William Tyree - The Fellowship

The music suddenly stopped. A voice came over the public address system. It was Himmler’s.

“In war,” he said, “Possessions are destroyed. Entire families may die. There is but one thing that survives, and that is the glory of a boy’s deeds for his country. Today Albert Hoppe demonstrated his courage in front of my own eyes. Albert Hoppe is an inspiration for all of us!”

Wolf was suddenly filled with pride. It was true that he feared Himmler. Every rational German did, and Wolf did more than most. But there was no denying that he was a natural-born leader. Hearing Albert’s name spoken by such a man was exquisite.

The reichsfuhrer then read from the Oera Linda book, a text written in Old Frisian that the cadets had read in their Germanic studies classes. Himmler’s interest in ancient Germanic religions was well known. Wolf’s own father, who had once worked under Himmler, claimed that the reichsfuhrer not only believed in reincarnation, but also believed that he was the re-embodiment of King Henry the Fowler.

Some said that Himmler was in fact a warlock. They talked of his magical ability to motivate people to do things that were against everything they had ever been taught. Wolf did not find this so difficult to believe. The regime had come into power when he was only a toddler, but when people spoke of the transformation of Germany since the Treaty of Versailles, the poverty they described was unfathomable today. He had only ever known Germany as a strong, spirited and seemingly invincible force. And all he had known since the age of 11 was victory. Since 1938, war announcements had rolled through school like sporting news. Victory in Poland. Victory in France. Victory in the Netherlands, Luxemburg and Norway. Alliance with Romania. It was assumed that each new invasion would automatically be followed by a victory within days or weeks.

Wolf refocused on the stage, where Himmler was still talking. “We must find a new set of values for our people,” he said. “We must once again be rooted in our ancestors and grandchildren, the eternal sequence of our destinies. Let us follow the example of this brave boy who cared nothing for the physical world, and gave everything for society.”

Wolf felt a hand on his arm and looked up. It belonged to a black-uniformed SS soldier with two parallel silver stripes and two silver pips on his lapel. A scharfuhrer . Not quite an officer, but nevertheless, someone deserving of wide berth.

“Sebastian Wolf?” the soldier said even though the reichsfuhrer was not yet finished with his speech. “How would you like to meet Himmler?”

Wolf did not hear himself say yes. Nevertheless he found himself following the scharfuhrer outside, where the sun had given way to a cold drizzle. He was escorted across campus to the third floor of the yellow mansion, where he was seated on a bench in the hallway outside the headmaster’s office.

*

He sat alone for nearly an hour. His legs felt rubbery. He was thirsty. He had not been filled with this much anxiety and dread since his father’s funeral, when Gertrude had asked him to go to the coffin and kiss his father’s corpse on the forehead. He had not wanted to feel the coolness of the skin. Had not wanted to face the unbearable stillness of the hands folded across his chest. And yet he could not disappoint her. She pleaded with him. It was somehow important. As if to prove his devotion. Or perhaps just to verify that it was real.

Now sweat ran down Wolf’s arms, slickening the insides of his elbows. His tongue seemed to thicken. Himmler was said to have personally ordered the executions of 85 SA leaders in order to eliminate political rivals. The dreaded Gestapo ultimately answered to him. Nevertheless, he was going to face this man. His mother had sold her soul to position him for this moment. He would not disappoint her now.

Gradually, several older boys joined him in the hall. Although Wolf had been the first boy seated, several were called into the headmaster’s office before him. At times he heard shouting. That was not so peculiar at the Reich School, as the instructors were passionate about their work. Each preceding boy spent several minutes in the office, and then was escorted down the hall by the scharfuhrer, who would then return to escort the next boy in.

When Wolf’s name was finally called, he entered in a hurry, clicking the heels of his shoes together in an emphatic “ Heil Hitler!”

The room smelled like oak furniture. The office walls were painted the same shade of yellow as the building’s exterior. The window provided a clear view of the lake, the surface of which was peppered with hard rain.

Himmler was not there. The man standing behind the headmaster’s desk was much older. His cap was pulled low over his brown eyes. He held his chin elevated, so that he literally looked down his nose at the young cadet. He wore a thick but narrow mustache that, in subsequent eras, would be regarded as a staple of Hitler parodies. In this era, it was nothing less than an homage to the fuhrer.

Wolf had noticed him that morning from the roof of the barn. He had been in Himmler’s entourage. Had he helped carry Albert’s body back to campus? He wore jackboots and black pants that were tight in the knees and bloomed around the thighs. An Iron Cross — a highly coveted black and silver combat medal — hung just over the knot on his tie. He wore a forest-green shirt with a black tie under his coat. His lapels showed the double-thunderbolt runes of the SS, and were decorated with three diamonds and two double-stripes, making him a hauptsturmfuhrer, a captain.

“This is Obergruppenfuhrer Nagel,” the scharfuhrer said as he shut the door behind him. Wolf jumped, having forgotten that anyone else was in the room.

Nagel walked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of the cadet. He touched Wolf’s face with his right hand, holding the boy’s chin between the oversized thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

“Strong jaw,” he observed, inspecting him as a farmer might appraise a prize goat. With the calloused thumb of his other hand, he stretched open Wolf’s eyelids and peered straight into them. “Blue eyes.”

The scharfuhrer held out a half-inch thick file with Wolf’s name on it. Nagel removed his hands from the cadet’s face and took it, walking back around the desk to the window. With his back to Wolf, the officer licked his fingertips and began flipping through documents detailing Wolf’s Hitler Youth activity, school history, examination results and Reich School enrollment materials, including documentation proving his Germanic bloodline. A separate section contained information about his parents, brother and extended family.

“Competent student,” he said without turning from the window. “How is your French?”

“ Bon . And I also speak English.”

Nagel nodded and read on. “A seven-generation German?” He grunted with approval and read silently for a minute more, then snapped the folder shut. “You may relax.” He turned toward the window, watching a flock of ducks in V-formation circle the lake. “What do you imagine you’ll do when you graduate from this place?”

“Become a scientist and one day teach. Like my father.”

The officer laughed, but the expression on his face was dark. “Who do you think you are going to teach? If the war goes on for another year or two, every man between 16 and 60 will be fighting the Russians.”

The remark had been made almost casually, yet Wolf felt stung by it. What did that mean? Were the Russians so strong that it might really take two years to defeat them?

“My brother is in Stalingrad,” Wolf said. “His latest letter said the Soviet army is larger than he expected, but that Germany weaponry was more sophisticated. He wrote that the Wehrmacht was already in control of 90 percent of the city.”