William Tyree - The Fellowship

The newly marked recruit took the chalice in both hands. It was heavy, containing several semi-coagulated ounces of reddish-purple fluid. He did not know whether the blood in the chalice was human or animal. His stomach soured at both prospects, but it did not matter much. He would have to drink or die.

“Now you will share in the eternal bond of the Ahnenerbe,” Nagel said.

Wolf brought the cup to his lips. As the metallic-tasting slime passed his teeth, tongue and throat, he tried to imagine that it was his mother’s sausage gravy.

Central Train Station

Frankfurt

The night train bound for Paris smelled of pipe smoke and boot polish. Wolf and Lang followed an elderly conductor through a coach car, occupied largely by Wehrmacht soldiers, en route to a separate car that consisted entirely of private cabins.

Other than the MP-40 submachine guns and their packs, they had no baggage. The conductor opened a door for them, and the boys they stepped into what was easily the most spacious and elegant mode of travel they had ever seen. The private cabin was nearly as large as Wolf’s bedroom in Munich. Opposing brown leather couches were accented with golden stitching. A small bar stocked with liquor and highball glasses was built into shelving just beneath the window.

The silver-haired conductor entered the room, shut the door behind him and pulled an overhead handle, revealing a fold-out bed. “Silk linens,” he said smiling. “Imported from Istanbul.”

“We won’t be sleeping,” Wolf assured him. “We’re expecting a third.”

In their first official assignment, they were to board this train, where they would meet Dr. Rudolph Seiler and accompany him on a mission to Paris. Dr. Seiler’s security was their sole concern. They had been given no other details.

Seiler was a noted authority on Rome, ancient Nordic society and the Middle East. Wolf had, in fact, seen his work referenced in the official Ahnenerbe journal, Germanien . His new book, The Mastery of Runes , had quickly become a staple of the Reich School curriculum.

Wolf caught his reflection in a full-length mirror behind the door. It was the first time he had seen himself in uniform, as they had only been issued and tailored a few hours earlier. Brown shirt with black leather buttons, tied with a black tie. Black pants. Shiny black jackboots. Black tunic with the red, white and black swastika armband on the left sleeve. The Ahnenerbe Tree of Life stickpin in his lapel.

On his collar, sig runes on one side and a silver button pip on the other indicating his rank: unterscharfuhrer , or junior squad leader. Several ranks more than he had deserved, to be sure. It seemed that graduates of the Reich School never started at the bottom, even when they had been recruited two years ahead of schedule.

The conductor opened a storage compartment and lifted Wolf’s pack. He raised it to waist-level and then fell back against the door, apparently dizzy.

Wolf relieved him of the heavy pack as Lang guided him to one of the leather seats.

“My dear boy,” the conductor said as he caught his breath. “I apologize.”

“You shouldn’t be lifting baggage at your age,” Lang scolded.

“I retired in 1934, and not a moment too soon. Can you imagine my surprise when a minister from the Reichsbahn called me? Said they were desperate for labor. Obviously the tourist trains are no longer running, but it seems there are substantial military needs. He said they were running 40 times the number of routes that they had during peacetime. Forty times! Can you imagine?”

“Astonishing,” Lang answered without enthusiasm.

“It seems the train crews have been decimated by Wehrmacht conscription, and also by saboteurs. You must have heard.” He paused, waiting for further comment from the soldiers. When none came, the conductor seemed to backpedal, saying, “Not that I mind the risks, you understand. The Fatherland needs every man, woman and child right now. I am happy to serve.”

With this, he stood, saluted and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Both boys laughed. After six of the most intense weeks of their lives, they could hardly believe their luck. Lang picked up a crystal decanter with a stag head on top. It was full of amber liquor. “Should we live a little?”

A knock at the door interrupted the celebration. With his submachine gun still slung over his left shoulder, Wolf opened the door.

He recognized Dr. Seiler from an official Ahnenerbe photograph that Nagel had given him. The professor’s small blue eyes searched Wolf from behind wire-rim spectacles. Although he was a civilian, he nevertheless wore a red, white and black swastika band around the left arm of his black overcoat. Lang took his luggage — a small leather overnight bag — and showed him into the private compartment where they would spend the next five hours together.

Seiler was irritated, demanding to know why they had not left for Paris from Cologne. He explained in excited, verbose sentences that he taught at the University of Halle, in Mittenburg, and that Frankfurt was several hours out of the way, costing him a full day of extra travel.

“We are sorry for the inconvenience,” Wolf said. “Cologne has suffered heavy air raids since May. I’m sure the obergruppenfuhrer had only your safety in mind.”

Wolf was merely speculating. He and Lang had in fact assumed that Frankfurt had been chosen to accommodate Dr. Seiler. Nevertheless, his explanation seemed to satisfy the professor, who removed his heavy coat and sat down just as the train began churning away from the platform.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the opposite couch. He removed a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his brown blazer and offered the boys a smoke. Lang demurred. Wolf took one, lit it, and puffed it in an exaggerated manner, not knowing whether to inhale or exhale. The government campaigns against smoking had been remarkably effective with the boys at the Reich School. This was his first cigarette.

“You must be hungry,” Lang said.

Seiler shook his head, studying his young bodyguards. “Bavarian accents. Well-spoken. Are you from Munich?”

“Yes. But for the past two years we attended the Reich School in Feldafing.”

Seiler’s eyebrows danced. “So you’re not just any SS brutes,” Seiler said. “You must have a few brain cells between you.”

He removed his black fedora. He was bald, and made no attempt to comb over what hair remained on the sides of his head. Wolf had originally taken him for a man in his 30s. Now it was clear that he was older, perhaps in his late 40s.

“Have you been to Paris?” Seiler asked. Wolf and Lang shook their heads. “I see. Well, the charms of Paris can be quite distracting, so be warned now that this is not a pleasure trip. We must be alert. Despite what you might hear Goebbels say on the radio, we are still very much at war in France. The resistance is always looking for opportunities to kill Germans. That goes double for those who are seen as threatening of its cultural heritage. I expect you to be vigilant so that I can focus on my work.”

A polite knock interrupted Seiler’s rant. The conductor had returned. He passed a yellow telegraph envelope to Dr. Seiler. The professor opened it immediately. His face tightened as he read, as if he had eaten something sour. “SS-1 will rendezvous and pickup at Gare du Nord upon arrival.”

Wolf did not understand. “SS-1?”

“Himmler’s personal car,” Seiler said with distaste. “Unexpected. This was to be a quick fact-finding trip. I can only assume something new has come to light that will undoubtedly turn it into a circus. With Himmler it is always a circus.”