William Tyree - The Fellowship

“No matter. We held your rooms.”

The lobby was filled with German officers lounging in the smoky sitting area. They were surrounded by lavishly dressed prostitutes. Fleischer did not seem to notice them. “My men are hungry,” he told the concierge.

“The osteria is open for another hour,” the concierge replied. He led them down a hallway that was decorated with portraits of Renaissance noblemen. “Are you here to see the film?”

“What film?”

“ Munchausen , of course,” the man said. The boys had all heard of Munchausen . The film, sponsored by the Ministry of Propaganda, was rumored to be Germany’s answer to America’s The Wizard of Oz . A space fantasy set in Renaissance Venice. “Minister Goebbels has come personally to attend the Italian premiere. If you are very lucky, you might spot him.”

What kind of secret mission was this? It was nothing like Wolf had expected. They ate openly in what was easily the most upscale restaurant Wolf had ever seen. A quartet played Vivaldi in a corner of the dining room. Wolf sat transfixed by the table’s centerpiece. A bucking stallion, half a meter tall, constructed entirely of painted Murano glass.

Wolf ordered sardines. It did not take long before Lang caught his attention. His eyes were full of contempt, exuding hostility as he pretended to laugh at Fleischer’s jokes.

Suddenly, Fleischer’s eyes caught something across the room. He nodded, then nonchalantly put his napkin on the table and stood. “No drinking tonight,” he instructed the boys. “Report out front at 2:00 a.m. sharp.”

Wolf watched as Fleischer made his way across the room and shook hands with an Italian man in an elegant white tie and brown suit. A third man joined them. Dark suit, overcoat, holding a fedora. Wolf felt sure that he had seen him before. Paderborn? Paris? The Reich School, perhaps?

He excused himself to go to the lavatory. Lang followed him to the restroom outside the main dining area, locking the door behind them after entering. They found themselves in a luxurious restroom with marble floors and several toilets with floor-to-ceiling dividers. Lang raced along the stalls, ensuring that they were alone before approaching his old friend.

“What did Fleischer say to the boatman?” Lang demanded.

“Very little,” Wolf frowned, taken aback by Lang’s intensity.

“He must have said something.”

“Nothing important. He wanted directions to this place. And he wanted to know how close it was to the Basilica of San Marco. “

“San Marco?” Lang repeated.

“How should I know?” He turned his back on Lang, stepped inside one of the stalls, unzipped, and began urinating into an open hole in the floor.

“That has to be it,” Lang remarked. “San Marco is one of the most famous churches in Europe. It may be the only place in Venice that’s worthy of the ossuary.”

“Heinz,” he ventured. “What are you going to do?”

The bathroom door swung open. Wolf zipped, then backed up and peered over his right shoulder as an old man with a cane entered. His friend was already gone.

*

Wolf slid back his left coat sleeve and peered into the face of the black Doxa watch he had been issued at Wewelsburg Castle. It was 1:55 a.m. A stiff, cold breeze blew in from the canal, swinging the quartet of lanterns hung overhead. Even at this late hour, the hotel behind him was still lively. Guests returned in pairs from various taverns in the vicinity. Before him, several boats rocked like a row of restless horses.

Wolf was chilled to the core, and yet his face was damp with perspiration. The moisture in his shirt was nearly unbearable. He had worn it without relief for two days of travel, and his tunic only seemed to trap the perspiration inside. Had the fever he had felt after surgery in Paris returned? The old surgeon had said that a little bit was normal. The medic at Wewelsburg castle had changed the dressing and reported no signs of infection.

Maybe it was just nerves. His thoughts tumbled inside him now, gathering speed with each minute that passed without Lang’s presence. By 2:02 a.m., the other three young soldiers — Adler, Bauer and Kalb — had all reported for duty. Both Lang and Fleischer were notably absent. Tardiness was out of character for either man. It was practically unpatriotic.

Would Lang resort to violence? What if he had decided to kill Fleischer? Wolf wished he had never given Lang his blessing. If discovered, they would all be questioned. The execution of Matthias Ulrich at Wewelsburg Castle was eminently fresh in his mind. The trembling he had felt at the report of Nagel’s pistol still reverberated through his body. He still questioned whether Ulrich had done anything at all, or whether he had, as the least able of the new recruits, been selected as a sacrificial lamb to encourage obedience.

Two men emerged from the soupy haze. A third stumbled alongside them. As they drew closer, Wolf recognized the first as Fleischer. His face was locked into a grimace. The second man wore a long overcoat and fedora. He was one of the men who had met Fleischer in the hotel earlier tonight.

The third man walked with a limp. His nose, forehead and lips were so grotesquely swollen that Wolf did not recognize his friend until he was pulled close.

“Heil Hitler,” Fleischer said. “Let me introduce Kriminalinspektor Zimmer. We have been in constant communication since the failure in Paris. Thanks to the inspector, we seem to have caught our mole.”

The Gestapo inspector thrust Lang forward so that the four unit members could see his face. His hands were cuffed behind him. His left eye was swollen shut. He tilted his head upwards so that he might see out of his good one.

“Lang here was caught talking to one of the priests at San Marco,” Fleischer said. “He was informing the father of our plans to come for the ossuary.”

Fleischer found Wolf in the lineup and glared at him witheringly. “Am I correct in assuming that it was you who told Lang about our plans for San Marco?”

Shock coursed through Wolf’s body. Recently he had become increasingly convinced that he had an important part to play in life. If he was destined to be killed by Fleischer here in Venice, why had God revealed so much to him in the past two months?

He thought of his mother. It had only been six days since Christmas. He knew in his heart that his brother would not return home. Hans had either been killed or captured in Stalingrad. After tonight, Gertrude would be the family’s sole survivor.

“Wolf!” Fleischer demanded. “You will answer the question!”

“I was ignorant of any plans,” Wolf said truthfully. “I told him only that you had asked about the location of San Marco.”

Fleischer grinned and slapped Wolf on the shoulder. “Just as I had hoped.”

Wolf winced, stunned by the camaraderie of the gesture. Maybe he wasn’t going to die after all.

“I apologize for feeding you disinformation,” Fleischer continued. “I wanted to ensure that our suspicions about Lang were correct.”

“Shall I put him into the canal?” the inspector asked. He kneed Lang in the buttocks, sending him dangerously close to the dark water.

Fleischer lit a cigarette and considered his options. “No. You can’t kill him. Himmler will want him interrogated.”

Fleischer smiled, unfolded a map from his pocket and stepped under a lantern to survey it. After several seconds, he turned with a resolute face. “It’s time for us to get what we came for. Inspector, if you would be so kind as to bring the prisoner?”

And so they began traversing a series of darkened medieval walkways. Fleischer led Wolf, Bauer, Kalb and Adler came next. The inspector and Lang brought up the rear.