He went to his desk and cleared it of pressing matters, sorted through his papers and left early to make arrangements. And if he felt at all uneasy he ignored it, like one ignores a small cloud that mars an otherwise perfect sky. After all, no man who knows history would care to look a gift horse in the mouth. Well, at least not until he was very far away from it.
4
Dog and Wolf
‘They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their fears . . .’ Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
The journey to Wewelsburg was particularly bleak. Low, grey clouds coloured the world in their image: grey buildings gave way to grey fields, grey farmhouses and grey villages, where grey people waited at grey stations. He watched the scenery pass, feeling sick, melancholic and anxious. His previous elation had succumbed to the reality that he had to get over one more hurdle: Himmler.
On the train he tried to work on an idea for a new book but his thoughts were scattered. What if Himmler didn’t like his genealogy and decided to send him back to the drawing board? What if Himmler were to guess his intentions? He had to get a hold of himself! He couldn’t present himself to Himmler looking desperate. Bad enough he didn’t look an example of the robust healthy Aryan, what with his red nose, pale complexion and sunken eyes. He went to the lavatory and washed his face and pinched his cheeks and told himself, Calm down.
When the train arrived at the ragged little station of Paderborn, a car was waiting to take him to the rural village of Wewelsburg. It rained heavily most of the way but as the fortress appeared, a crack in the clouds allowed the dying rays of the sun to illuminate the building’s west face. It lent the citadel an otherworldly gleam that made Rahn nervous, for it recalled to his mind not the castle of the Grail, but the castle of the sorcerer Klingsor, Chasteil Marveil, which on the outside appeared to be the most resplendent castle while inside it was full of traps. He was so taken by this thought that he was half expecting a number of virgins to greet him, those whom the neutered Klingsor had kept imprisoned for the pleasure of it. Instead he was met by silent Waffen SS guards with humourless faces, who opened the door to the car. They escorted him over the sodden threshold, into a cheerless courtyard still under construction. Another two guards then led him directly ahead to the north tower and some moments later, he was standing at the threshold of a great circular hall.
He waited for his eyes to adjust. At the centre of the hall stood a round table festively laid with white linen embossed with sig runes and adorned with lit candles, silverware and crystal glasses. Around it sat a large number of SS officers and Himmler himself, talking and laughing, while in the background pleasant music played, Bach perhaps.
All activity paused on his arrival and Rahn waited, uncertain as to whether he should enter.
‘Come in, join us!’ Himmler said, quite like a jolly Arthur surrounded by his knights.
Rahn’s breathing paused. What now – couldn’t he just drop off Himmler’s genealogy and be on his way?
A servant appeared from some hidden corner and showed him to a seat. In a moment there was wine in his glass and a crisp white napkin in his lap. He was trapped! There came now a brief introduction, expounding the merits of his books and his talents as a writer and Grail historian.
Himmler said then, ‘Before you came, we were talking about the salamander. Perhaps you can tell us something about it that we don’t already know?’
All eyes turned to Rahn and he felt his heart pound in his ears. Not only did he feel a sneeze coming on, but the inner activity required to prevent it caused his fever to spike, leading to a cold sweat, which he could feel trickling over his temples. He gathered to him his wits and smiled faintly.
‘The salamander is a mythical creature,’ he began. ‘It dies and yields its blood, and from its blood it wins immortal life . . . death has no power over it—’
‘Correct! Did you hear that, gentlemen? Death has no power over immortal life!’ Himmler said, expansively. ‘And the Grail also keeps death at bay, isn’t that so? So tell us, what is the Grail?’
Rahn looked around the circle at the matching vacant smiles and he guessed there must be thirty or so SS officers gathered here. ‘The Grail is the vessel that holds the life-giving blood of Jesus Christ, the god who overcame death through sacrifice.’
‘You see! The Grail holds the immortal Aryan blood of Jesus, because Jesus was not a Jew, was he? Is there support for this idea that Jesus was Aryan?’
Rahn’s mouth was drier than a stick and he sipped at the good Bavarian wine, but it only made him more parched. ‘Well . . . it is a contentious issue,’ he said. ‘There are two genealogies: one in Matthew and the other in Luke. The Matthew lineage suggests a dark Jew child; the Luke lineage suggests a fair Galilean Jew child of mixed heritage.’