The goddess of the devil.., p.1
The Goddess Of the Devil : Hitler's Medium, page 1
The Goddess of the Devil
Hitler’s Medium
Mart Sander
Copyright © Mart Sander
CONTENTS:
Part One: Getting there
Chapter I: Munich, 1919
Chapter II: Vienna, 1917
Chapter III: The Pre-War Days
Chapter IV: Vienna, 1915
Chapter V: Vienna, 1917
Chapter VI: Berchtesgaden, 1919, part I
Chapter VII: Berchtesgaden, 1919, part II
Chapter VIII: Munich, 1919
Chapter IX: Munich, 1924
Chapter X: Munich, 1919
Chapter XI: Oettingen, 1919
Chapter XII: Vienna, 1908
Chapter XIII: Konstanz, 1919
Part Two: There
Chapter XIV: Munich, 1925
Chapter XV: Munich, 1926
Chapter XVI: Munich - Tehran - Kabul, 1927
Chapter XVII: Kabul – Kashmir and Jammu, 1927
Chapter XVIII: Hemis, Ladakh, 1927
Chapter XIX: Hemis - Tholing, 1927
Chapter XX: Kailash, 1927, part I
Chapter XXI: Kailash, 1927, part II
Part Three: From there
Chapter XXII: Schwarzwald, 1936
Chapter XXIII: Berlin, 1931
Chapter XXIV: Berlin, Volksmannsdorf, 1931
Chapter XXV: Isareck Castle, 1931
Chapter XXVI: Munich 1931, part I
Chapter XXVII: Munich 1931, part II
Chapter XXVIII: Berlin 1933, part I
Chapter XXIX: Berlin 1933, part II
Chapter XXX: Berlin 1933, part III
Chapter XXXI: Munich 1933, part I
Chapter XXXII Munich 1933, part II
Chapter XXXIII: Munich 1934, Part I
Chapter XXXIV: Munich 1934, Part II
Part Four: Away
Chapter XXXV: Wewelsburg 1936, part I
Chapter XXXVI: Wewelsburg 1936, part II
Chapter XXXVII: Wewelsburg 1936, part III
Chapter XXXVIII: Berlin, 1937
Chapter XXXIX: Engelberg, 1937
Chapter XL: Berlin, 1937
Chapter XLI: Berlin, 1938
Chapter XLII: Berlin, Vienna, 1939
Chapter XLIII: Berlin, 1940
Chapter XLIV: Berlin, 1941
Chapter XLV: Hartheim, 1942
Chapter XLVI: Silesia, 1942
Chapter XLVII: Kolberg, 1943
Chapter XLVIII: Fürstenberg, 1944
Chapter XLIX: Peenemünde – Vienna, 1944
Chapter L: Vienna – Waldenburg, 1944
Chapter LI - Berlin, 1944
Chapter LII - Prague – Wolfsberg, 1944
Chapter LIII - Fürstenberg – Berlin, 1945
Chapter LIV - Berlin – Fürstenberg, 1945
Chapter LV – Prague - Ohrdruf, 1945
Chapter LVI – Prague - Berlin, 1945
Chapter LVII – Berlin, 1945
Chapter LVIII - Berlin, Alpine Redoubt 1945
Chapter LIX - Alpine Redoubt, 1945
Chapter LX - Berlin, Alpine Redoubt, 1945
Part One: Getting there
11.50 PM
From the tremor in his voice, from the hesitation that followed her words, Maria knew she had unsettled him. His fear was almost touching in its childlike innocence—fear of breaking rules, of waking a superior—not the deeper understanding of the abyss that had just opened at his feet. Until now he had moved through life unnoticed by such forces, blind to them, and so they had spared him. But she had lifted the veil. She had roused the dragon, and struck at its head. Yet dragons, she remembered, had a way of growing more heads in place of the one lost.
“Call him,” she repeated, no longer requesting but commanding.
She knew little of the adjutant beyond his name—Brandt—yet she imagined him very young, a boy masquerading in uniform, his skin still scented with schoolbooks, not gunpowder. The receiver must have grown damp in his hand.
The silence stretched. Maria knew Himmler was never to be woken lightly. But she also knew that her name carried weight, that she belonged to that narrow circle permitted to disturb the Reichsführer’s sleep.
At last, with a sigh that betrayed both resignation and awe, the youth capitulated. “Very well. I shall notify the Reichsführer. Please… hold.”
Maria lay back, eyes closed, picturing the boy at the threshold of one of the most feared men in Europe. His fist would hover uncertainly before the door, knock timidly once, twice, before Heinrich stirred within—irritated, confused, another dragon best left to its sleep. But irritation would sharpen to vigilance the instant her name was spoken.
The receiver clicked.
“Reichsführer?”
“Yes, Maria! What is it?”
Her voice was a whisper, yet the words struck her like an incantation she could not recall having learned:
“Heinrich, the bait has been cast—and it has been taken.”
A chill seized her spine. Until that moment it had all been a game, a performance played out over two decades, their charade of shadows and whispers. But now, uttered aloud, the words became a declaration—of war, of doom.
“Where?”
“In the Schwarzwald region.”
For a heartbeat he was silent, and she felt rather than heard the thrill that rippled through him. Then his voice returned, clipped and sure:
“Come to me tomorrow. Brandt will arrange the first flight to Berlin. Will there be two passengers?”
“Yes.”
“And best the Führer is not informed. Not yet. Not until we know more.”
The line went dead.
Maria lay motionless. What had they done? Had they slain the monster—or merely brushed its scales, awakening the conflagration that would consume them? Or, more dreadful still, had she erred in her judgment, ensnaring some fragment of light in her eagerness to please the dark?
She had reached for the stars; but as she drew her hand back, she saw the firmament itself tear at its seams, distant suns dripping like droplets of poisonous mercury.
“Are we to go to Berlin?” murmured the voice at her side, soft as a caress, but she did not reply. Eyes clamped shut, she felt her breath scatter into fragments, as if her mind, frantic for escape, had turned against the prison of her body.
What have we done? The question hammered in her skull.
What have we done?
Chapter I: Munich, 1919.
The bleeding sun poured red violently over the snow as if to consecrate the blood that was and would be spilled on these streets. The sun disappeared; the blood on the snow remained.
“There’s a commotion on the street,” a voice said behind her, as if she wasn’t watching the whole scene herself. “What do they want now?”
What they always want, Maria thought. Power. Money. Sex. Or, desperately, something to believe in? From the fourth-floor window, the crowds below reminded her of ants, driven by some compulsive collective consciousness to do something compulsively necessary. It was impossible to tell whether they were fleeing from or hunting after something. And if this, Maria thought, was an impression from the fourth floor, what would these people look like from high above, from the clouds? What would the birds, or the man on the moon, or God think? They wouldn’t recognize the fierce fighting for ideals, or the individuals who were willing to sacrifice their lives for the Cause. It would be a barely noticeable hustle at best, especially since the birds, the man on the moon and God had witnessed the Great War, where millions had died in agony, without taking any notice. Because no-one had taken any notice. Aside from the birds, perhaps, but they ignored everything.
The aggressive handful of people with their red flags and hostile voices, and the taunting youths they had assaulted, were no longer visible. The scene was once again quiet and somewhat dreary.
But Maria didn’t explain these thoughts to her landlady, who would have been unnecessarily confused. Instead she said:
“The communists. They want peace and solidarity.”
Frau Mohr wasn’t satisfied.
“Then why do they scream and rampage? Why can’t they live in peace and solidarity, to show a good example? Then people might follow them!”
Maria knew no comment was expected from her, so she kept quiet, which was always acknowledged as her modest acceptance of the words from a wiser, older woman.
A couple, dressed in black, crossed the street towards the house. The doorbell sounded.
“They’re here,” Frau Mohr said, as was her way to react to the obvious. “I shall let them in.”
Maria closed the heavy curtains, which were designed to block every trace of daylight. She lit some candles and a small oil lamp. Electric lights were never to be used with customers, as they would destroy the mood, she always thought. Just like in a brothel. Men went to a brothel to find instant oblivion and satisfaction from a woman’s body. Here they came to find the same from a woman’s mind: she was nothing but a mental prostitute, who would open her mind and her spirit as another woman would open her legs. And she would leave her customers satisfied, on most occasions. They would pay her and recommend her to other people who hungered for the same.
Maria glanced at herself in a large mirror, while the sounds of doors being opened and closed drew nearer. She could easily have worked as a prostitute, and she would have been paid well. Her beauty wasn’t a concept that thrilled her or made the mirror her closes
She was pestered with a slight headache, caused by a restless night. These troubled nights with disturbing dreams had become more of a rule than an exception. Maria found it difficult to come to terms with the visions that took shape in her sleep, rising like menacing shadows that were waiting for their time in some cosmic bank vault that stored all the misery yet to be unleashed on the world – as if more than enough had not, already, been drawn from it.
Maria knew that these were more than dreams; that somehow her visions which she was able to control when awake had made their way to her mind when she was at her most vulnerable. She was frightened by the realisation that these visions were involving her: she never allowed herself to be reflected in her work, always suppressing the urge to peek into her own future.
Now this future seemed to have come to haunt her. It was polluting her waking hours with memories that shouldn’t have existed for years to come; furthermore – that should never have existed at all.
She had no precise recollection of these dreams of late but, when she awakened, she was burdened with their residue; with the feeling that she had welcomed into her life something inexplicably bad, which had taken over and used her. Her heart was clenched in a fist of overpowering desolation, as if she was to abandon everything she ever owned and everyone she ever knew.
There was also a bitter sense of joy, the humiliating and unpleasant joy, of being alive, in spite of being mistreated and abused, marred with the shame of preferring such a life to nonexistence.
And there was guilt; the sense of involvement in something sordid, which had awakened a plague that had made her its tool. Death was to work through her and consider her its ally – even regarding her with respect. She saw blood on her hands, glowing like an unwanted badge of morbid honour, marking her as its angel.
The door opened with deliberate slowness, its speed set by Frau Mohr, the Vestal Virgin of this concocted shrine.
“The gentlemen to see you,” she said and withdrew modestly, her voice and body language hinting at the solemnity of the occasion which should greatly be respected.
Maria had been half-afraid, half-hopeful that the visitors would appear as some demonic figures who would put her out of her anguishing misery, but the men who stood at the door seemed utterly unremarkable, no more menacing than tax inspectors.
They observed Maria intently.
“Pleased to meet you, Fraulein Orsic,” one of them said while taking off a tightly-fitting glove. They were both quite young, perhaps around thirty, and moderately handsome, though different in appearance. “How very kind of you to receive us”. He extended his hand. Maria took it.
It was a heavy handshake, weighing down on Maria with the force of time distilled in solitude. Instantly, the moment settled as an anchorage point that was fixed in eternity, keeping one simultaneously safely afloat and a prisoner of its gravity; to be revisited over and over again. This handshake claimed Maria as its own; wrapped her in a blanket of soft whispers assuring her that she would often return to that moment in her mind.
“I’m sorry… What did you say?” she asked after a brief silence, as her racing heart began to settle.
The men looked at each other.
“What did you think I said?” the man asked in return, without removing his hand.
This was strange. Maria had the feeling that regardless of the counted seconds that had passed, she had shared a peculiar confession, resonant with things that can only be said between two people with a particularly close bond. She also realized that none of these words had actually been spoken yet, but they would be born in many years to come; not in a conversation between two people but in a tortured mind smothered by isolation.
Perhaps, this man was to play some part in her life after all.
“I’m sorry,” Maria said and released the man’s hand hastily. “Won’t you gentlemen please be seated?”
“Did you see something?” the man insisted. “Was it a... premonition? Is that what it should be called?”
“It’s really nothing. Just energies and signals crossing one another,” Maria gave a reply which in its vagueness would have satisfied most of her customers.
“No glimpses into my future?”
“It would take more than that. But now… Would you please be seated?” She sat down herself to reinforce this second invitation, and the men followed her example.
The one who had extended his hand in greeting had dark and deep eyes that made him appear somewhat exotic. Maria felt her prolonged appraisal was about to make the moment awkward, so she turned her eyes away abruptly. She noticed that the other gentleman, less dashing in his appearance, was carrying a leather briefcase.
“Now, is there something I can assist you with?” Maria asked the obvious question. Sometimes words with little actual meaning needed to be exchanged in order to mark the beginning of the official part. Since the clients were often longing for additional reassurance, she added: “I have a feeling you want to contact someone.”
“All in good time,” the dark man said. This was rather unexpected. “First of all we would like you to tell us something.”
The other man lifted the briefcase resting on his knees and placed it on the table between them.
“Could you please tell us what’s inside this?”
Oh. The sceptical types. Before the séance, they want to be astonished and convinced of the medium’s authentic powers. Maria disliked these sorts of parlour tricks, but they were a necessary procedure on more occasions than she cared to recall. She gave the men a cool look, indicating that their proposition was rather distasteful.
“I take it that you yourselves are familiar with the contents of the briefcase?” she asked.
The gentlemen nodded, but didn’t disclose any more information.
There were many ways to deal with this situation. She could try to access the contents, probing the object with her senses, or try to infiltrate the consciousness of the gentlemen and fish the information from there. Or she could have protested that this was beneath her, that she was a medium who only channels the voices of the departed ones through automatic writing, and not a carnival performer who reads tea leaves or predicts lottery numbers. But she wasn’t rushing into things. With deliberate movements she arranged the pen and papers before her, letting the gentlemen know that these were her real instruments of business. Then she took a deep breath and emptied her mind. The object in the briefcase was most probably something that had belonged to the person these gentlemen wished to contact. Perhaps a lonely, frightened item that is only too eager to make contact with a human mind again. Or, then, a hostile entity that guards its privacy fiercely. Maria was good at dealing with objects that had been cut loose from their owners. It was a question of approach, like the procedure of applying for an appointment.
Maria closed her eyes, reached her mind out to the object and spoke to it silently. If you have a voice, let it be heard. If you have a face, let it be seen. If you have a secret, share it with me.
She felt it awakening: it was aware of someone probing it. This was a smart object, probably very old; something that had seen many generations of people and considered individuals a short-lived nuisance. It was to be approached with caution: like a dormant electrical charge the energy in some articles was capable of paralyzing a careless investigator.
Maria had just admonished herself towards caution, when the object tapped itself into her subconscious mind like an aggressive leech. It hit her like a shock wave from a shell, deafening and blinding, ripping through her senses with a sharpness of a thousand knives. And around the sharpness there was a mantle of unbearable cold and insufferable heat; something that Maria had rarely experienced before.
