The SS corporal on duty stiffened at the mention of Heydrich’s name.
‘How can I help?’ he said eagerly.
‘I require to see the man’s file. His name is Otto Rahn.’
The corporal asked me to wait, and then went into the next room where he searched for the appropriate filing-cabinet.
‘Here you are,’ he said, returning after a few minutes with the file. ‘I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to examine it here. A file may be removed from this office only with the written approval of the Reichsführer himself.’
‘Naturally I knew that,’ I said coldly. ‘But I’m sure I’ll just need to take a quick look at it. This is only a formal security check.’ I stepped away and stood at a lectern on the far side of the office, where I opened the file to examine its contents. It made interesting reading.
SS Unterscharfiihrer Otto Rahn; born 18 February 1904 at Michelstadt in Odenwald; studied philology at the University of Heidelberg, graduating in 1928; joined SS, March 1936; promoted SS, Unterscharführer, April 1936; posted SS-Deaths Head Division ‘Oberbayern’ Dachau Concentration Camp, September 1937; seconded to Race and Resettlement Office, December 1938; public speaker and author of Crusade Against the Grail (1933) amd Lucifer’s Servants (1937).
There followed several pages of medical notes and character assessments, and these included an evaluation from one SS-Gruppenfuhrer Theodor Eicke which described Rahn as ‘diligent, although given to some eccentricities’. By my reckoning that could have covered just about anything, from murder to the length of his hair.
I returned Rahn’s file to the desk corporal and made my way out of the building. Otto Rahn.
The more I discovered about him, the less inclined I was to believe that he was merely working some elaborate confidence trick. Here was a man interested in something else besides money. A man for whom the word ‘fanatic’ did not seem to be inappropriate. Driving back to Steglitz, I passed Rahn’s house on Tiergartenstrasse, and I don’t thnk I would have been surprised to see the Scarlet Woman and the Great Beast of the Apocalypse come flying out the front door.
It was dark by the time we drove to Caspar-Theyss Strasse, which runs just south of Kurfurstendamm, on the edge of Grunewald. It was a quiet street of villas which stop only a little way short of being something more grand, and which are occupied largely by doctors and dentists. Number thirty-three, next to a small cottage-hospital, occupied the corner of Pauls-bornerstrasse, and was opposite a large florist where visitors to the hospital could buy their flowers.
There was a touch of the Gingerbread Man about the queer-looking house to which Rahn had invited us. The basement and ground-floor brickwork was painted brown, and on the first and second floors it was cream-coloured. A sep-tagonally shaped tower occupied the east side of the house, a timbered loggia surmounted by a balcony the centre portion, and on the west side, a moss-covered wooden gable overhung a couple of porthole windows.
‘I hope you brought a clove of garlic with you,’ I told Hildegard as I parked the car. I could see she didn’t much care for the look of the place, but she remained obstinately silent, still convinced that everything was on the level.
We walked up to a wrought-iron gate that had been fashioned with a variety of zodiacal symbols, and I wondered what the two S S men standing underneath one of the garden’s many spruce trees and smoking cigarettes made of it. This thought occupied me for only a second before I moved on to the more challenging question of what they and the several Party staff cars parked on the pavement were doing there.
Otto Rahn answered the door, greeting us with sympathetic warmth, and directed us into a cloakroom where he relieved us of our coats.
‘Before we go in,’ he said, ‘I should explain that there are a number of other people here for this seance. Herr Weisthor’s prowess as a clairvoyant has made him Germany’s most important sage. I think I mentioned that a number of leading Party members are sympathetic to Herr Weisthor’s work – inc-dentally, this is his home – and so apart from Herr Vogelmann and myself, one of the other guests here tonight will probably be familiar to you.’
Hildegard’s jaw dropped. ‘Not the Fuhrer,’ she said.
Rahn smiled. ‘No, not he. But someone very close to him. He has requested that he be treated just like anyone else in order to facilitate a favourable atmosphere for the evening’s contact. So I’m telling you now, in order that you won’t be too surprised, that it is the Reichsfuhrer-SS, Heinrich Himmler, to whom I am referring. No doubt you saw the security men outside and were wondering what was going on. The Reichsfuhrer is a great patron of our work and has attended many seances.’
Emerging from the cloakroom, we went through a door soundproofed in button-backed padded green leather, and into a large and simply furnished L-shaped room. Across the thick green carpet was a round table at one end, and a group of about ten people standing over a sofa and a couple of armchairs at the other. The walls, where they were visible between the light oak panelling, were painted white, and the green curtains were all drawn. There was something classically German about this room, which was the same thing as saying that it was about as warm and friendly as a Swiss Army knife.
Rahn found us some drinks and introduced Hildegard and me to the room. I spotted Vogelmann’s red head first of all, nodded to him and then searched for Himmler. Since there were no uniforms to be seen, he was rather difficult to spot in his dark, double-breasted suit. Taller than I had expected, and younger too – perhaps no more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight. When he spoke, he seemed a mild-mannered sort of man, and, apart from the enormous gold Rolex, my overall impression was of a man you would have taken for a headmaster rather than the head of the German secret police. And what was it about Swiss wristwatches that made them so attractive to men of power? But a wristwatch was not as attractive to this particular man of power as was Hildegard Steininger, it seemed, and the two of them were soon deep in conversation.
‘Herr Weisthor will come out presently,’ Rahn explained. ‘He usually needs a period of quiet meditation before approaching the spirit world. Let me introduce you to Reinhard Lange. He’s the proprietor of that magazine I left for your wife.’
‘Ah yes, Urania.’
So there he was, short and plump, with a dimple in one of his chins and a pugnaciously pendant lower lip, as if daring you to smack him or kiss him. His fair hair was well-receded, although somewhat babyish about the ears. He had hardly any eyebrows to speak of, and the eyes themselves were half-closed, slitty even. Both of these features made him seem weak and inconstant, in a Nero-like sort of way. Possibly he was neither of these two things, although the strong smell of cologne that surrounded him, his self-satisfied air, and his slightly theatrical way of speaking, did nothing to correct my first impression of him. My line of work has made me a rapid and fairly accurate judge of character, and five minutes’ conversation with Lange were enough to convince me that I had not been wrong about him. The man was a worthless little queer.
I excused myself and went to the lavatory I had seen beyond the cloakroom. I had already decided to return to Weisthor’s house after the seance and see if the other rooms were any more interesting than the one we were in. There didn’t appear to be a dog about the place, so it seemed that all I had to do was prepare my entry. I bolted the door behind me and set about releasing the window-catch. It was stiff and I had just managed to get it open when there was a knock at the door. It was Rahn.
‘Herr Steininger? Are you in there?’
‘I won’t be a moment.’
‘We’ll be starting in a moment or two.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, and, leaving the window a couple of centimetres open, I flushed the toilet and went back to rejoin the rest of the guests.
Another man had come into the room, and I realized that this must be Weisthor. Aged about sixty-five, he wore a three-piece suit of light-brown flannel and carried an ornate, ivory-handled stick with strange carvings on its shaft, som
e of which matched his ring. Physically he resembled an older version of Himmler, with his small smudge of a moustache, hamster-like cheeks, dyspeptic mouth and receding chin; but he was stouter, and whereas the Reichsführer reminded you of a myopic rat, Weisthor had more of the beaver about his features, an effect that was accentuated by the gap between his two front teeth.
‘You must be Herr Steininger,’ he said, pumping my hand. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am Karl Maria Weisthor, and I am delighted to have already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely wife.’ He spoke very formally, and with a Viennese accent. ‘In that at least you are a very fortunate man. Let us hope that I may be of service to you both before the evening has ended. Otto has told me of your missing daughter Emmeline, and of how the police and our good friend Rolf Vogelmann have been unable to find her. As I said to your wife, I am sure that the spirits of our ancient German ancestors will not desert us, and that they will tell us what has become of her, as they have told us of other things before.’
He turned and waved at the table. ‘Shall we be seated?’ he said. ‘Herr Steininger, you and your wife will sit on either side of me. Everyone will join hands, Herr Steininger. This will increase our conscious power. Try not to let go, no matter what you might see or hear, as it can cause the link to be broken. Do you both understand?’
We nodded and took our seats. When the rest of the company had sat down, I noticed that Himmler had contrived to be sitting next to Hildegard, to whom he was paying close attention. It struck me that I would tell it differently, and that it would amuse Heydrich and Nebe if I told them I spent the evening holding hands with Heinrich Himmler. Thinking about it then I almost laughed, and to cover my half-smile I turned away from Weisthor and found myself looking at a tall, urbane, Siegfried-type wearing evening dress, with the kind of warm, sensitive manner that comes only of bathing in dragon’s blood.
‘My name is Kindermann,’ he said sternly. ‘Dr Lanz Kindermann, at your service, Herr Steininger.’ He glanced down at my hand as if it had been a dirty dishcloth.
‘Not the famous psychotherapist?’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I doubt that you could call me famous,’ he said, but with some satisfaction all the same. ‘Nevertheless, I thank you for the compliment.’
‘And are you Austrian?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘I like to know something about the men whose hands I hold,’ I offered, and grasped his own firmly.
‘In a moment,’ said Weisthor, ‘I shall ask our friend Otto to turn off the electric light. But first of all, I should like us all to close our eyes and to breathe deeply. The purpose of this is to relax. Only if we are relaxed will spirits feel comfortable enough to contact us and offer us the benefit of what they are able to see.
‘It may help you to think of something peaceful, such as a flower or a formation of clouds.’ He paused, so that the only sounds which could be heard were the deep breathing of the people around the table and the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. I heard Vogelmann clear his throat, which prompted Weisthor to speak again.
‘Try and flow into the person next to you so that we may feel the power of the circle. When Otto turns off the light I shall go into trance and permit my body to be taken under the control of spirit. Spirit will control my speech, my every bodily function, so that I shall be in a vulnerable position. Make no sudden noise or interruption. Speak gently if you wish to communicate with spirit, or allow Otto to speak for you.’ He paused again. ‘Otto? The lights, please.’
I heard Rahn stand up as if rousing himself from a deep sleep and creep across the carpet.
‘From now on Weisthor will not speak unless he is under spirit,’ he said. ‘It will be my voice you hear speak to him in trance.’ He turned off the light, and after a few seconds I heard him return to the circle.
I stared hard into the darkness at where Weisthor was sitting, but try as I might, I could see nothing but the strange shapes which play on the back of the retina when it is deprived of light. Whatever Weisthor said about flowers or clouds, I found it helped me to think of the Mauser automatic at my shoulder, and the nice formation of 9mm ammunition in the grip.
The first change that I was aware of was that of his breathing, which became progressively slower and deeper. After a while it was almost undetectable and, but for his grip, which had slackened considerably, I might have said he had disappeared.
Finally he spoke, but it was in a voice that made my flesh creep and my hair prickle.
‘I have a wise king here from long, long ago,’ he said, his grip tightening suddenly. ‘From a time when three suns shone in the northern sky.‘ He uttered a long, sepulchral sigh.’ He suffered a terrible defeat in battle at the hands of Charlemagne and his Christian army.’
‘Were you Saxon?’ Rahn asked quietly.
‘Aye, Saxon. The Franks called them pagans, and put them to death for it. Agonizing deaths, that were full of blood and pain.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘It’s difficult to say this. He says that blood must be paid for. He says that German paganism is grown strong again, and must be revenged on the Franks and their religion, in the name of the old gods.’ Then he grunted almost as if he had been struck and went quiet again.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Rahn murmured. ‘Spirit can leave quite violently sometimes.’
After several minutes, Weisthor spoke again.
‘Who are you?’ he asked softly. ‘A girl? Will you tell us your name, child? No? Come now–’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Rahn. ‘Please come forward to us.’
‘Her name is Emmeline,’ said Weisthor.
I heard Hildegard gasp.
‘Is your name Emmeline Steininger?’ Rahn asked. ‘If so, then your mother and father are here to speak to you, child.’
‘She says that she is not a child,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘And that one of these two people is not her real parent at all.’
I stiffened. Could it be genuine after all? Did Weisthor really have mediumistic powers?
‘I’m her stepmother,’ said Hildegard tremulously, and I wondered if she had recognized that Weisthor should have said that neither of us was Emmeline’s real parent.
‘She says that she misses her dancing. But especially she misses you both.’
‘We miss you too, darling.’
‘Where are you, Emmeline?’ I asked. There was a long silence, and so I repeated the question.
‘They killed her,’ said Weisthor falteringly. ‘And hid her somewhere.’
‘Emmeline, you must try and help us,’ said Rahn. ‘Can you tell us anything about where they put you?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell them. She says that outside the window, there’s a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a pretty waterfall. What’s that? A cross, or maybe something else that’s high, like a tower is on top of the hill.’
‘The Kreuzberg?’ I said.
‘Is it the Kreuzberg?’ Rahn asked.
‘She doesn’t know the name,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘Where’s that? Oh how terrible. She says she’s in a box. I’m sorry, Emmeline, but I don’t think I can have heard you properly. Not in a box? A barrel? Yes, a barrel. A rotten smelly old barrel in an old cellar full of rotten old barrels.’
‘Sounds like a brewery,’ said Kindermann.
‘Could you be referring to the Schultheiss Brewery?’ said Rahn.
‘She thinks that it must be, although it doesn’t seem like a place where lots of people go. Some of the barrels are old and have holes in them. She can see out of one of them. No, my dear, it wouldn’t be very good for holding beer, I quite agree.’
Hildegard whispered something that I failed to hear.
‘Courage, dear lady,’ Rahn said. ‘Courage.’ Then more loudly: ‘Who was it that killed you, Emmeline? And can you tell us why?’
Weisthor groaned deeply. ‘She doesn’t know their names, but she thinks that it was for the Blood Mystery. How did you find out about that, Emmeline? That’s one of the many tho
usands of things you learn about when you die, I see. They killed her like they kill their animals, and then her blood was mixed with the wine and the bread. She thinks that it must have been for religious rites, but not the sort she had ever seen before.’
‘Emmeline,’ said a voice which I thought must be Himmler’s. ‘Was it the Jews who murdered you? Was it Jews who used your blood?’
Another long silence.
‘She doesn’t know,’ said Weisthor. ‘They didn’t say who or what they were. They didn’t look like any of the pictures she’s seen of Jews. What’s that, my dear? She says that it might have been but she doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble, no matter what they did to her. She says that if it was the Jews then they were just bad Jews, and that not all Jews would have approved of such a thing. She doesn’t want to say any more about that. She just wants someone to go and get her out of that dirty barrel. Yes, I’m sure someone will organize it, Emmeline. Don’t worry.’
‘Tell her that I shall personally see to it that it happens tonight,’ said Himmler. ‘The child has my own word on that.’
‘What’s that you said? All right. Emmeline says to thank you for trying to help her. And she says to tell mother and father that she loves them very much indeed, but not to worry about her now. Nothing can bring her back. You should both get on with your lives and put what has happened behind you. Try and be happy. Emmeline has to go now.’
‘Goodbye, Emmeline,’ sobbed Hildegard.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
Once again there was silence, but for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I was glad of the darkness because it hid my face, which must have shown my anger, and afforded me an opportunity to breathe my way back to a semblance of quiet sadness and resignation. If it hadn’t been for the two or three minutes that elapsed from the end of Weisthor’s performance and the raising of the lights, I think that I would have shot them all where they sat: Weisthor, Rahn, Vogelmann, Lange — shit, I’d have murdered the whole dirty lot of them just for the sheer satisfaction of it. I’d have made them take the barrel in their mouths and blown the backs of their heads on to each other’s faces. An extra nostril for Himmler. A third eye-socket for Kindermann.