Read The Spinoza Problem Page 31


  In his desperation he summoned Friedrich’s face into his mind. Friedrich would have known what to do. What would he have suggested? No doubt he would have attempted to understand the cause of this cursed depression. Alfred imagined Friedrich’s words: “When did it all start? Let your mind run free, and go back to the beginning of your decline. Simply observe all the ideas, all the images streaming into your mind. Take note of them. Jot them down if you can.”

  Alfred tried. He closed his eyes and observed the passing parade in his mind. He drifted back through time and watched a scene materialize.

  It is several years ago, and he is in his VB office, sitting at the desk that Hitler bought for him. He makes the final edit on the final page of his masterpiece, Der Mythus des 20. Jahrhunderts (The Myth of the Twentieth Century), lays down his red pencil, grins triumphantly, arranges the seven-hundred-page manuscript into a tidy stack held in place with two thick rubber bands, and clasps it lovingly to his chest.

  Yes, the recall of his finest moment brings, even now, a tear, perhaps two, streaming down his face. Alfred felt sympathy for that younger self, the young man who knew that the Mythus would astound the world. Its gestation had been long and laborious—ten years of Sundays plus every other hour in the week he could free—but worth the price. Yes, yes—he knew he had neglected his wife and his daughter, but how could that matter, compared to creating a book that would set the world on fire, a book that would offer a new philosophy of history based on blood and race and soul, a new appreciation of the Volk, of völkisch art, architecture, literature, and music and, most important of all, a new groundwork of values for the future Reich.

  Alfred reached over to the bed table for his personal copy of the Mythus and flipped randomly through the pages. Certain passages instantly brought to mind the physical site of his inspiration. It was when he visited the cathedral of Cologne and was viewing stained-glass crucifixions of Christ and the hosts of emaciated, weakened martyrs that an inspired idea came to him—the Roman Catholic Church did not oppose Judaism. Though the church professed to be anti-Jewish, it was in fact the main channel through which Jewish ideas infected the healthy body of German thought. He read his own words with great pleasure:The great Germans lived in conformity with nature and esteemed their fine physiques and manly beauty. But that has been undermined by Christian antagonism to the flesh and by sentimental ideas about preserving the lives of defective children and by allowing criminals and those with hereditary diseases to propagate their defects into the next generation. Thus the contamination of race purity produces fragmentation of character, loss of the sense of direction and thought, and inner uncertainty. The German people are not born in sin but born in nobility. . . The Old Testament as a book of religious instruction must be ended once and for all. With it will end the unsuccessful attempt of the last one and a half millennia to make us all spiritual Jews. . . The spirit of fire—the heroic must take the place of the crucifixion.

  Yes, he thought, such passages resulted in the Mythus being placed on the Catholic index of banned books in 1934. But that was no misfortune—that was a godsend that increased sales. Over three hundred thousand copies sold, and now my Mythus is second only to Mein Kampf, and yet here I am—emotionally bankrupt.

  Alfred put the book away, rested his head on his pillow, and drifted into meditations. My Mythus has brought me such joy but also such torment! The shithead literary reviewers—every single one of them used the term unbegreiflich (incomprehensible). Why didn’t I respond to them? Why didn’t I ask them in public print whether it had ever occurred to them that my writing might be too subtle and complex for insect brains? Why did I not remind them of the consequences of collisions between average minds and great works: invariably the inferior attack the superior thinkers. What does the public want? They clamor for the stupid vulgarity of Julius Streicher. Even Hitler prefers Streicher’s prose. He twists the dagger every time he reminds me that Streicher’s rag, Der Stürmer, regularly outsells my Beobachter.

  And to think that not a single one of the Nazi leaders has read my Mythus! Only Hess had been forthright and apologetically told me that he had tried hard but could not negotiate the difficult prose. The others never even mentioned the book to me. Imagine—a huge best seller, and the envious bastards ignore me. But why should that trouble me? What could I expect from that lot? The problem is Hitler, always Hitler. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that my decline began the day I heard that Goebbels had been telling everyone Hitler had thrown down the Mythus after reading just a few pages and exclaimed, “Who can understand this stuff?” Yes, that was the moment of the deadly wound. In the end it’s only Hitler’s judgment that matters. But if he didn’t love it, then why did he have it placed in every library and have it listed as essential reading on the official Nazi Party card? He is even ordering the Hitlerjugend (Hitler youth) to read it. Why do this and at the same time absolutely refuse to associate himself with my book?

  I can understand his public stance. I know that Catholic support is still vital to his position as Führer, and, of course, he can’t publicly support a work so blatantly anti-Christian. When we were young, in the ’20s, Hitler agreed wholeheartedly with my antireligious stance. I know he still does. In private he goes farther than I—how many times have I heard him say he’d hang the priests alongside the rabbis? I understand his public stance. But why not say something affirmative, anything, to me privately? Why not once invite me for lunch and a private talk? Hess told me that when the Archbishop of Cologne complained to Hitler about the Mythus, Hitler replied, “I have no use for the book. Rosenberg knows it. I told him. I do not want to know about heathen things like the Cult of Wotan and so on.” When the archbishop persisted, Hitler proclaimed, “Rosenberg is our party dogmatist,” and then chided the archbishop for boosting the sales of the Mythus by attacking the book so vehemently. And when I offered to resign from the party if my Mythus caused him embarrassment, he simply brushed the idea aside—again without offering to meet privately. And yet Hitler meets privately with Himmler all the time, and Himmler is more blatantly and aggressively anti-Catholic than I am.

  I know he must have some respect for me. He offered me one important post after another: diplomatic assignments in London, then in Norway, then head of the ideological education of the NSDAP and the German labor front, and all related organizations. Important positions. But why do I only find out about my appointments by mail? Why not call me into his office, shake my hand, sit down and talk? Am I so repulsive?

  Yes, there’s no doubt: Hitler is the problem. More than anything in the world I want his attention. More than anything, I dread his vexation. I run the most influential newspaper in Germany; I am in charge of the spiritual and philosophical education of all Nazis. But am I writing the necessary articles? Giving the necessary lectures? Planning curricula? Overseeing the education of all young Germans? No, Reichsleiter Rosenberg is too busy brooding about why he hasn’t received a loving smile or nod or, God forbid, a lunch invitation from Adolf Hitler!

  I disgust myself. This has got to stop!

  Alfred arose and walked to the desk in his room. Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted his “No” folder. (He had two folders, a “Yes” folder containing positive reviews, fan letters, and newspaper articles and a ‘No’ folder, holding all contrary opinions.) The “Yes” folder was well-worn. Several times a week Alfred perused complimentary reviews and fan letters that served as a daily tonic—like taking his morning vitamins. But now the tonic was losing potency. Now all “Yes” comments barely penetrated, a millimeter at most, and rapidly evaporated. The “No” folder, on the other hand, was unknown territory—a cavern rarely visited. Today! Today would be the turning point! He would confront his demons. As Alfred reached into the unvisited folder, he imagined the surprised letters and articles scurrying for cover. A smile appeared on his lips, the first in many weeks, as he appreciated his droll sense of humor. He extracted an item randomly—it was time to over
come this foolishness. A brave man forces himself to read hurtful things every day until they no longer hurt. He looked at it—a letter from Hitler dated August 24, 1931:My dear Herr Rosenberg: I am just reading in the Völkischer Beobachter, edition 235/236, page 1, an article entitled “Does Wirth Intend to Come Over?” The tendency of the article is to prevent a crumbling away from the present form of government. I myself am traveling all over Germany to achieve exactly the opposite. May I therefore ask that my own paper not stab me in the back with tactically unwise articles?

  With German Greetings,

  Adolf Hitler

  A wave of despair enveloped him. The letter was five years old but still potent, still hurtful. Paper cuts inflicted by Hitler never healed. Alfred shook his head vigorously to clear his head. Think about this man named Hitler, he told himself. He is, after all, only a man. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts flow.I introduced Hitler to the breadth and depth of German culture. I showed him the immensity of the Jewish scourge. I polished his ideas of race and blood. He and I walked the same streets, sat in the same cafés, talked incessantly, worked together on Beobachter articles, once even sketched together. But no longer. Now I can only watch him in astonishment, like a hen gazing up at a hawk. I was witness to his gathering together the scattered party members when he left prison, to his entering parliamentary elections, to his building a propaganda machine the likes of which the world had never before seen—a machine that invented direct mail and campaigned continuously, even when there were no elections. I saw him shrug off poor returns of less than 5 percent the first few years and keep improving until 1930, when his party became the second largest in Germany with 18 percent of the vote. And in 1932 I ran huge headlines announcing that the Nazis had become the largest party, with 38 percent of the vote. Some say it was Goebbels who was the mastermind, but I know it was Hitler. Hitler was behind everything. I covered every step of the way for the Beobachter. I saw him fly from city to city making appearances all over the county on the same day and persuading the populace that he was an Übermensch, capable of being everywhere at once. I admired his fearlessness as he deliberately scheduled meetings in the midst of dangerous Communist-controlled neighborhoods and commanded his storm troopers to battle the Bolshevists on the streets. I saw him reject my advice and run against Hindenburg in 1932. He gathered only 37 percent of the votes, but he showed me he was right to run: he knew no one could have defeated Hindenberg, but the election made him a household name. A few months later he agreed to a coalition Hitler/Papen government and then soon became chancellor. I followed every single political step, and I still don’t know how he did it.

  And the Reichstag fire. I remember how he showed up wild-eyed at my office at 5 am, yelling “Where is everyone?” and demanded huge coverage of the Communists burning down the Reichstag. I still don’t think the Communists had anything to do with the fire, but no matter—in a stroke of genius he used the fire to ban the Communist Party and assume absolute one-man power. He never won a majority vote, never more than 38 percent, and there he was—an absolute ruler! How did he do it? I still don’t know!

  Alfred’s reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door and the entry of Dr. Gebbardt, followed by Friedrich Pfister. “I have a surprise for you, Reichsleiter Rosenberg. I bring an old friend who may prove useful in treating your condition. I’ll leave the two of you to discuss this alone.”

  Alfred glared at Friedrich for a long while before saying, “You betrayed me. You broke your vow to me about secrecy. How else could he have known that you and I—”

  Friedrich wheeled about instantly and, without a word or glance at Alfred, strode out of the room.

  Panicky, Alfred flopped back on the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his rapid breathing.

  A few minutes later Friedrich returned with Dr. Gebbardt, who said, “Dr. Pfister has asked me to tell you how I selected him. Do you not remember, Reichsleiter Rosenberg, our conversation three or four weeks ago, in which I asked you whether you had ever bared yourself completely to anyone? Your exact words were, ‘a friend from Estonia, now living here, Dr. Friedrich Pfister.’”

  Alfred shook his head slowly. “I vaguely remember our discussion but do not recall using his name.”

  “You did indeed. How else could I have known it? Or known he was in Germany? Last week, when your depression deepened and you would not speak to me, I decided to try to locate your friend, thinking that a visit from him might be salubrious. When I learned he was in the Wehrmacht, I asked the Führer to order his transfer to the Hohenlychen Clinic.”

  “Would you mind,” asked Friedrich, “telling Reichsleiter Rosenberg about my response?”

  “Only that you once knew him growing up in Estonia.”

  “And . . .” prodded Friedrich.

  “There was nothing more . . . except that you regretted leaving the many patients who depended on you but that nothing took precedence over following the Führer’s orders.”

  “May I have a brief private conversation with Reichsleiter Rosenberg before you leave the ward this morning?”

  “Of course. I’ll wait for you at the nurses’ station.”

  When the door closed, Friedrich said, “Other questions, Reichsleiter Rosenberg?”

  “Alfred, please, Friedrich. I am Alfred. Call me Alfred.”

  “All right. Other questions, Alfred? He’s waiting.”

  “You’re to be my doctor? I assure you that under the old conditions I would welcome it. But, now, how can I possibly speak to you? You’re in the Wehrmacht and under orders to report to him.”

  “Yes, I understand your dilemma. I would feel the same way if I were in your position.” Friedrich sat down on the chair next to the bed and thought for a few moments; then he rose and left the room, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and soon returned with Dr. Gebbardt.

  “Sir,” he addressed Dr. Gebbardt, “my orders are to attend to Reichsleiter Rosenberg, and, of course, I shall follow those orders to the best of my ability. But there is an impediment. He and I are old acquaintances, and we’ve long shared intimate concerns with one another. If I’m to be helpful to him, then it is essential he and I have complete privacy. I must be able to promise him absolute confidentiality. I know that daily notes in the medical chart are mandatory, and I ask that I be permitted to enter notes describing only his medical condition.”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Pfister, but I can understand the necessity for privacy in this instance. It is not standard procedure, but nothing takes precedence over Reichsleiter Rosenberg’s recovery and return to his important work. I agree to your request.” He saluted both men and departed.

  “Does this reassure you, Alfred?”

  Alfred nodded. “I am reassured.”

  “And are there no other questions?”

  “I am satisfied. Despite the fractious end of our last encounter I continue to have a strange trust in you. I say ‘strange’ because in truth I trust practically no one. And I need your help. Last year I was hospitalized here for three months in a similar state—a deep black hole. I could not climb out. I felt finished. I could not sleep. I was exhausted yet couldn’t sit still, couldn’t rest.”

  “Your condition—we call it ‘agitated depression’—almost always resolves in about three to six months. I can help you shorten that.”

  “I will be eternally grateful. Everything—my whole life—is in jeopardy.”

  “Let’s go to work. You know my approach and probably won’t be surprised to hear me say that our first chore is to clear away all obstacles to our working together. I, like you, have concerns. Let me gather my thoughts.”

  Friedrich closed his eyes for a few moments and began. “It’s best if I clear the air and just say what comes to mind. I have troubling doubts about our working together. We’re too different. My propensity is to understand, to uncover the hidden roots of difficulties—that’s the basic belief of the psychoanalytic method. Full knowledge removes conflicts and promot
es healing. Yet, with you, I worry that I cannot take that path. Last time, when I attempted to explore the sources of your difficulties, you grew angry and defensive and charged out of my office. So I worry if I, or at least that approach, can be useful to you.”

  Alfred stood up and paced about his room.

  “Am I unsettling you by my frankness?”

  “No, it’s just my nerves. I can’t sit for too long. I appreciate your candor. No one else speaks so forthrightly to me. You’re my one friend, Friedrich.”

  Friedrich tried to digest those words. He was moved despite himself. And he was furious at having been transferred with no advance notice to the Hohenlychen Clinic. His sudden transfer meant abandoning a large number of patients in the midst of their treatment without being able to provide a definite date of return. Nor did he relish seeing Alfred Rosenberg again. Six years ago, he watched Alfred Rosenberg’s back as he stormed out of his office muttering sinister threats about the Jewish roots of his profession, and was relieved to have seen the last of him. Moreover, he had tried to read The Myth of the Twentieth Century. But like everyone else he found it incomprehensible. It was one of those best sellers everyone bought but no one read. What little he read alarmed him. Alfred may be suffering, he plaintively says I’m his only friend, but he is a dangerous man—dangerous for Germany, for everyone.

  The thoughts in the Mythus and Mein Kampf were parallel—he remembered Alfred saying Hitler had stolen his ideas. Both books sickened him—so vile, so base. And so menacing that he had begun to consider emigration and had already written to Carl Jung and Eugen Bleuler to enquire about a post at the Zurich hospital where he had trained. But then came the accursed conscription letter congratulating him on his appointment as an Oberleutnant in the Wehrmacht. He should have acted earlier. He had been warned by his analyst, Hans Meyer, who several years ago read Mein Kampf over a weekend, foresaw the cataclysm to come, and began advising every single one of his Jewish patients to leave the country immediately. He himself had emigrated to London within a month.