asked.
“No, leave us.”
“Yes, milord.”
“One moment, Tor,” Goering said.
“Yes, milord.”
“Have you met your fellow dwarf?”
“No, milord.”
“Do all dwarfs wear beards?”
“Certain clans do, milord.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, milord.”
“Your beard is different from our guest, Korumak’s.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Different clans, I suppose.”
“I don’t know, milord.”
“You may go.”
22.
Metten
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“Our son is at school here,” Billie Shroeder said.
“The abbey is closed, madam,” said the SS corporal. As he spoke he shined a flashlight into the car, casting its stabbing beam first on Billie’s face, then Fleming’s, then doing a slow three-sixty of the interior. When he got to Billie’s legs, she lifted her skirt an inch above her knee and smiled.
“He has been ill,” Billie said.
“No one can enter.”
“Why all the fuss?” Fleming asked, leaning and ducking slightly so that he could see across Billie in the driver’s seat. Behind the corporal, four other soldiers were standing and warming their hands over a fire blazing out of a two-hundred-liter drum. Each had an Erma EMP-35 submachine gun slung over his shoulder, the elegant weapon that he knew Waffen SS Special Forces had recently been equipped with. Behind them the eighth-century abbey’s massive wrought iron gate was shut and padlocked. The spacious stone courtyard was nearly pitch black, its outline made barely visible by the yellow light from one window above the abbey’s imposing dome-shaped front entrance.
He and Billie had made it to Deggendorf by 9:00 p.m. and checked into an inn on the outskirts of the small city. Driving to the abbey, they had seen two SS staff cars parked in front of the Hotel Gasthof, the tallest building in the tiny town of Metten. Anticipating trouble, they had concocted their simple story and switched seats so that Billie could drive.
“Your husband?” the corporal said.
Fleming smiled and nodded.
“Yes, he’s American,” Billie said.
“No one can enter.”
“Of course. Sorry for the trouble. Can we come tomorrow?”
“No. Now you must leave. Now .”
23.
Carinhall
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“That’s the American bison on the left,” said Trygg Korumak, “the European on the right. The European is the female.”
“What in the world . . . ?” said Franz Shroeder.
“How do you know about this species?” Professor Tolkien asked.
“I have friends in the Great Last Forest, Dwerrow Forest, they call it,” Korumak replied. “Where there are still bison.”
“And what do men call it, this forest?” Tolkien asked.
“Bialowieza.”
What do men call it? Tolkien said to himself. Where did that come from?
There had been something from the very beginning about Korumak that had not just intrigued Tolkien, but haunted him somehow, as if they had met as children and forgotten each other, or perhaps known each other in distant past lives. In the long day they had just spent in each other’s presence, a day that was about to come to an obscene end, there had been little chance to converse, and when there had been a moment, Korumak had been singularly unforthcoming, his silence as solid and dense as a mountain. Now he seemed friendlier, but the scene below in the middle of Carinhall’s great central hall was irresistible. John Ronald’s questions would have to wait.
Looking down from the highly polished railing of the loft walkway that gave access to the bedrooms on the north side of the lodge, they could see two large, shaggy bison, one on the east side and the other on the west side of the immense room, each held in check by two muscular handlers gripping the ends of thick chains attached to metal collars on the animals’ necks. The American bison was snorting and pawing the hardwood floor, the European straining from side to side on her forged leash.
Below glowing chandeliers that hung from
“No, leave us.”
“Yes, milord.”
“One moment, Tor,” Goering said.
“Yes, milord.”
“Have you met your fellow dwarf?”
“No, milord.”
“Do all dwarfs wear beards?”
“Certain clans do, milord.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know, milord.”
“Your beard is different from our guest, Korumak’s.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Different clans, I suppose.”
“I don’t know, milord.”
“You may go.”
22.
Metten
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“Our son is at school here,” Billie Shroeder said.
“The abbey is closed, madam,” said the SS corporal. As he spoke he shined a flashlight into the car, casting its stabbing beam first on Billie’s face, then Fleming’s, then doing a slow three-sixty of the interior. When he got to Billie’s legs, she lifted her skirt an inch above her knee and smiled.
“He has been ill,” Billie said.
“No one can enter.”
“Why all the fuss?” Fleming asked, leaning and ducking slightly so that he could see across Billie in the driver’s seat. Behind the corporal, four other soldiers were standing and warming their hands over a fire blazing out of a two-hundred-liter drum. Each had an Erma EMP-35 submachine gun slung over his shoulder, the elegant weapon that he knew Waffen SS Special Forces had recently been equipped with. Behind them the eighth-century abbey’s massive wrought iron gate was shut and padlocked. The spacious stone courtyard was nearly pitch black, its outline made barely visible by the yellow light from one window above the abbey’s imposing dome-shaped front entrance.
He and Billie had made it to Deggendorf by 9:00 p.m. and checked into an inn on the outskirts of the small city. Driving to the abbey, they had seen two SS staff cars parked in front of the Hotel Gasthof, the tallest building in the tiny town of Metten. Anticipating trouble, they had concocted their simple story and switched seats so that Billie could drive.
“Your husband?” the corporal said.
Fleming smiled and nodded.
“Yes, he’s American,” Billie said.
“No one can enter.”
“Of course. Sorry for the trouble. Can we come tomorrow?”
“No. Now you must leave. Now .”
23.
Carinhall
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“That’s the American bison on the left,” said Trygg Korumak, “the European on the right. The European is the female.”
“What in the world . . . ?” said Franz Shroeder.
“How do you know about this species?” Professor Tolkien asked.
“I have friends in the Great Last Forest, Dwerrow Forest, they call it,” Korumak replied. “Where there are still bison.”
“And what do men call it, this forest?” Tolkien asked.
“Bialowieza.”
What do men call it? Tolkien said to himself. Where did that come from?
There had been something from the very beginning about Korumak that had not just intrigued Tolkien, but haunted him somehow, as if they had met as children and forgotten each other, or perhaps known each other in distant past lives. In the long day they had just spent in each other’s presence, a day that was about to come to an obscene end, there had been little chance to converse, and when there had been a moment, Korumak had been singularly unforthcoming, his silence as solid and dense as a mountain. Now he seemed friendlier, but the scene below in the middle of Carinhall’s great central hall was irresistible. John Ronald’s questions would have to wait.
Looking down from the highly polished railing of the loft walkway that gave access to the bedrooms on the north side of the lodge, they could see two large, shaggy bison, one on the east side and the other on the west side of the immense room, each held in check by two muscular handlers gripping the ends of thick chains attached to metal collars on the animals’ necks. The American bison was snorting and pawing the hardwood floor, the European straining from side to side on her forged leash.
Below glowing chandeliers that hung from
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