William Tyree - The Fellowship

Sweat poured down his face. The palms of his hands itched. His eyes burned. Then something flickered underneath one of the black archways on the far side of the plaza. Zimmer tensed, having seen it as well. They all stopped breathing.

A sheet of white erupted from the far side of the plaza. The sound of rushing air was all around them. Someone screamed. A barrage of automatic gunfire broke out and sustained for several seconds. Zimmer retreated deeper into the shadows, dropping to a knee. Wolf steered his handcuffed friend behind a wooden beam as bullets ricocheted all over the plaza.

And suddenly there was laughter, every bit as alarming as the outbreak of white had been. Wolf recognized Fleischer’s deep bellow. He looked up and saw what the anthropologist had found so hilarious. A pair of wounded birds fluttered on the bricks before them. Then there were three. And then a half-dozen. White feathers fell around them like snow.

“Pigeons!” the inspector spat.

Fleischer stood, holding the MP-40 at his side, and ventured out into the blizzard of white. “Adler?” he called out in a jovial, elevated whisper. “You got 10 of them at least. Too bad they don’t give medals for pigeon hunting.”

He stood for several moments, listening intently as wounded birds fluttered crazily around the square, as if drunk. Pieces of those that escaped continued to float around him until he was barely visible.

Wolf was the first to hear the approaching footsteps on the brickwork. Far too light for someone in jackboots.

A sickening crunch cut through the white noise. Wolf did not see what heavy object struck Fleischer, but he heard the man’s blood spatter on the ground near him. Zimmer aimed his Luger and fired several shots where Fleischer had last stood. A swarm of shadows emerged from the archways on the far side of the plaza.

“Into the church,” the Gestapo agent commanded with genuine fear in his voice. Wolf obeyed before he could think, pulling Lang with him toward the center of the portico, groping blindly for the oversized arched doorway. His right hand found the latch on the right-most door, and to his relief, it opened.

The three survivors found themselves inside a modest house of worship. Rows of lit prayer candles provided the only source of light. Several marble Greek-style columns flanked a handful of wooden pews. Rambling assortments of crucifixes were mounted on the walls. Bronze, silver, copper, wood. Wolf had never seen so many in one place.

Zimmer sealed the doors behind them, quickly locating the barricade plank and heaving it across a pair of enormous steel brackets. He turned, walking past the boys, reloading his Luger with a fresh clip. His eyes searched the far end of the sanctuary. “It’s here,” he said. “Hidden beneath the altar, probably. Tear the place apart.”

Zimmer would not be content, it seemed, to escape with his life. He would deliver Himmler’s prize at all costs.

The door groaned behind them as some outside force pushed against the barricade. Zimmer spun, firing two shots through the double doors. Lang, having narrowly missed being shot, lost his balance, falling backwards against the wall.

Wolf’s chance was now. He unsheathed the dagger from his belt. The one that Nagel had awarded him upon his sudden graduation from the Reich School. The blade shimmered in the candlelight, as did the inscription.

The glint of steel flickered in the Gestapo agent’s peripheral vision. Zimmer swayed left as Wolf lunged forward — fast, but not quite fast enough. A rush of warmth on his hand and wrists confirmed that the blade had found its mark. The inspector stumbled backwards.

Wolf turned and straightened himself, looking Zimmer in the eye. A flicker of hatred flashed in the Nazi’s eyes. Zimmer exhaled unnaturally. His chin dropped, and Wolf watched as his chest ventilated for the last time.

The inspector dropped to the floor. A hooded figure stood behind his corpse, cradling a machine gun. A simple wooden cross hung from his neck. Others emerged from the sanctuary shadows.

Wolf had no fear. His core was filled with indescribable warmth. He unstrapped his helmet and let it fall to the floor. His mind was suddenly filled with light. He staggered, blinded, groping for a wooden pew with which to stabilize himself. His ears filled with a chorus of excited voices, although they sounded as if they were far away.

In the next moment he was somehow outside himself. He saw the top of his own head, white-blonde hair drenched with sweat. Arms outstretched at his sides, palms facing the altar, as if warming himself by some unseen fire. He went higher, hovering near the ceiling. He floated over the church’s center aisle. He watched as the witnesses laid down their weapons and, one by one, removed their hoods in wonder.

And now he could see his own face. Streaks of red flowed from his eyes. Coin-sized wounds opened in the center of his palms. And he heard their cries. “ Stimmate !” they cried out. “Stigmata!”

Vatican City

January 4, 1943

Sebastian Wolf woke in a room filled with canary-hued sunlight. The palms of his hands stung. A balding man stood over him, pressing a cool cloth against his forehead. He wore expensive-looking wire-frame glasses and a stethoscope around his neck.

“Good morning,” he said in English. “Can you understand me?”

Wolf lifted his head. He was on a hospital bed, dressed in a white linen gown. The smell of the man’s cologne made him woozy. He rested his head back on the pillow, noting the fine tailoring on the man’s gray double-breasted suit.

Wolf cleared his throat and found his voice. “Where am I?” he asked, staying in English.

“Vatican City. I am Dr. Enzo Marchesi.”

Vatican City? That was several hours southwest of Venice. The last thing Wolf remembered, he had been floating above himself in San Giacometto, the old market church.

A nurse appeared at his side, holding something that looked like a crop duster. She poked the tip under his gown and began pumping white powder that immediately went airborne, covering Wolf’s torso, neck and face with white flakes.

“She spray you with DDT,” the doctor explained as the woman blasted Wolf’s scalp. “It’s a…a chimica .”

Wolf knew what it was. Farmers used it for pest control. He could only guess that this was some sort of routine delousing procedure for new hospital patients.

He drew his arms over his eyes, shielding himself with the white linen fabric until the powder had settled and the nurse had gone. As he uncrossed his arms, he took note of his hands. Scabs were forming in the center of his palms.

He remembered the hooded men in the old church. The Black Order? They had pointed at him and shouted, stigmata . It was like a dream.

He looked up at Dr. Enzo Marchesi. “Am I sick?”

The doctor shrugged. “Difficult to say. Every year I must travel to see people like you. The Holy See wants to know the reason for the bleeding. Sometimes they have skin disease. Sometimes they are fakers. So far, only one that I could not explain.”

“Who was that?”

“Padre Pio. You have heard of him?”

Wolf shook his head wearily.

“Very famous priest. For 27 years Padre Pio has had the bleeding in his hands and eyes. And yet, I cannot find anything wrong with him. So they think it is a real stigmata. He is like a living saint. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

The doctor bent low, holding his stethoscope to Wolf’s chest for several moments before rising up again. He turned, retrieving something from a nearby table.

“And then there is you,” the doctor went on. “The bleeding comes in a very humble but very old church. In front of many credible witnesses. They drop guns, fall to their knees and pray. They spare your life. And the most horrible thing? You are a Nazi.”