A reluctant nod from Alfred. Friedrich continued, “So now try to imagine that you’ve just revealed to me what’s on your mind. What’s your guess about how I would regard you?”
“I don’t know how you’d react. I guess I’d just be embarrassed.”
“But embarrassment always requires another person, and today that person is me, someone who’s known you since you were a small child.” Friedrich was very proud of his gentle voice. Dr. Abraham’s admonitions to stop charging at resistance like a raging bull had had their effect.
“Well”—Alfred took a breath and jumped in—“for one, you might feel I’m exploiting you for help. I’m embarrassed by asking for your professional services for free. And also, it makes me feel like the weak one and you the strong one.”
“That’s a great start, Alfred. Exactly what I meant. And now I can see your predicament. This must seem so uneven to you. I wouldn’t like being so beholden to another, either. Then again, you’ve already reciprocated by agreeing to run a newspaper story for me.”
“It’s not the same. You receive nothing personally.”
“I understand that. But tell me, do you believe I resent offering something to you?”
“I don’t know—you might. After all, your time is valuable. You do this for pay all day long.”
“And my response that you’re like family to me isn’t relevant either?”
“Right. I hear that as placating.”
“Tell me, how is it when we’re talking about Spinoza, about philosophy? I get the feeling you’re more relaxed then.”
“Yes, that’s different. Even though you’re teaching me, I get the impression that philosophy talk is enjoyable to you.”
“Yes, you’re correct about that. Whereas listening to you discussing yourself would not be enjoyable to me?”
“I can’t imagine why on earth it would be.”
“Here’s a thought—just a sheer guess. Perhaps you have negative feelings about yourself and think that if you opened up, I would also feel negatively about you?”
Alfred looked puzzled. “It’s possible I guess, but if so, it’s not the major factor. I just can’t imagine myself taking that kind of interest in anyone else.”
“That sounds important, and I imagine it’s a risk to say that to me. Tell me, Alfred: is that close to the very thing you would regret not bringing up today?”
Alfred smiled broadly. “My God! You are really good at this, Friedrich! Yes, more than close. It is exactly the thing.”
“Say more.” Friedrich relaxed. He coasted in familiar waters now.
“Well, just before I left, my boss, Dietrich Eckart, called me into his office. He simply wanted to talk about my trip to Paris, but I didn’t know that, and the first thing he did when I got to his office was chide me for looking so worried. Then, after assuring me I was doing a good job, he said it would be much better for me to be less diligent and do a bit more drinking and a lot more schmoozing.”
“And that statement hit home.”
“Yes, because it’s true—it has been said to me in one way or another many times. I say it to myself. But I just cannot sit around with empty-headed people talking about nothing.”
A scene entered Friedrich’s mind: the time, twenty-five years earlier, when he had attempted unsuccessfully to give Alfred a piggyback ride. At their last meeting he had described that to Alfred and added, “You didn’t like to play.” The lifelong persistence of such traits fascinated Friedrich. What a rare opportunity to study the genesis of personality formation! This might be a major professional breakthrough. What other analyst had ever had the chance to analyze someone he knew as a child? And what’s more, he had personally known the patient’s significant adults: Alfred’s father, brother, and surrogate mother, his Aunt Cäcilie, even Alfred’s doctor. And he was familiar with the same physical surroundings—Alfred’s home, playground—and they had gone to the same school and had the same teachers. What a pity Alfred didn’t live in Berlin so that he could take him on for a full psychoanalysis.
“And it was right then, right after Dietrich Eckart’s comment,” Alfred continued, “I decided to see you. I knew he was right. Only a few days before I had overheard a conversation about me between a couple of employees. They referred to me as the sphinx.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Mixed. They weren’t important, just cleaning and delivery people, and I usually pay no attention to any opinions from their type. But in this instance they caught my attention because they were so right. I am closed and tight, and I know I’ve got to change this part of myself if I’m to be successful in the Nationalsozialist Party.”
“You said ‘mixed.’ What’s positive about being a sphinx?”
“Hmm, not sure, perhaps it is—”
“Wait, let’s stop for a minute, Alfred. I’ve gotten ahead of myself. This is unfair to you. I’m pelting you with personal questions, and we really haven’t agreed upon what we’re doing here. Or, in the technical language of my profession, we haven’t defined the frame of our relationship, have we?
Alfred seemed puzzled. “Frame?”
“Let’s just back up and establish an agreement about what we’re up to. I’m making the assumption that you want to make changes in yourself by working in therapy. Is that right?”
“I’m not sure what work in therapy means.”
“It’s what you’ve been doing so well the last ten minutes: speaking honestly and openly about your concerns.”
“I definitely want to make changes in myself. So, yes, I want therapy. And also I want to work with you.”
“But, Alfred, change requires many, many meetings. Tonight we’re just having an introductory chat, and I’m leaving tomorrow for a three-day psychoanalytic conference. I’m thinking of the future. Berlin is a long way from Munich. Wouldn’t it make more sense to see a psychoanalyst in Munich whom you could see more often? I can give you a good referral—”
Alfred vigorously shook his head. “No. No one else. I can’t possibly trust anyone else, certainly no one in Munich. I have a belief, a very strong belief, that one day I’ll have a powerful position in this country. I’ll have my enemies, and I could be ruined by anyone who knew my secrets. I know I’m safe with you.”
“Yes, you are safe with me. Well, let’s think about our schedule—when might you visit Berlin next?”
“I can’t be sure, but I know that the Völkischer Beobachter will become a daily shortly, and we’ll be covering more national and international news. In the future I may be able to visit Berlin frequently, and I hope I can see you for one or two sessions whenever I come.”
“I’ll always try to make time for you if you give me some advance notice. I want you to know I will keep everything you say in complete and absolute confidence.”
“I’m sure you will. That’s of the utmost importance to me, and I was very reassured when you declined to tell me anything personal about your patient, the cook’s son.”
“And rest assured I will never share your secrets, not even the fact that you are in therapy with me, with anyone in the world, your brother included. Confidentiality is crucial in my field, and you have my oath.”
Alfred patted himself over his heart and mouthed the words, “Thank you. Thank you much.”
“You know,” Friedrich said, “maybe you are right. I think our arrangement would work better if it weren’t unequal. I think I should, starting next time, charge you the analytic standard fee. I’ll be sure it is affordable for you. What do you think?”
“Perfect.”
“So, now, back to work. Let’s continue. A few minutes ago when we were talking about your being called the sphinx, you said you had ‘mixed’ feelings. Now, I want you to free associate to ‘sphinx.’ By that I mean you should try to let your thoughts about ‘sphinx’ freely enter into your mind and think out loud. It doesn’t have to make sense.”
“Now?”
“Yes, just for a couple of minutes.
”
“Sphinx . . . desert, huge, mysterious, powerful, enigmatic, keeps its own counsel . . . dangerous—the sphinx strangled those who did not answer his riddle.” Alfred paused.
“Keep going.”
“Did you know that the Greek root meant ‘strangler,’ or one who squeezes? ‘Sphincter’ is related to Sphinx—all the sphincters of the body squeezing . . . tight . . . tight-assed.”
“So,” Friedrich asked, “by ‘mixed’ you meant that you disliked being considered so silent and aloof and tight-assed but that you liked being thought of as enigmatic, mysterious, powerful, threatening?”
“Yes, that’s right. Precisely right.”
“Then, perhaps the positive aspects—your pride in being powerful and mysterious, even dangerous—will get in the way of schmoozing and being open. It means you have a choice—schmooze and be an insider, or remain mysterious, dangerous, and an outsider.”
“I see what you’re getting at. It’s complex.”
“Alfred, weren’t you, as I recall, also an outsider in your youth?”
“Always a loner. Didn’t belong to any group.”
“But you also mentioned that you are very close to the party leader, Herr Hitler. That must feel good. Tell me about that friendship.”
“I spend a great deal of time with him. We have coffee; we talk about politics and literature and philosophy. We visit galleries, and one day last autumn we went to Marienplatz—you know it?”
“Yes, Munich’s main square.”
“Right. Amazing light there. We set up our easels and sketched together for hours. That day stands out as one of my finest days. Our sketches were good; we complimented one another and discovered similarities in our work. Both of us are strong on architectural details and weak on human figures. I had always wondered if my inability to draw figures was symbolic and was relieved to see he had the same limitations. It’s certainly not symbolic for Hitler—no one has better skills in relating to people.”
“Sounds enjoyable. Have you sketched with him again?”
“He’s never suggested it.”
“Tell me about other good times you’ve had with him.”
“The very best day in my life happened about three weeks ago. Hitler took me out shopping for a desk for my new office. He had a purse stuffed with Swiss francs—I don’t know how he got them, and I never pry. I prefer to let him tell me details at his own pace. He came into the Beobachter one morning and said, ‘We’re going shopping. You can buy any desk you wish—and buy all the things you want to put on the desk.’ And for the next two hours we went on a spree through the most expensive furniture stores in Munich.”
“The best day of your life—that’s saying a lot. Tell me more.”
“Part of it was simply the thrill of the gift. Imagine someone taking you out and saying, ‘Buy any desk you want. At any price.’ And then to have Hitler give me so much time and attention was really bliss.”
“Why is he so important for you?”
“From a practical standpoint, he’s the party head now, and my newspaper is the party newspaper. So he’s my real boss. But I don’t think you meant that.”
“No, I meant ‘important’ in a deeper personal sense.”
“Hard to put into words. Hitler just has that effect on you, on everybody.”
“Taking you out for a wonderful shopping spree. Sounds like something you’d have liked your father to do.”
“You knew my father! Can you imagine him taking me out and offering me anything, even a piece of candy? Yes, he lost his wife, and his health was terrible, and he had big money problems, but still I got nothing, absolutely nothing from him.”
“Lots of feeling in those words.”
“A lifetime of feeling.”
“I knew him. And I know you got precious little fathering—and, of course, you never even knew your mother.”
“Aunt Cäcilie did the best she could. I never blame her—she had her own children. Too many shoulders to hug.”
“So perhaps some of your exhilaration about Hitler comes from getting, finally, some real fathering. What’s his age?”
“Oh, he’s a few years older. He’s like no one I’ve ever met. He has come from nowhere, like me, from an undistinguished, uneducated family. He was just a corporal in the war, though much decorated. He has no financial means, no culture, no university education. But, even so, he mesmerizes everyone. It’s not just me. People gather round him. Everyone seeks his company and his counsel. Everyone senses he is a man of destiny, the pole star of Germany’s future.”
“So you feel privileged to be with him. Is your relationship progressing into a close friendship?”
“That’s just the point—it’s not progressing. Aside from the ‘desk day,’ Hitler doesn’t seek me out. I think he likes me, but he doesn’t love me. He never asks to have meals with me. He is far closer to others. I saw him last week in intimate discussions with Hermann Göring. Their heads were so close together they were touching. They had just met, yet they laughed and joked and walked arm in arm, and poked each other in the stomach as though they had known one another all their lives. Why doesn’t that ever happen to me?”
“Your phrase, ‘He doesn’t love me’—think about that. Let your mind meander about that. Think out loud.”
Alfred closed his eyes.
“I can’t quite hear you,” said Friedrich.
Alfred smiled. “Love. Someone to say, ‘I love you.’ I heard those words only once, with Hilda in Paris before we married.”
“You’re married! Yes, I had almost forgotten. You rarely mention your wife.”
“I should say I was married. Guess I still am officially. Very short marriage in 1915. Hilda Leesmann. We were together a couple of weeks in Paris, where she was studying to be a ballerina, and at the most three to four months in Russia. Then she developed severe consumption.”
“How awful. Like your brother and mother and father. What happened then?”
“We’ve been out of touch for a long time. The last I heard, her family put her in a sanatorium in the Black Forest. I’m not sure if she’s still alive. When you said, ‘how awful,’ I winced inside because I don’t feel much about this. I never think of her. And I doubt she thinks of me. We became strangers. I remember that one of the last things she said to me was that I had never inquired about her life, never asked her how she spent her day.”
“So,” Friedrich said, looking at his watch, “we return full circle to the reason you contacted me. We began with no schmoozing, no interest in others. Next we looked at the part of you that desires to be sphinx-like. Then we returned to your yearning for love and attention from Hitler and how painful it is to watch him favor others while you’re left on the outside watching. And then we spoke of your distance from your wife. Let’s take a moment to look at closeness and distance right here with me. You said you feel safe here?”
Alfred nodded.
“And what about your feelings toward me?
“Very safe. And very understood.”
“And you find yourself feeling close? Liking me?”
“Yes, both.”
“Therein lies our great discovery today. I think you do like me, and a major reason for that is that I’m interested in you. I’m recalling your earlier comment that you don’t think you’re interested in others. And yet people like people who are interested in them. That is the most important message I have for you today. I’ll say it again: People like people who are interested in them.
“We did good, hard work today. It’s our first session, and you’re plunging right in. I’m sorry it has to end, but it has been a long day, and my energy ebbs. I do hope you’ll come to see me again often. I feel can help you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AMSTERDAM—1658
Over the next year Spinoza—no longer Baruch but now and forever after known as Bento (or in his written work, Benedictus)—maintained an odd nocturnal relationship with Franco. Almost every night, as
Bento lay in his four-poster bed in a small garret in van den Enden’s house, anxiously awaiting sleep, Franco’s image entered his thoughts. So seamless and stealthy was his entrance that, uncharacteristically, Bento never tried to understand why he so often brought Franco to mind.
But at no other time did Bento think of Franco. His waking hours were crammed with intellectual endeavors that offered more joy than anything he had ever before experienced. Whenever he imagined himself as a wizened old man reflecting upon his life, he knew that he would select these very days as the best of days, these days of fellowship with van den Enden and the other students, mastering Latin and Greek and savoring the great themes of the classical world—Democritus’s atomistic universe, Plato’s Form of the Good, Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, and the Stoic’s freedom from the passions.
His life was beautiful in its simplicity. Bento entirely agreed with Epicurus’s insistence that man’s needs were few and easily satisfied. Needing only room and board, a few books, paper, and ink, he could earn the necessary guilders by grinding lenses for spectacles only two days a week and by teaching Hebrew to Collegiants who desired to read the scriptures in their original tongue.
The academy offered not only a vocation and a home but a social life—more, at times, than Bento wished. He was meant to take dinner with the van den Enden family and the students boarding at the academy but instead often chose to take a plate of bread and hard Dutch cheese and a candle to his room to read. His absences at dinner disappointed Madame van den Enden, who found him an enlivening conversationalist and tried, without success, to increase his sociability, even offering to cook his favorite dishes and to avoid nonkosher foods. Bento assured her he was in no way observant but was simply indifferent to food and quite content with the simplest fare—his bread, cheese, and daily glass of ale followed by a smoke on his long-stemmed clay pipe.