthor, as he liked to be called. Weisthor was a corpulent man who claimed to be descended from ancient German sages, a peculiarity that apparently afforded him a powerful ancestral clairvoyance. But right away Rahn could see that Weisthor was simply mad. Rahn was not surprised, therefore, to hear later that his superior had only recently come out of a mental asylum, something Himmler had not been told when he first met Weisthor at the Nordic Society in Detmold. At the time, Himmler had been so impressed by Weisthor’s outrageous claims, that he had immediately installed him at the SS headquarters in Berlin with the task of running the archives of the Principal Race and Population Bureau.