William Tyree - The Fellowship

The museum wasn’t entirely devoted to Germanic heritage. A section of the cavern had been devoted to non-Germanic paintings imported from the occupied countries. There, straight out of Wolf’s primary school art history textbook, was Hans Memling’s painting Madonna with Child . It was surrounded by works by Rembrandt, Cezanne and Van Gogh.

The presence of French art was astonishing. The national schools taught only that the French could not be trusted, and that France was merely a territory to be exploited. Wolf owed his knowledge of French art to his mother, who had, before the war, taken Wolf and his brother to the finest exhibits in Berlin and Munich. He wished she were here to see this. Never had he seen so many riches packed into one place.

Now he edged toward a glass case holding a bedazzled ceremonial robe. He bent lower to study the garment. It was spectacular, though slightly tattered at the edges. The inscription read IMPERIAL REGALIA OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE — 10th CENTURY. In an adjacent glass case were the crown, scepter and the orb of the Holy Roman Empire.

The Imperial Crown was studded with more than 100 pearls, sapphires, emeralds and amethysts. The stones were polished into smooth, rounded shapes and appeared to emit light from within. The crown featured four plates, each depicting a biblical scene. He knelt down to read the inscription on the right front plate, where Christ was depicted enthroned between two childlike angels. Per Me Reges Regnant. By Me Kings Reign.

“I see you have a taste for Christian artifacts.”

Wolf turned and found himself face to face with Nagel. Out of nerves, and habit, he stiffened.

“No need to mask your enthusiasm, boy. The fuhrer was beside himself with joy when he laid eyes on the Crown Jewels in Vienna. His first act upon entering the country was ensuring their immediate return to their rightful place in Germany.”

Wolf turned his attention back to the jewels. “They are,” he nodded, allowing himself a small grin, “Quite amazing, actually.”

“There is something else you should see.” Nagel put a hand on Wolf’s shoulder and guided him to the other side of the display. The gesture was paternal. Wolf felt oddly comforted by the old man’s attention. A wave of guilt flashed over him as he remembered his mother’s warning before his initial term at school: They want you to believe that the party replaces your parents, and that Hitler replaces God. If they can convince you of that, then they can make you do anything.

Nagel pointed to a display containing a bronze and gold spear, about 50 centimeters in length. “Do you know what this is?”

Wolf shook his head. Nagel pointed up at the painting hanging overhead. An authentic Lucas Cranach painting, The Crucifixion with the Converted Centurion . 1536. Wolf had actually seen it before. Berlin, he remembered, with his brother and father. And here it was. Locked away for the private pleasure of the high command.

What exactly was Nagel implying? That Himmler had found the Spear of Destiny? It looked old, all right. Old enough to have seen nearly 2,000 years of world history. But the Jesuits had taught him that it was in the Vatican, in St. Peter’s Cathedral. He had seen photographs in a textbook.

“It’s not real,” Wolf objected. “It can’t be.”

“On the contrary. Our historians have determined that it is, without a doubt, the same lance that Constantine carried as his armies were victorious in battle. And if Constantine himself believed it to be the lance that pierced Jesus Christ on the cross, then Himmler is more than ready to do so.”

Wolf grunted in wonderment. Of course he was familiar with the legend of the Holy Lance. Whoever possessed it was said to be rendered invincible. He considered the remarkable speed with which the German armies had rolled across Europe. Poland. Austria. Norway. France. Belgium. Denmark. Egypt. Romania. Yugoslavia. At times, it seemed as if the very presence of the Nazi armies collapsed the will to fight entirely.

“And what is the name of the centurion who lanced Jesus?” Nagel asked. He clearly knew the answer, but was probing.

“Longinus,” Wolf answered quietly.

“So you have also studied the Apocrypha,” Nagel said, clearly impressed.

Wolf nodded. Longinus’ name did not appear in the canonical Bible. A centurion had been mentioned in the book of John, but had not been named specifically except in the somewhat esoteric Gospel of Nicodemus. According to these ancient writings, Longinus had been an old soldier with poor eyesight. Pontius Pilot had told him to go to Calvary and remove the bodies of those who had been crucified since it was forbidden to perform crucifixions on the Sabbath. As Jesus was not yet dead, Longinus pierced his side with the lance. Blood and water rushed out of Jesus’ body, some of it splashing into Longinus’ eyes, miraculously restoring his vision.

Nagel checked his watch, a black Omega Regulator with golden numerals. Time was up. “I look forward to continuing our discussions.”

As the other cadets scrambled for the exit, Wolf lingered over the Holy Lance. He remembered Nagel’s words on the train. “The spiritual epicenter for the next thousand years.” But what kind of spiritualism was this? Hitler publicly decried the Vatican while Himmler embraced fairy tales about Odin and Asgard. The parochial schools had been shuttered. Priests had all but disappeared.

And yet here was the Spear of Destiny. And the crown jewels of the Holy Roman Empire. And the work of Cranach and Memling. Wolf had the sudden feeling that everything good in the world was being bottled up here in the castle.

Maybe Wolf’s father had been right about Himmler all along. Maybe he really was some kind of sorcerer. Maybe it was through the power of these divine objects that he had managed to put Europe under his spell.

*

Nagel led the boys through a narrow stone portal to the basement level of the castle’s north tower. By now Wolf was famished. He had not eaten in 16 hours.

Now they found themselves standing at the edge of a large circular room. A bluish-yellow pyre burned in the center. The room smelled like gas, and its walls of yellow stone were devoid of art or tapestries. Thousands of small copper canisters were arranged in a circular pattern along the room’s far north edge. Beside them stood a wooden chest.

It was the first time any of the boys had seen a flame burn without wood or charcoal. Wolf edged closer to the fire sprouting from the tiny hole in the marble floor, wondering how it worked. Was this more evidence of Himmler’s dark arts?

“This room is called The Vault.” Nagel’s voice was subdued and respectful. “A memorial to past, present and future SS officers. All of us, even those who are dead, commune here in an endless loop of honor and glory.”

He extended his left hand and walked slowly in front of the boys, displaying the Totenkopfring, or skull ring, worn on his left index finger. A gleaming chunk of silver with skull and crossbones at the front. Sig and hagall runes were carved into the sides. “This ring,” he continued, “was earned through blood and sweat. Himmler placed it on my finger himself. If you are very clever, and very brave, you will return to this room someday to receive your ring.”

Nagel opened the wooden chest. “Come pay your respects to those who have made the ultimate sacrifice for the Fatherland.”

Wolf was suddenly filled with dread. He stood his ground in the back of the room as the others went toward the open box. The castle commandant was staring at him now. He gestured for Wolf to come forward and witness what was inside.

But Wolf’s mind was elsewhere. His thoughts flashed to his father’s wake. Gertrude took him by the arm, pulling him toward the pine coffin. “Come look,” she begged, gripping his arm and pulling him. “Why won’t you pay your respects to your father?” Even from a distance, the sight of the expressionless face was too much to bear. He did not look at peace. He looked sullen, sickly. Wolf was suddenly dazed. He lost his balance and stumbled against the coffin, his mother’s palm against his back, pressing him forward.