Josef awoke to find himself still leaning back against the chorten. His back and neck were aching and he felt feverish and weak. Before him was a semicircle of shaven-headed young monks. Seeing him surface, one said, “Aha,” as the others smiled and pointed.
Another stepped forward from amidst the grinning faces to approach Josef. The monk stood in front of him, staring down, speaking without pause, a waterfall of language cascading from his smiling mouth. The novice pointed at Josef and then up at the mountain, his dialogue becoming just one word, “Chomolungma.”
The others quickly followed his lead. Shuffling their sandaled feet, the monks began chanting the name in unison. The incantation grew, louder and louder. It reminded Josef of the gamblers chanting in the caravansary and began to fill him with the same dread of discovery.
Ang Noru returned to push through the monks and reach out a hand to pull Josef back up onto his tired legs.
The monks instantly fell silent, staring at Josef as if surprised to see that he could stand, almost wary that they had angered him.
“Do they know?” asked Josef, his head beginning to spin as he followed the Sherpa back to the pony.
“Of course. There are few secrets here. There have been messengers; the British are looking for us in Tibet. The monks know well that if we have come here it is only for one thing: the mountain. They have offered us a room. Let us go there, and I will tell you all.”
The room was within a side building off the monastery’s central courtyard. It was bare and simple, but it shut out some of the cold and was clean. The sight of the mountain through its solitary square window resembled the fearsome framed picture in the entrance of the Hotel Nanga Parbat. Josef quickly shuttered the window to hide it from view, but it did little to block the roar of the wind racing over the summit. It sounded like an out-of-control freight train.
They unloaded, then sat on the floor and ate a meal that two young monks brought to them. It was simple and without taste, but its warmth and variety after their daily diet of plain flour cakes and dried yakmeat reinvigorated Josef a little as Ang Noru explained what more he had learned in the monastery about the British.
But only when the meal was finished did the Sherpa reach into the front of his baggy jacket and pull out a sealed letter. “From your countrymen, there is only this, Sahib Josef. No supplies or man with it so I think may be better to give after you eat. You stronger then if bad news.”
Josef opened the sealed envelope.
A formal printed letterhead across the top of the page inside read:
DEUTSCHE TIBET EXPEDITION ERNST SCHÄFER
Below, atrocious, hasty handwriting crammed the single sheet:
Sisyphus,
If you have made it to Rongbuk to receive this letter, then I salute you as a man of endeavor. I assure you that there is no one who understands better than I the difficulties of traveling through this savage and barren land. It is only out of respect for your possible arrival that I take the extreme risk of sending you this communication by native messenger. If apprehended, it could in itself compromise my entire Tibetan mission.
Be aware that from the start I expressed my fears to the reichsführer-SS regarding Operation Sisyphus. I considered it undoubtedly doomed—you do see the mountain before you?—but also bearing the potential to destroy the necessary business of my own SS expedition to Tibet.
While my opinions were ignored, my concerns have come to pass. It is apparent that the British authorities in both India and Sikkim have become aware of your illegal entry into Tibet. Their cadre, here in Lhasa, is already using the matter to increase pressure on the Tibetan government to terminate my expedition and expel me from the country.
As I write, it seems that the British are not yet aware of either the exact nature of Operation Sisyphus or your current location. It is only because of this that they have so far been unsuccessful in their lobby. If I recall correctly, our führer writes that “leadership necessitates uncomfortable burdens,” and with this in mind, it is with regret that I advise you that, as de facto leader of the National Socialist Mission to Tibet, I cannot risk the issue of supplies or personnel to assist you as instructed.
Having to turn away when so near to your goal must indeed make you feel like Sisyphus himself, but I can assure you that it is in the best interests of our wider project for Tibet. I personally advise you to cross into the Kingdom of Nepal and make good your escape from there.
Heil Hitler!
Refolding the letter, Josef got up and reopened the window shutters to look at the the mountain again.
His eyes followed the line of the Northeast Ridge to the summit. Mouthing, “Berg heil!” at it and shaking his head in disbelief, he turned to Ang Noru to explain.