Nagel turned and spoke to the other boys. “The identification of blood types was innovated through the ingenuity of the German people,” he said. “But SS officers alone have the privilege of wearing the blood type tattoo. In the event that you need a transfusion and are unconscious, this mark may save your life.”
The physician was not gentle, but he was at least efficient. In less than a minute, a seven-millimeter ‘O’ was tattooed on the underside of Wolf’s arm. Wolf allowed himself a tight smile as the physician wiped the blood away. He had no sooner let his guard down than the assisting physician gripped his right arm and pressed it back against his right ear.
The primary moved in with the needle and began the procedure again, boring into the soft, sensitive skin. Now Wolf was delirious with pain. He closed his eyes and tried to think of his mother. But he could not. He saw only his dead father, cold and sullen in the coffin.
At last the high-pitched grind ceased. Sensing a shadow over him, Wolf opened his eyes and found Nagel holding a small pocket mirror, angling it so that Wolf might see the new markings. He focused on the tiny smudge of newly inked skin. Not another “O.” This was Tyr, the spear-shaped rune.
Nagel gave no explanation for this, and none was needed. Lessons about the meaning of ancient Nordic myths dominated Reich School literature classes. Tyr, the Nordic god of war. Tyr, the symbol that German runologists associated with energy and magic, connecting the heavens and earth with man. Tyr, the rune Himmler ordered carved into the steel of daggers, swords and even infantry rifles.
But to carve Tyr into one’s flesh was overtly mystical. It was said to have been done by ancient Nordic warriors so that if a Valkyrie decided that they must die in battle, they might be recognized as a true warrior and brought to Valhalla, the magnificent hall of dead warriors ruled by the Norse god Odin.
The commandant helped Wolf to his feet, where he stood shirtless and bleeding from both arms. Nagel held a golden chalice before him, on which an eagle with eyes of garnet clutched a swastika-emblazoned world.
The newly marked recruit took the chalice in both hands. It was heavy, containing several semi-coagulated ounces of reddish-purple fluid. He did not know whether the blood in the chalice was human or animal. His stomach soured at both prospects, but it did not matter much. He would have to drink or die.
“Now you will share in the eternal bond of the Ahnenerbe,” Nagel said.
Wolf brought the cup to his lips. As the metallic-tasting slime passed his teeth, tongue and throat, he tried to imagine that it was his mother’s sausage gravy.
Central Train Station
Frankfurt
The night train bound for Paris smelled of pipe smoke and boot polish. Wolf and Lang followed an elderly conductor through a coach car, occupied largely by Wehrmacht soldiers, en route to a separate car that consisted entirely of private cabins.
Other than the MP-40 submachine guns and their packs, they had no baggage. The conductor opened a door for them, and the boys they stepped into what was easily the most spacious and elegant mode of travel they had ever seen. The private cabin was nearly as large as Wolf’s bedroom in Munich. Opposing brown leather couches were accented with golden stitching. A small bar stocked with liquor and highball glasses was built into shelving just beneath the window.
The silver-haired conductor entered the room, shut the door behind him and pulled an overhead handle, revealing a fold-out bed. “Silk linens,” he said smiling. “Imported from Istanbul.”
“We won’t be sleeping,” Wolf assured him. “We’re expecting a third.”
In their first official assignment, they were to board this train, where they would meet Dr. Rudolph Seiler and accompany him on a mission to Paris. Dr. Seiler’s security was their sole concern. They had been given no other details.
Seiler was a noted authority on Rome, ancient Nordic society and the Middle East. Wolf had, in fact, seen his work referenced in the official Ahnenerbe journal, Germanien. His new book, The Mastery of Runes, had quickly become a staple of the Reich School curriculum.
Wolf caught his reflection in a full-length mirror behind the door. It was the first time he had seen himself in uniform, as they had only been issued and tailored a few hours earlier. Brown shirt with black leather buttons, tied with a black tie. Black pants. Shiny black jackboots. Black tunic with the red, white and black swastika armband on the left sleeve. The Ahnenerbe Tree of Life stickpin in his lapel.
On his collar, sig runes on one side and a silver button pip on the other indicating his rank: unterscharfuhrer, or junior squad leader. Several ranks more than he had deserved, to be sure. It seemed that graduates of the Reich School never started at the bottom, even when they had been recruited two years ahead of schedule.
The conductor opened a storage compartment and lifted Wolf’s pack. He raised it to waist-level and then fell back against the door, apparently dizzy.
Wolf relieved him of the heavy pack as Lang guided him to one of the leather seats.
“My dear boy,” the conductor said as he caught his breath. “I apologize.”
“You shouldn’t be lifting baggage at your age,” Lang scolded.
“I retired in 1934, and not a moment too soon. Can you imagine my surprise when a minister from the Reichsbahn called me? Said they were desperate for labor. Obviously the tourist trains are no longer running, but it seems there are substantial military needs. He said they were running 40 times the number of routes that they had during peacetime. Forty times! Can you imagine?”
“Astonishing,” Lang answered without enthusiasm.
“It seems the train crews have been decimated by Wehrmacht conscription, and also by saboteurs. You must have heard.” He paused, waiting for further comment from the soldiers. When none came, the conductor seemed to backpedal, saying, “Not that I mind the risks, you understand. The Fatherland needs every man, woman and child right now. I am happy to serve.”
With this, he stood, saluted and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Both boys laughed. After six of the most intense weeks of their lives, they could hardly believe their luck. Lang picked up a crystal decanter with a stag head on top. It was full of amber liquor. “Should we live a little?”
A knock at the door interrupted the celebration. With his submachine gun still slung over his left shoulder, Wolf opened the door.
He recognized Dr. Seiler from an official Ahnenerbe photograph that Nagel had given him. The professor’s small blue eyes searched Wolf from behind wire-rim spectacles. Although he was a civilian, he nevertheless wore a red, white and black swastika band around the left arm of his black overcoat. Lang took his luggage — a small leather overnight bag — and showed him into the private compartment where they would spend the next five hours together.
Seiler was irritated, demanding to know why they had not left for Paris from Cologne. He explained in excited, verbose sentences that he taught at the University of Halle, in Mittenburg, and that Frankfurt was several hours out of the way, costing him a full day of extra travel.
“We are sorry for the inconvenience,” Wolf said. “Cologne has suffered heavy air raids since May. I’m sure the obergruppenfuhrer had only your safety in mind.”
Wolf was merely speculating. He and Lang had in fact assumed that Frankfurt had been chosen to accommodate Dr. Seiler. Nevertheless, his explanation seemed to satisfy the professor, who removed his heavy coat and sat down just as the train began churning away from the platform.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the opposite couch. He removed a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his brown blazer and offered the boys a smoke. Lang demurred. Wolf took one, lit it, and puffed it in an exaggerated manner, not knowing whether to inhale or exhale. The government campaigns against smoking had been remarkably effective with the boys at the Reich School. This was his first cigarette.