and benign as well
then the Earth would be Paradise
whereas now it is often a Hell!
Bento’s quarters consisted of two ground-floor rooms, one for his study, burgeoning library, and four-poster bed; the other a smaller work room holding his lens-grinding equipment. Dr. Hooman, a surgeon, lived with his wife in the other half of the house—a combined large kitchen and living room and an upstairs bedroom, reached by a steep stairway.
Bento paid a small additional fee for supper, which he usually took with Dr. Hooman and his most congenial wife. Sometimes, after his long days of solitary writing and lens grinding, he looked forward to their company, but when he was particularly engrossed in an idea, he reverted to old habits and for several days supped in his room, staring at the fecund apple trees in the rear orchard, while he thought and wrote.
A year passed most agreeably. One September morning Bento awoke feeling out of sorts, listless, and achy. Yet he decided to proceed with his plans to travel to Amsterdam to deliver some fine telescope lenses to a client. Moreover, his friend Simon de Vries, the secretary of the Collegiant Philosophy Club, had arranged for him to be present at a meeting for a discussion of the first part of Bento’s new work. Bento pulled Simon’s most recent letter from his bag and reread it.Most Honorable Friend—I await your arrival with impatience. I sometimes complain of my lot, in that we are separated from each other by so long a distance. Happy, yes, most happy is Doctor Hooman, abiding under the same roof with you, who can talk with you on the best of subjects, at dinner, at supper, and during your walks. However, though I am far apart from you in body, you have been very frequently present to my mind, especially in your writings, while I read and turn them over. But as they are not all clear to the members of our club, for which reason we have begun a fresh series of meetings, and we look forward to your explanation of difficult passages, so that we may be better able under your guidance to defend the truth against those who are superstitiously religious and to withstand the attack of the whole world.
Your most devoted,
S. J. DE VRIES
As he folded up the letter, Bento experienced both joy and uneasiness—joy at Simon’s good words but suspiciousness of his own yearning for an admiring audience. Without doubt moving to Rijnsburg was a wise decision. Wiser yet, he imagined, might be an even farther move from Amsterdam.
He walked the short distance to Oegstgeest, where, for 21 stuivers, he boarded the morning trekschuit, a horse-drawn barge that took passengers down the small trekvaart, the canal recently dug that ran straight to Amsterdam. For a few stuivers more he could have sat in the cabin, but it was a fine sunny day, and he sat on the deck and reread the beginning of his paper, “Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect,” to be discussed the following day by Simon’s philosophy club. He had begun by describing his personal search for happiness.After experience had taught me that all the usual surroundings of social life are vain and futile; seeing that none of the objects of my fears contained in themselves anything either good or bad, except in so far as the mind is affected by them, I finally resolved to inquire whether there might be some real good having power to communicate itself, which would affect the mind singly, to the exclusion of all else: whether, in fact, there might be anything of which the discovery and attainment would enable me to enjoy continuous, supreme, and unending happiness.
Next he described his inability to achieve his goal while still clutching his cultural beliefs that the highest good consisted of riches, fame, and the sensual pleasures. These goods, he insisted, were not good for one’s health. He carefully read his comments about the limitations of these three worldly goods. By sensual pleasure the mind is enthralled to the extent of quiescence, as if the supreme good were actually attained, so that it is quite incapable of thinking of any other object; when such pleasure has been gratified it is followed by extreme melancholy, whereby the mind, though not enthralled, is disturbed and dulled.
In the case of fame the mind is still more absorbed, for fame is conceived as always good for its own sake, and as the ultimate end to which all actions are directed. Further, the attainment of riches and fame is not followed as in the case of sensual pleasures by repentance, but, the more we acquire, the greater is our delight, and, consequently, the more are we incited to increase both the one and the other; on the other hand, if our hopes happen to be frustrated, we are plunged into the deepest sadness.
Fame has the further drawback that it compels its votaries to order their lives according to the opinions of their fellow-men, shunning what they usually shun, and seeking what they usually seek.
Bento nodded, particularly satisfied with his description of the problem of fame. Now to the remedy: he had expressed his difficulties letting go of a sure and accustomed good for something uncertain. Then he had immediately tempered that idea by saying that, since he sought for a fixed good, something unchangeable, it was clearly not uncertain in its nature but only in its attainment. Though he was pleased with the progression of his arguments, he grew uncomfortable as he continued to read. Perhaps he had said and revealed too much of himself in several passages:I thus perceived that I was in a state of great peril, and I compelled myself to seek with all my strength for a remedy, however uncertain it might be; as a sick man struggling with a deadly disease, when he sees that death will surely be upon him unless a remedy be found, is compelled to seek a remedy with all his strength, inasmuch as his whole hope lies therein.
He felt flushed as he read and began to murmur to himself. “This is not philosophy. This is far too personal. What have I done? This is simply passionate argument intended to evoke emotions. I resolve . . . no, more than resolve, I vow . . . that in the future, Bento Spinoza and his search, his fears, his hopes, will be invisible. I write falsely if I cannot persuade readers entirely by the reason of my arguments.”
He nodded as he continued reading passages describing how men have sacrificed all, even their lives, in pursuit of riches, reputation, and indulgence in sensual pleasures. Now to introduce the remedy in short strong passages.1. All these evils seem to have arisen from the fact that happiness or unhappiness is made wholly dependent on the quality of the object which we love.
2. When a thing is not loved, no quarrels will arise concerning it—no sadness be felt, no hatred, in short no disturbances of the mind.
3. All these arise from the love of what is perishable, such as the objects already mentioned.
4. But love towards a thing eternal and infinite feeds the mind wholly with joy, and is itself unmingled with any sadness, wherefore it is greatly to be desired and sought for with all our strength.
He could read no more. His head began to throb—he definitely did not feel himself today—and he closed his eyes and dozed for what seemed a quarter of an hour. The first thing he saw when he awakened was a tightly clustered group of twenty to thirty strolling next to the canal. Who were they? Where were they going? He could not take his eyes off of them as the trekschuit neared and then passed the group. At the next stop, still at least an hour’s walk to Simon de Vries’s home in Amsterdam, where he would spend the night, he surprised himself by grabbing his bag, jumping off the barge, and heading backward, toward the strolling group.
Soon he drew close enough to notice that the men, who were dressed in working-class Dutch garb, all wore yarmulkes. Yes, without doubt, they were Jews, but Ashkenazi Jews, who would not recognize him. He drew closer. The group had stopped at a clearing by the banks of the canal and gathered about their leader, undoubtedly their rabbi, who began chanting at the very edge of the water. Bento edged closer to the group to hear his words. One elderly woman, short and stocky, her shoulders covered with heavy black cloth, eyed Bento for several minutes and then slowly approached him. Bento looked at her wrinkled face, so kind, so maternal that he thought of his own mother. But no, his mother had died at a younger age than he was now. This old woman would be her mother’s age. She moved closer to him and said, “Bis
t an undzeriker?” (“Are you one of us?”).
Though Bento had picked up only small bits of Yiddish from his commercial dealings with Ashkenazi Jews, he understood her question perfectly yet was unable to answer. Finally, shaking his head, he whispered, “Sephardic.”
“Ah, ir zayt an undzeriker. Ot iz a matone fun Rifke.” (“Then you are one of us. Here, here is a gift from Rifke.”) She reached into her apron pocket, handed him a sizeable chunk of fresh bread, and pointed to the canal.
He nodded thanks, and as she walked away, Bento slapped his forehead and murmured to himself, “Tashlich. Astounding . . . it’s Rosh Hashanah—how could I have forgotten?” He knew the ceremony of Tashlich well. For centuries congregations of Jews had held a Rosh Hashanah service near the banks of running water that ended by their throwing bread into the water. The words of the scriptures came back to him: “The Lord will take us back in love; He will cover up our iniquities. You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea” (Micah 7:19).
He edged closer to listen to the rabbi, who urged his congregation, the men clustered about him and the women in an outer circle, to think of all their regrets of the past year, all their acts of unkindness and their ignoble thoughts, their envy and pride and guilt, and told them to shed them, to toss unworthy thoughts away just as they now threw away their bread. The rabbi tossed his bread into the water, and immediately the others followed suit. Bento momentarily reached into the his pocket where he had put his bread but pulled his hand back. He disliked participating in any ritual, and, besides, he was a bystander and was too far from the canal. The rabbi chanted the prayers in Hebrew, and Bento reflexively murmured the words with him. It was, all in all, a pleasing and most sensible ceremony, and as the crowd turned back to walk to their synagogue, many nodded to him and said, “Gut Yontef ” (“Good holiday”). He reciprocated with a smile, “Gut Yontef dir” (“Good holiday to you”). He liked their faces; they seemed like good people. Even though their appearance differed from his own Sephardic community, still they resembled the people he had known as a child. Simple but thoughtful. Serene and comfortable with one another. He missed them. Oh, he missed them.
As he walked to Simon’s house, nibbling Rifke’s bread, Bento pondered his experience. Obviously he had underestimated the power of the past. Its stamp is indelible; it cannot be erased; it colors the present and vastly influences feelings and actions. More clearly than ever before, he understood how nonconscious thoughts and feelings are a part of the causative network. So many things became clear: the healing power with which he imbued Franco, the strong sweet tug of the Tashlich ceremony, even the extraordinary taste of Rifke’s bread that he chewed slowly as if to extract every particle of flavor. What’s more, he knew for certain that his mind undoubtedly contained an unseen calendar: though he had forgotten Rosh Hashanah, some part of his mind had remembered that today marked the beginning of a new year. Perhaps it was this hidden knowledge that lay behind the malaise that had plagued him the entire day. With this thought, his aches and his heaviness vanished. His stride quickened as he headed toward Amsterdam and Simon de Vries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FRIEDRICH’S OFFICE, OLIVAER PLATZ 3, BERLIN—1925
For it is not you, gentlemen, who pass judgment on us. That judgment is spoken by the eternal court of history . . . Pronounce us guilty a thousand times over: the god- dess of the eternal court of history will smile and tear to pieces the State Prosecutor’s submissions and the court’s verdict; for she acquits us.
—Adolf Hitler, final lines of his 1924 Munich trial speech
On April 1, 1925, the VB had reappeared as a daily again. And who was reinstalled as editor, in spite of all my pleadings and arguments?—Rosenberg, the insufferable, narrow-minded, mock mythologist, the anti-Semitic half-Jew, who, I maintain to this day, did more harm to the movement than any man except Goebbels.
—Ernst (Putzi) Hanfstaengl
Hitler’s note utterly astounded me. Here, Friedrich, I want you to see it with your own eyes. I carry it in my wallet at all times. I now keep it in an envelope—it’s starting to fall apart.”
Friedrich took the packet gingerly, unfolded the envelope, and extracted the note.DEAR ROSENBERG, LEAD THE MOVEMENT FROM NOW ON.
ADOLF HITLER
“So this was given to you just after the failed putsch—two years ago?”
“The day after. He wrote it on November 10, 1923.”
“Tell me more about your reaction.”
“As I say, stunned. I hadn’t a single clue he would select me to succeed him.”
“Keep going.”
Alfred shook his head. “I . . .” He choked up for a moment and then regained his composure and blurted out: “I was jolted. Bewildered. How could it be? Hitler never spoke of my leading the party before this note—and never spoke of it again after he wrote it!”
Hitler never spoke of it before or after. Friedrich tried to digest that odd thought but continued focusing on Alfred’s emotions. His analytic training had made him more patient. He knew all would unfold in time. “A lot of emotion in your voice, Alfred. It’s important to follow feelings. What comes up for you?”
“Everything fell apart with the putsch. The party was dispersed. The leaders were either in jail, like Hitler, or out of the country, like Göring, or in hiding, like me. The government outlawed the party and permanently closed the Völkischer Beobachter. It reopened only a few months ago, and I’m back at my old job.”
“I want to hear about all of this, but for the moment go back to your feelings about the note. Do what we’ve done before: imagine the scene when you opened the note for the first time, and then say whatever floats into your mind.”
Alfred closed his eyes and concentrated. “Pride. Great pride—he chose me, me above all the rest—he passed his mantle to me. It meant everything. That’s why I carry it with me. I had no idea he trusted me and valued me so much. What else? Great joy. It was perhaps the proudest moment of my life. No, not perhaps, it was my proudest moment. I loved him so much for that. And then . . . and then . . .”
“And then what, Alfred? Don’t stop.”
“And then it all turned to shit! That note. Everything! My greatest joy turned into the greatest . . . the greatest pestilence of my life.”
“From joy to pestilence. Fill me in on the transformation.” Friedrich knew his comments were unnecessary. Alfred was bursting to talk.
“It would take all my time today to answer in detail, so much has happened.” Alfred looked at his watch.
“I know you can’t tell me everything about the last three years, but I’ll need at least some brief overview if I’m to really understand your distress.”
Alfred looked at the high ceiling of Friedrich’s spacious office and gathered his thoughts. “How to put it? In essence that note gave me an impossible task. I was asked to lead a sorry cadre of venomous men all scheming for power, all with personal agendas, each one set on defeating me. Each one shallow and stupid, each one threatened by my superior intelligence and entirely unable to comprehend my words. Each profoundly ignorant of the principles the party stood for.”
“And Hitler? He asked you to lead the party. No support from him?”
“Hitler? He has been entirely bewildering and has made my life more difficult. You’ve not followed the drama of our party?”
“Sorry, but I’m not keeping up with political events. I continue to be consumed by new developments in my field and by all the patients calling upon me—mostly ex-soldiers. Besides, it’s best I hear everything from your perspective.”
“I’ll summarize. As you probably know, in 1923 we tried to persuade the leaders of the Bavarian government to join us in a march on Berlin patterned on Mussolini’s march on Rome. But our putsch was an utter fiasco. In everyone’s view it could not have been worse. It was poorly planned and poorly executed and disintegrated at the first sign of resistance. When Hitler wrote that note to me, he was hiding in Putzi Hanfstaengl’
s attic, facing imminent arrest and possible deportation. When Frau Hanfstaengl delivered the note, she described what had happened. Three cars of policemen came to the house, and Hitler grew frenzied and waved his pistol, saying he would shoot himself before he let those swine take him. Fortunately, her husband had taught her jujitsu, and Hitler, with his injured shoulder, was no match for her. Frau Hanfstaengl wrestled the gun from his hands and threw it into a huge two-hundred-kilo barrel of flour. After quickly scribbling a note to me, Hitler went meekly to jail. Everyone thought his career was over. Hitler was finished—he was a national laughing stock.
“Or so it seemed. But it was at this lowest point that his true genius emerged. He turned the fiasco into pure gold. I’ll be honest: he has treated me like shit. I’m devastated by what he did to me, and yet at this moment I am more convinced than ever that he is a man of destiny.”
“Explain that to me, Alfred.”
“His moment of redemption came at the trial. There, all the other putsch participants meekly pleaded not guilty to the charges of treason. Some were given light sentences—for example, Hess got seven months. Some, like the untouchable Field Marshal Ludendorff, were found not guilty and freed immediately. But Hitler alone insisted on pleading guilty to treason and at his trial entranced the judges, the spectators, the reporters from every major newspaper in Germany with a four-hour miraculous speech. It was his greatest moment—a moment that made him a hero to all Germans. Surely you know of this?”