The Sixth Key Page 4

  Rahn felt this comparison distasteful in the extreme and it bristled his every sensibility. ‘But you and I know that this is nonsense!’ he risked saying. ‘Science shows that when races mix they become stronger, not weaker. Look at what happens in small German towns where inbreeding is rife – you see nothing but imbeciles.’

  Weisthor’s face grew very serious. ‘Well, Reichsführer Himmler would disagree with you. Certainly it has been known to happen that imbeciles are born this way, because negative faults are emphasised, but so are positive traits accentuated! At least that is what he is trying to prove. He wants to show that this is so because our Führer himself comes from such a small township. So, he has our department investigating our Führer’s genealogy for evidence that he is a product of such a union, which one would have to say, in his case, has bred a genius. To his mind, it is no wonder that the church continues to decry incest, considering it fears the birth of Nietzsche’s super-human man!’

  Robakidze’s words now returned to Rahn and he felt a chill.

  ‘My advice to you, Rahn, is to forget what has happened to your friend Schmid. It would have happened sooner or later, believe me. This is a new Germany. The curse on society will be scourged: astrologers, mediums, Freemasons, clairvoyants, Jews and gypsies will be rounded up; and the disabled, the elderly and the insane will be despatched in their hospitals.’

  Can the man hear himself? He who has not long been discharged from a sanatorium?

  ‘But if you go around asking too many questions, Rahn, you will be tarred with the same brush. That is the danger.’

  Rahn blew his nose. ‘What do you mean, the same brush?’

  ‘The same brush, Rahn. Why would a normal man befriend a homosexual?’

  Rahn looked up. ‘Are you suggesting . . . ?’

  Weisthor’s eyes narrowed a touch. ‘This is the question that will be asked. One might think you don’t seem to fancy women. Look at my dear Gabriele, for instance; she spends all her time swooning over you, throws herself at your feet and you are, how should I say it, as cold as a seal. Be careful, Rahn! Do you think they don’t know everything there is to know about you? For instance, they know you are intimately connected with a certain Raymon Perrier.’

  ‘I’ve known him for years and love him as a dear friend!’

  ‘But what are you doing mountain-hiking with him? You even shared a house with him in Switzerland!’

  ‘As a friend!’

  ‘But that is not all, Rahn! What about Dietmar Lauermann, who is associated with the outlawed Grey Corps?’

  ‘Lauermann? I met him when I was at university! I’ve had nothing to do with him for years.’

  ‘And what about your Jewish connections?’

  Rahn felt his palms grow moist. A bead of sweat was forming on his brow.

  ‘The shopkeepers, where you buy your groceries, Rahn! You should not be seen in such places owned by Jews!’

  Rahn wanted to faint from relief.

  ‘Listen to me.’ Weisthor sat forwards with a mad look in his eye. ‘The Sicherheitsdienst spies on everyone, not just bohemian artists, or Marxists, or the morally perverted – like Schmid, with his apartment full of statues of nude men. The slightest remark, or the smallest activity deemed questionable by the SD will have you hearing a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Before you can blink, you will find yourself in Dachau and I won’t be able to help you. The Gestapo SS are not subject to laws. They are above the law and can place any man in protective custody. You don’t want to know what happens to those who go there, Rahn. A bullet in the head is the pleasant alternative. At best your parents will have to ransom you and nurse you back to life after the Waffen SS have had their fill of you. Be pragmatic, Rahn! No one is safe!’

  ‘You make the Gestapo sound like the Inquisition!’ Rahn blew his nose again.

  ‘Look, if you’re not careful you too will be considered nothing but riffraff, and riffraff has to be eradicated! Mark my words, Rahn, they will take comfort in knowing that such an act comes as an inspiration directly from the gods.’

  Rahn, bewildered and feverish, asked, ‘Why would the gods inspire the killing of innocent people?’

  Weisthor sighed, as if Rahn had just made the most naïve statement in the history of the world. ‘You’re a historian! Surely you can see how the gods have always needed their sacrifices, be it on an altar of stone or on a battlefield. The sacrifice of weakness is what our Führer believes will make our race perfect, and only a perfect race is a vessel capable of containing the spirit of its people – like the Grail, Rahn!’

  He stood and went to the window to look out at the dreary day. ‘This now brings me to your next mission. New information has come to light. Gaston De Mengel has sent me a letter that has me quite excited. I have shown it to the Reichsführer and he is similarly invigorated!’

  ‘What is it?’ Rahn said.

  Weisthor didn’t turn around but began tapping one hand over the other behind his back. ‘It is of the utmost importance and completely top secret. De Mengel tells of a certain text, a grimoire of black magic, very rare . . . He has a contact for you in Paris. Himmler is quite elated since this text is one that has been sought after by our Führer for some years to complete his collection. It is the only one he doesn’t possess. At any rate, the Reichsführer would like to give it to the Führer for his birthday, so there’s no time to delay. Himmler has expedited matters by signing a request for your journey. All you need do is append your signature.’ He turned around. ‘Now, to details.’ He looked about his littered desk and produced an envelope. ‘In here you will find your new papers. Knowing of your difficulties in Ussatles-Bains, I appealed to the French Embassy here in Berlin and they have issued a new passport. You will also find quite a sizeable sum, enough to provide you with meals and accommodation and anything else you might need for a month or so. If you need more it will be wired to you, but you must note down every expense, the smallest amount must be accounted for. Himmler is a stickler for detail, as you know by now. Oh, and inside there are also train tickets and the address of the man whom you are to contact in Paris. A certain Vincent Varas.’ He sighed. ‘Think, Rahn, how overjoyed the Führer will be to have that book! I need only say that we are full of enthusiasm for your positive findings . . . if you know what I mean.’

  ‘If the Führer is so interested in occult matters why is he persecuting astrologers and gypsies?’

  The old man raised one brow. ‘His reasoning is beyond our comprehension because he is a giant and we are dwarfs. Now, before you go, the Reichsführer would like you to take his genealogy to him at Wewelsburg, the spiritual centre of our nation. Have you finished your own one, by the way?’

  Rahn shifted. ‘Not yet, I’ve been so busy . . .’

  ‘Watch out, my boy.’ Weisthor lowered his voice. ‘Every man must show that his blood is free from impurities – make it a priority on your return from France or face the consequences. Now, your train leaves tomorrow and afterwards you will travel to France directly from Wewelsburg. I expect you to report in from time to time on how you are getting on in the south.’ He looked at Rahn with paternal affection. ‘Be careful, son, do your duty, and, Heil Hitler!’

  Rahn left the office with his mind spinning. His body was aching and his head hurt but in his heart there was a little leap for joy. He was leaving Berlin with its sodden dampness and its noise and the all-pervading smell of boiled cabbage. He would soon see mountains again and with any luck lose himself in France, leaving this terrible business with Himmler behind him.

  He went to his desk and cleared it of pressing matters, sorted through his papers and left early to make arrangements. And if he felt at all uneasy he ignored it, like one ignores a small cloud that mars an otherwise perfect sky. After all, no man who knows history would care to look a gift horse in the mouth. Well, at least not until he was very far away from it.

  4

  Dog and Wolf

  ‘They entered the chief court of
the castle and found it prepared and fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their fears . . .’ Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

  The journey to Wewelsburg was particularly bleak. Low, grey clouds coloured the world in their image: grey buildings gave way to grey fields, grey farmhouses and grey villages, where grey people waited at grey stations. He watched the scenery pass, feeling sick, melancholic and anxious. His previous elation had succumbed to the reality that he had to get over one more hurdle: Himmler.

  On the train he tried to work on an idea for a new book but his thoughts were scattered. What if Himmler didn’t like his genealogy and decided to send him back to the drawing board? What if Himmler were to guess his intentions? He had to get a hold of himself! He couldn’t present himself to Himmler looking desperate. Bad enough he didn’t look an example of the robust healthy Aryan, what with his red nose, pale complexion and sunken eyes. He went to the lavatory and washed his face and pinched his cheeks and told himself, Calm down.

  When the train arrived at the ragged little station of Paderborn, a car was waiting to take him to the rural village of Wewelsburg. It rained heavily most of the way but as the fortress appeared, a crack in the clouds allowed the dying rays of the sun to illuminate the building’s west face. It lent the citadel an otherworldly gleam that made Rahn nervous, for it recalled to his mind not the castle of the Grail, but the castle of the sorcerer Klingsor, Chasteil Marveil, which on the outside appeared to be the most resplendent castle while inside it was full of traps. He was so taken by this thought that he was half expecting a number of virgins to greet him, those whom the neutered Klingsor had kept imprisoned for the pleasure of it. Instead he was met by silent Waffen SS guards with humourless faces, who opened the door to the car. They escorted him over the sodden threshold, into a cheerless courtyard still under construction. Another two guards then led him directly ahead to the north tower and some moments later, he was standing at the threshold of a great circular hall.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust. At the centre of the hall stood a round table festively laid with white linen embossed with sig runes and adorned with lit candles, silverware and crystal glasses. Around it sat a large number of SS officers and Himmler himself, talking and laughing, while in the background pleasant music played, Bach perhaps.

  All activity paused on his arrival and Rahn waited, uncertain as to whether he should enter.

  ‘Come in, join us!’ Himmler said, quite like a jolly Arthur surrounded by his knights.

  Rahn’s breathing paused. What now – couldn’t he just drop off Himmler’s genealogy and be on his way?

  A servant appeared from some hidden corner and showed him to a seat. In a moment there was wine in his glass and a crisp white napkin in his lap. He was trapped! There came now a brief introduction, expounding the merits of his books and his talents as a writer and Grail historian.

  Himmler said then, ‘Before you came, we were talking about the salamander. Perhaps you can tell us something about it that we don’t already know?’

  All eyes turned to Rahn and he felt his heart pound in his ears. Not only did he feel a sneeze coming on, but the inner activity required to prevent it caused his fever to spike, leading to a cold sweat, which he could feel trickling over his temples. He gathered to him his wits and smiled faintly.

  ‘The salamander is a mythical creature,’ he began. ‘It dies and yields its blood, and from its blood it wins immortal life . . . death has no power over it—’

  ‘Correct! Did you hear that, gentlemen? Death has no power over immortal life!’ Himmler said, expansively. ‘And the Grail also keeps death at bay, isn’t that so? So tell us, what is the Grail?’

  Rahn looked around the circle at the matching vacant smiles and he guessed there must be thirty or so SS officers gathered here. ‘The Grail is the vessel that holds the life-giving blood of Jesus Christ, the god who overcame death through sacrifice.’

  ‘You see! The Grail holds the immortal Aryan blood of Jesus, because Jesus was not a Jew, was he? Is there support for this idea that Jesus was Aryan?’

  Rahn’s mouth was drier than a stick and he sipped at the good Bavarian wine, but it only made him more parched. ‘Well . . . it is a contentious issue,’ he said. ‘There are two genealogies: one in Matthew and the other in Luke. The Matthew lineage suggests a dark Jew child; the Luke lineage suggests a fair Galilean Jew child of mixed heritage.’

  Himmler was so pleased his eyes twinkled behind his pincenez. ‘You see, gentlemen! The Roman church and the Jews have deceived us! Jesus was an Aryan! Even so, he was only one symbol of sacrifice. Germany has its own Aryan symbol, our Führer! He says that this, above all, is Germany’s destiny – to live in the fire of sacrifice, like the salamander.’

  ‘What is it that I say, Heinrich?’ The voice echoed strangely in the high-vaulted room. Suddenly all men stood and Rahn followed by reflex; his stomach lurched and he forgot to breathe. The air in the room grew still and the torches flickered and seemed to wane as the man in the grey suit crossed the threshold.

  The glow of the great torch in the arch under which he stood marked out the bones of his face and threw shadows under his eyes, eyes that were as wild as a winter sky at midday, wild as those of a wolf caught tearing at its prey. He came to the table, straight backed with the self-absorbed mien of a mythological god, and a dumb, astounded silence grew around him until it was thick and awkward. Rahn, with his sense for unspoken things, knew that the newcomer was proving to them that they could exist simply by basking in his presence. He did not need to speak: his very greatness alone should hold them.

  Satisfied that his presence had achieved the desired effect, Adolf Hitler scanned the group before him, and in his eyes there glittered the promise of unfathomable mysteries, both miraculous and magic. The Führer drew a smirk upwards over the scored bones of his face, stretching at his short moustache, but it was an action neither touched with irritation nor amusement. It was the expression of an automatic intelligence that was fast, cold, merciless. It swept over his men, as if to say, I am neither your friend nor your foe and by you I am completely unaffected. But by me you are fully enthralled.

  Rahn felt a sudden surging of his blood, a feeling confusingly and quite disturbingly sexual in nature. A primal magnetic love of kin for kin, of the deepest blood ties. A part of him was disgusted by it, but another part was exhilarated.

  ‘Well?’ Hitler said, turning his eyes to the Reichsführer.

  Himmler cleared his throat, the loyal dog cowering before a superior wolf. ‘Mein Führer!’ he said with passion. ‘We were just saying that it is your desire that all Germans come to know the true meaning of sacrifice!’ Himmler adjusted his glasses, as nervous as a schoolboy.

  ‘IT IS NOT MY DESIRE!’ These words exploded from Hitler and sent a shockwave around the table. His face moved over every man with fury in his eye and hatred about the lips. ‘IT IS WHAT THE SPIRIT OF GERMANY DEMANDS!’ he cried, taking in a strangled breath as he thrust one fist into the air. ‘THE SPIRIT THAT SEEKS TO MAKE GERMANY GREAT!’

  The candles glowed, the torches flapped, a draught blew in and circled the group. Adolf Hitler stood perfectly still, reining himself in. He looked about him at the arid landscape of blank faces with his hands behind his back now, his eyes probing and his lips working inaudible whispers.

  His eyes fell on Rahn.

  Rahn’s blood paled and his bones felt like lead under his skin.

  A deep fatigue seized him, as if the light had gone out of the world and his heart was touched by a shadow.

  ‘So, the Grail historian is here. Otto Rahn!’ Hitler said, serenely now, stretching his neck as if to adjust the tightness of his collar. ‘I have read your books. Sacrifice is written in blood in all history books, do you not agree?’

  ‘Yes, mein Führer!’ came Rahn’s immediate reply, which was followed by a sudden terrifying thought that sent him into a palsy of uncertainty: Was this the reply the Führer wanted?

>   ‘Look at this castle, for instance.’ Hitler swept the room with a hand, his back stiff, his chin raised and his jaw jutting out. ‘It has an interesting history. Witches were tortured and put to death here, and the shedding of blood has made this place more powerful. In fact, all the ancient people understood the value of human sacrifice – the Mexicans, the Druids, even our own ancestors. Is this not true?’ he asked Rahn again.

  Oh! Rahn could find no breath in his lungs! He glanced about. ‘Yes, mein Führer,’ he managed to say.

  Hitler gave a nod of his head and made a gesture with his hand and there was the collective scraping of chairs as they were drawn into the table and the circle of men sat down.

  Rahn breathed a sigh of relief, but his hands were shaking so he held them in his lap beneath the table to keep them still, lest the wolf smell his fear and discern from it his unfaithfulness.

  ‘Heinrich was right,’ the Führer now confirmed, coming to his own chair. ‘It is the destiny of the German people to become the consciousness of Europe. Such a responsibility comes only by way of great sacrifices, and more sacrifices will come before the world will see that it must, either willingly or by force, unite under the rulership of the German Reich and its supreme leader . . . in the same way the limbs, if they are to function properly, must come under the governorship of the mind’s supreme consciousness! But consciousness, gentlemen, comes at a price!’ He turned in Rahn’s direction, and the historian felt as though he had plunged his head into a torrent of water chilled by melting snow. ‘We are at the outset of a tremendous revolution in moral ideas and man’s spiritual orientation; a new age of the magic interpretation of the world is coming, an interpretation in terms of will instead of intellect. The Freemasons once knew this secret, as did the alchemists and the magicians of old, like Solomon, Basil Valentinus and Faust: control over evil, harnessing evil – this is true power, gentlemen! The man who sacrifices evil is nothing to me, but a man who can sacrifice his goodness – such a man can become the instrument of the one destined to fulfil the plan of the gods. You are such men . . . and I am the destined one!’ He scanned the circle of faces. ‘I am the ideal of the Grail, gentlemen! And you are the true ideal of the knights of the Grail – the Brotherhood of the Grail. You are the limbs through which I will one day work my magic, as Christ performed his magic through his disciples. And I demand of you the sacrifice even of your goodness!’