Part 39 (1/2)

Here I was, surrounded by mystery-angry, bewildered, unsettled. And yet the first thing that escaped my lips was: ”Helmuth, what's happened to you?” He guessed my meaning.

”This is real blonde hair,” he said proudly. ”And the eye color is real as well. I regret that I am not of the true genotype, any more than you are. I was given a hormone treatment to change the color of my hair. A special radiation treatment took care of the eyes.”

As he was saying this, he was helping me to my feet, as I was still groggy. ”Why?” I asked him. He would say no more about it.

The sun hurt my eyes as we exited down the ramp from the plane. Two tall, young men-also blonde-haired and blue-eyed-joined my son and helped to usher me inside the castle. They were dressed in Bavarian hunting gear, with large knives strapped on at their waists. Their clothes had the smell of freshest leather.

We had entered from the courtyard of the inner bailey. The hall we traversed was covered in plush red carpets and was illuminated by torches burning in the walls; this cast a weird lighting effect over the numerous suits of armor standing there. I could not help but think of the medieval castles Speer drew for his children every Christmas.

It was a long trek before we reached a stone staircase that we immediately began to ascend. I was not completely recovered from the effects of the gas and wished that we could pause. My clubfoot was giving me considerable difficulty. I did not want to show any weakness to these men, and I knew that my st.u.r.dy son was right behind me. I took those steps without slowing down the pace.

We finally came out on a floor that was awash in light from fluorescent tubes. A closed-circuit television console dominated the center of the room, with pictures of all the other floors of the castle, from the keep to the highest tower. There was also a portrait of Meister Eckhart.

”Wait here,” Helmuth announced, and before I could make any protestations he and the other two had gone the way we had come, with the door locked behind them. I considered the large window on the right side of the room with a comfortable couch beside it. I gratefully sat there and surveyed my position from the new vantage point. Below me was another courtyard. In one corner was what could be nothing else but an unused funeral pyre. Its height was staggering. There was no body upon it. Along the wall that ran from the pyre to the other end of the compound were letters inscribed of a size easy to read even from such distance. It was a familiar quotation: ANY DESCRIPTION OF ORGANIZATION, MISSION, AND STRUCTURE OF THE SS CANNOT BE UNDERSTOOD UNLESS ONE TRIES TO CONCEIVE IT INWARDLY WITH ONE'S BLOOD AND HEART. IT CANNOT BE EXPLAINED WHY WE CONTAIN SO MUCH STRENGTH THOUGH WE NUMBER SO FEW. Underneath the quote in equally large letters was the name of its author: HEINRICH HIMMLER.

”A statement that you know well,” came a low voice behind me and I turned to face Kurt Kaufmann, the most important man in Burgundy. I had met him a few times socially in New Berlin.

Smiling in as engaging a manner as I could (under the circ.u.mstances), I said, ”Kurt,” stressing that I was not addressing him formally, ”I have no idea why you have seemingly kidnapped me, but there will be h.e.l.l to pay!”

He bowed. ”What you fail to appreciate, Dr. Goebbels, is that I will receive that payment.”

I studied his face-the bushy blonde hair and beard, and of course the bright blue eyes. The monocle he wore over one of them seemed quite superfluous. I knew that he had 20/20 vision.

”I have no idea what you are talking about.”

”You lack ideas, it is true,” he answered. ”Of facts you do not lack. We knew your daughter contacted you...”

Even at the time this dialogue struck me as remarkably melodramatic. Nevertheless it was happening to me. At the mention of my daughter I failed to mask my feelings. Kaufmann had to notice the expression of consternation on my face. The whole affair was turning into a hideous game that I feared I was losing.

I stood. ”My daughter's a.s.sociations with a subversive political group are well known.” There was no reason to mince words with him. ”I was attempting to dissuade her from a suicidal course. Why would you be spying on that?”

The ploy failed miserably. ”We bugged the room,” he said softly.

”You dare to spy on me ? Have you any idea of the danger?”

”Yes,” he said. ”You don't.”

I made to comment but he raised a hand to silence me. ”Do not continue. Soon you will have more answers than you desire. Now I suggest you follow me.”

The room had many doors. We left through one at the opposite end from my original point of entry. I was walking down yet another hall. This one, however, was lit by electricity, and at the end of it we entered an elevator. The contrast between modern technology and Burgundian simplicity was becoming more jarring all the time. Like most Germans who had visited the country, I only knew it firsthand as a tourist. The reports I had once received on their training operations were not as detailed as I would have liked but certainly gave no hint of dire conspiracy against the Fatherland. The thought was too fantastic to credit. Even now I hoped for a denouement more in keeping with the known facts. Could the entire thing be an elaborate practical joke? Who would run the risk of such a folly?

The elevator doors opened and we were looking out onto the battlements of the castle. I followed Kaufmann onto the walk, and noticed that the view was utterly magnificent. To the left I saw the imported Russian serfs working in the fields; to the right I saw young Burgundians doing calisthenics in the warm morning air. I was used to observing many blonde heads in the SS. Yet here there was nothing but that suddenly predictable h.o.m.ogeneity.

We looked down at the young bodies. Beyond them other young men were dressed in chain-mail s.h.i.+rts and helmets. They were having at one another with the most intensive swordplay I had ever witnessed.

”Isn't that a bit dangerous?” I asked Kaufmann, gesturing at the fencing.

”What do you mean?” he said, as one of the men ran his sword through the chest of another. The blood spurted out in a fountain as the body slumped to the ground. I was aghast, and Kaufmann's voice seemed to be far away as I dimly heard it say: ”Did you notice how the loser did not scream? That is what I call discipline.” It occurred to me that the man might have simply died too quickly to express his opinion.

Kaufmann seemed wryly amused by my wan expression. ”Dr. Goebbels, do you remember the Kirchenkampf ?”

I recovered my composure. ”The campaign against the churches? What about it?”

”Martin Bormann was disappointed in its failure,” he said.

”No more than I. The war years allowed little time for less important matters. You know that the economic policies we established after the war helped to undermine the strength of the churches. They have never been weaker. European cinema constantly makes fun of them.”

”They still exist,” said Kaufmann evenly. ”The G.o.ds of the Germanic tribes are not fools-their indignation is as great as ever.” I stared at this man with amazement as he continued to preach: ”The G.o.ds remember how Roman missionaries built early Christian churches on the sacred sites, believing that the common people would still climb the same hills they always had to wors.h.i.+p... only now they would pay homage to a false G.o.d!”

”The ma.s.ses are not easily cured of the addiction,” I pointed out.

”You compare religion to a drug?”

”It was one of the few wise statements of Marx,” I said, with a deliberate edge in my voice. Kaufmann's face quickly darkened into a scowl. ”Not all religions are the same,” I concluded in an ameliorative tone. I had no desire to argue with him about the two faiths of Burgundy, the remnants of Rosenberg's Gnostics, and the majority of Himmler's Pagans.

”You say that, but it is only words. Let me tell you a story about yourself, Herr Goebbels.” I did not consider the sudden formality a good sign, not the way he said it. He continued: ”You always prided yourself on being the true radical of the n.a.z.i Party. You hammered that home whenever you could. n.o.body hated the bourgeoisie more than Goebbels. n.o.body was more ardent about burning books than Goebbels. As Reichspropagandaminister you brilliantly staged the demonstrations against the Jews.”

Now the man was making sense. I volunteered another item to his admirable list: ”I overheard some young men humming the Horst Wes-sel song down there during calisthenics.” Manufacturing a martyr to give the party its anthem was still one of my favorites. My influence was still on the Germanic world, including Burgundy.

Kaufmann had been surveying rows of men doing pushups... as well as the removal of the corpse from the tourney field. Now his stone face turned in my direction, breaking into an unpleasant smile. I preferred his frown. ”You misunderstand the direction of my comments, Herr Doktor. I will clarify it. I was told a story about you once. I was only a simple soldier at the time but the story made an indelible impression. You were at a party, showing off for your friends by making four brief political speeches; the first presented the case for the restoration of the monarchy; the second sung the praises of the Weimar Republic; the third proved how communism could be successfully adopted by the German Reich; the fourth was in favor of National Socialism, at last. How relieved they were. How tempted they had been to agree with each of the other three speeches.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. How could this dull oaf be in charge of anything but a petty bureaucratic department? Had he no sense of humor, no irony? ”I was demonstrating the power of propaganda,” I told him.

”In what do you believe?” he asked.

”This is preposterous,” I nearly shouted. ”Are you impugning-”

”It is not necessary to answer,” he said consolingly. ”I'm aware that you have only believed in one thing in your life: a man, not an idea. With Hitler dead, what is left for you to believe?”

”This is insane,” I replied, not liking the shrill sound of my own voice in my ears. ”When I was made Reich Director for Total War, I demonstrated my genius for understanding and operating the mechanisms of a dictators.h.i.+p. I was crucial to the war effort then.”

He completely ignored my point and continued on his solitary course: ”Hitler was more than a man. He was a living part of an idea. He did not always recognize his own importance. He was chosen by the Vril Society, the sacred order of the Luminous Lodge, the purest, finest product of the believers in the Thule. Adolf Hitler was the medium. The Society used him accordingly. He was the focal point. Behind him were powerful magicians. The great work has only begun. Soon it will be time for the second step. Only the true man deserves Lebensraum .”

Kaufmann was working himself up, I could see that. He stood close to me and said, ”You are a political animal, Goebbels. You believe that politics is an end in itself. The truth is that governments are nothing in the face of destiny. We are near the cleansing of the world. You should be proud. Your own son will play an important part. The finest jest is that modern scientific method will also have a role.”

He turned to go. I had no recourse but to follow him. There was nowhere else to go but straight down to sudden death.

We reentered the elevator. ”Have I been brought here to witness an honor bestowed on my son?” I asked.

”In part. You will also have a role. You saw the telegram!”

That was enough. There could no longer be any doubt. I was trapped amidst madmen. Having made up my mind what to do, I feigned an attack of pain in my clubfoot and crouched at the same time. When Kaufmann made to offer aid, I struck wildly, almost blindly. I tried to knee him in the groin but-failing that-brought my fist down on the back of his neck. The fool went out like a light, falling hard on his face. I congratulated myself on such prowess for an old man.

No sooner had the body slumped to the floor than the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened automatically. I jumped out into the hall. Standing there was a naked seven-foot giant who reached down and lifted me into the air. He was laughing. His voice sounded like a tuba.

”They call me Thor,” he said. I struggled. He held.

Then I heard the voice of my son: ”That, Father, is what we call a true Aryan.”