massive floating oaken beams, stood Goering’s guests for the weekend, perhaps fifty of what were obviously among Germany’s military and political crème de la crème. Champagne glasses in hand, they were gathered around a space that had been cleared of furniture in the center of the room. Korumak seemed to know who many of them were. “That’s Speer and his wife,” he said quietly, nodding toward a dim corner where a tall, thin, balding man in a tuxedo was standing next to a woman in a red satin gown. Both were sipping champagne. “Hitler’s best friend. And Bormann, another pig.” Now the dwarf nodded toward the room’s center, where a group of smartly dressed civilians and officers in beribboned uniforms were gathering along the velvet ropes and gold stanchions that marked off the makeshift arena.
Across the vast room—it was perhaps a hundred feet in length—they now saw Goering and his aide, a Luftwaffe captain, emerge from an inner room and approach the loft railing. The crowd acknowledged Hitler’s aviation chief with a roar, many raising their glasses to him as he waved down at them, blessing them like the devil’s vicar on earth.
Wagner could be heard from speakers concealed somewhere in the vast room, but only barely, as the cheering of the crowd was the dominant sound. That and the snorting and stamping of the bison as they strained toward each other on their leashes, the four handlers pulling hard along the flanks of the huffing creatures to hold them back. Goering raised his right hand high above his head, held it there for a long second or two, then swiftly brought it down, at which moment the handlers released the beasts.
“It can’t be?” said Professor Shroeder, but indeed it was. The bison circled each other once and then suddenly were mating in the center of ring, while the crowd cheered. Bormann tossed his champagne glass at the male’s head as he rutted, and many others followed suit.
Professor Tolkien looked on in horror at the scene below, at Bormann and his wife seizing full glasses of champagne from a passing servant, a dwarf with a beard like Korumak’s, and throwing them at the cow this time. And across the room to Goering, who was smiling like a hyena and raising both of his arms in the air to acknowledge the adoring crowd below. The quiet, unassuming professor from Oxford knew in his bones that he was witnessing human beings at their very worst. Over the long remaining years of his life he would often ask God to forgive him for not turning away. He couldn’t. He had to see and absorb and imprint on his brain the many faces of evil in that room.
24.
The Bergspitze Inn, Deggendorf
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“So, do you still trust Kurt?” Fleming asked Billie.
“Yes, I do.”
“If only he knew that your father and Tolkien had fled, then how did those troops come to be at the abbey?”
“Someone else must have . . .”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. But it can’t have been Kurt. I’m certain. Ian, do you think father is in the abbey? Has he been captured do you think?”
“I told you, I don’t think they’d go near the abbey. They may be college professors, but surely they must have realized that that would be the first place Himmler’s hounds would be sniffing around.”
“Perhaps they don’t know that they are being looked for.”
“I think they do.”
“Why?”
“Tolkien told me that your father was given an ultimatum. Perform the ritual on Monday or else.”
“Or else what?”
“You die.”
“ I die?”
“Yes, you. Do you think Himmler would be squeamish about threatening to kill you? Or actually killing you if it came to it? That was how they managed to persuade your father in the first place. They are thugs, murderous thugs.”
Billie did not respond.
After seeing the troops at Metten Abbey’s gate, the ride back to their small inn on a hill on the outskirts of Deggendorf had been a silent one. The English gentleman
Across the vast room—it was perhaps a hundred feet in length—they now saw Goering and his aide, a Luftwaffe captain, emerge from an inner room and approach the loft railing. The crowd acknowledged Hitler’s aviation chief with a roar, many raising their glasses to him as he waved down at them, blessing them like the devil’s vicar on earth.
Wagner could be heard from speakers concealed somewhere in the vast room, but only barely, as the cheering of the crowd was the dominant sound. That and the snorting and stamping of the bison as they strained toward each other on their leashes, the four handlers pulling hard along the flanks of the huffing creatures to hold them back. Goering raised his right hand high above his head, held it there for a long second or two, then swiftly brought it down, at which moment the handlers released the beasts.
“It can’t be?” said Professor Shroeder, but indeed it was. The bison circled each other once and then suddenly were mating in the center of ring, while the crowd cheered. Bormann tossed his champagne glass at the male’s head as he rutted, and many others followed suit.
Professor Tolkien looked on in horror at the scene below, at Bormann and his wife seizing full glasses of champagne from a passing servant, a dwarf with a beard like Korumak’s, and throwing them at the cow this time. And across the room to Goering, who was smiling like a hyena and raising both of his arms in the air to acknowledge the adoring crowd below. The quiet, unassuming professor from Oxford knew in his bones that he was witnessing human beings at their very worst. Over the long remaining years of his life he would often ask God to forgive him for not turning away. He couldn’t. He had to see and absorb and imprint on his brain the many faces of evil in that room.
24.
The Bergspitze Inn, Deggendorf
October 7, 1938, 11:00 p.m.
“So, do you still trust Kurt?” Fleming asked Billie.
“Yes, I do.”
“If only he knew that your father and Tolkien had fled, then how did those troops come to be at the abbey?”
“Someone else must have . . .”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. But it can’t have been Kurt. I’m certain. Ian, do you think father is in the abbey? Has he been captured do you think?”
“I told you, I don’t think they’d go near the abbey. They may be college professors, but surely they must have realized that that would be the first place Himmler’s hounds would be sniffing around.”
“Perhaps they don’t know that they are being looked for.”
“I think they do.”
“Why?”
“Tolkien told me that your father was given an ultimatum. Perform the ritual on Monday or else.”
“Or else what?”
“You die.”
“ I die?”
“Yes, you. Do you think Himmler would be squeamish about threatening to kill you? Or actually killing you if it came to it? That was how they managed to persuade your father in the first place. They are thugs, murderous thugs.”
Billie did not respond.
After seeing the troops at Metten Abbey’s gate, the ride back to their small inn on a hill on the outskirts of Deggendorf had been a silent one. The English gentleman
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