“For an argument to have ‘calming power’ supports the idea that no things, in and of themselves, are really good or bad, pleasant or fearsome. It is only your mind that makes them so. Think of that, Franco—it is only your mind that makes them so. That idea has true power, and I am convinced it offers the key to healing my wound. What I must do is to alter my mind’s reaction to last night’s event. But I have not yet discovered how to do it.”
“I’m struck how you continue to philosophize even in the midst of your panic.”
“I have to see it as an opportunity for understanding. What can be more important than to learn firsthand how to temper the fear of death? Just the other day I read a passage by a Roman philosopher named Seneca, who said, ‘No dread dares to enter the heart that has purged itself of the fear of death.’ In other words, once you conquer the fear of death, you also conquer all other fears.”
“I’m beginning to understand more about your fascination with your panic.”
“The problem grows clearer, but the solution is still concealed. I wonder if I fear death particularly keenly now because I feel so full.”
“What?”
“I mean full in my mind. I have many undeveloped thoughts swirling in my mind, and I am inexpressibly pained to think that those thoughts may die stillborn.”
“Then take care, Bento. Protect these thoughts. And protect yourself. Though you are on the path of being a great teacher, you are, in some ways, very naïve. I think you possess so little rancor that you underestimate its existence in others. Listen to me: you are in danger and must leave Amsterdam . You must get out of the sight of the Jews, go into hiding, and do your thinking and writing secretly.”
“I think you have a fine teacher gestating inside of you. You give me good advice, Franco, and soon, very soon, I shall follow it. But now it is your turn to tell me of your life.”
“Not quite yet. I have a thought that may help with your terror. I have a question: do you think you’d be so wounded up here,” Franco pointed to his head, “if the assassin were just a plain crazy man, not a Jew with a particular grievance toward you?”
Bento nodded his head. “A most excellent question.” He leaned back against the bed poster, closed his eyes, and pondered it for several minutes. “I think I understand your point, and it is a most insightful one. No, I’m sure if he were not a Jew, the wound in my mind would not be so grievous.”
“Ah,” said Franco, “and so that means—”
“It has to mean that my panic is not only about death. It has an additional component, linked to my forced exile from the Jewish world.”
“I think so too. How painful is that exile right now? When last we talked, you expressed only relief at leaving the world of superstition and much joy at the prospect of freedom.”
“Indeed. And that relief and joy are with me still, but only in my waking life. Now I live two lives. During the day I am a new man who has shed his old skin, reads Latin and Greek, and thinks exciting, free thoughts. But at night I am Baruch, a Jewish wanderer being comforted by my mother and sister, being quizzed on the Talmud by the elders, and stumbling about in charred ruins of a synagogue. The further I get from full waking consciousness, the more I circle back to my beginnings and clutch at those phantoms of my childhood. And this may surprise you, Franco: Almost every night as I lie in this bed awaiting sleep, you pay me a visit.”
“I hope I am a good guest.”
“Far better than you could ever imagine. I invite you in because you bring comfort to me. And you are a good guest today. Even as we speak, I feel ataraxia seeping back into me. And something more than ataraxia—you help me think. Your question about the assassin—how I would react if he were not a Jew—helps me truly grasp the complexity of determinants. I know now I must look deeper at antecedents and consider thoughts not fully conscious, nighttime as well as daytime thoughts. Thank you for that.”
Franco smiled broadly and clasped Bento’s shoulder.
“And now, Franco, you must tell me about your life.”
“Much has happened, even though my life is less adventuresome than yours. My mother and sister arrived a month after you left, and we found, with the help of the synagogue fund, a small flat not far from your import store. I pass the store often and see Gabriel, who will nod but not speak to me. I think it is because he knows, as does everyone, of my role in your cherem. He is married now and lives with his wife’s family. I work in my uncle’s shipping business and help inventory his arriving ships. I study hard and take Hebrew lessons several times a weeks with other immigrants. Learning Hebrew is tedious but also exciting. It comforts me and offers a lifeline, a sense of continuity with my father and his father and his father back for hundreds of years. That sense of continuity is immensely stabilizing.
“Your brother-in-law, Samuel, is now a rabbi and teaches us four times a week. Other rabbis, even Rabbi Mortera, take turns teaching the other days. I get the impression from comments of Samuel that your sister, Rebekah, is well. What else?”
“And what of your cousin Jacob?”
“He has moved back to Rotterdam, and I rarely see him.”
“And the important question: are you content, Franco?”
“Yes, but a melancholy sort of contentment. Knowing you has shown me another facet of life, a life of the mind that I do not fully experience. I am greatly comforted to know that you will be there and continue to share your explorations with me. My world is smaller, and I can already see its future contours. My mother and sister have selected my wife, a girl of sixteen from our village in Portugal, and we shall marry in a few weeks. I approve of the selection—she is comely, pleasant, and brings a smile to my face. She will make a good wife.”
“Will you be able to talk to her of all your interests?”
“I believe so. She, too, is starved for knowledge. Like most girls from our village, she doesn’t even know how to read. I have begun her education.”
“Not too much education, I hope. There may be danger in that. But, tell me, is there talk of me in the community?”
“Until this incident, I have heard none. It’s as though the community were ordered not only to avoid you but also not to speak your name. I don’t hear it uttered, though of course I know nothing about what is said behind closed doors. Perhaps it is only my imagination, but I do believe your spirit floats about the community and influences much. For example, our Hebrew training sessions are extraordinarily intense and permit no questioning whatsoever. It’s as though the rabbis were making certain that another Spinoza will never be born.”
Bento bowed his head.
“Perhaps I should not have said that, Bento. I was unkind.”
“You can be unkind only by shielding me from the truth.”
A gentle knock at the door and then Clara Maria’s voice: “Bento.”
Bento opened the door.
“Bento, I must go out soon. How much longer will your friend stay?”
Bento glanced questioningly at Franco, who whispered that he had to leave shortly, for he had no good reason to be absent from work. Bento replied, “Clara Maria, give us just a few more minutes, please.”
“I’ll be waiting in the music room.” Clara Maria closed the door softly.
“Who is she, Bento?”
“The schoolmaster’s daughter and my teacher. She’s teaches me Latin and Greek also.”
“Your teacher? Impossible. How old is she?
“About sixteen. She started teaching me at thirteen. She is a prodigy. Quite unlike any other girl.”
“She seems to regard you with love and tenderness.”
“Yes, that is so, and I reciprocate those sentiments but . . .” Bento hesitated; he was not accustomed to share his innermost feelings. “But today she has much aggravated my distress by showing even more tenderness toward my friend and classmate.”
“Ah, jealousy. That can indeed be painful. I am so sorry, Bento. But last time did you not speak to me of embracing a life of soli
tude and forsaking the idea of a mate? You seemed so committed or perhaps resigned to a life alone.”
“Committed and resigned. I am absolutely committed to a life of the mind and know I can never take on the responsibility of a family. And I also know that it is impossible legally to marry either Christian or Jew. And Clara Maria is Catholic. A superstitious Catholic at that.”
“So you have difficulty giving up that which you really don’t want and cannot have?”
“Right! I like the way you drill directly to the heart of my absurdity.”
“And you say you love her? And your good friend whom she favors?”
“I had love for him as well, until today. He helped me move after the cherem; he saved my life last night. He is a good man. And planning to be a physician.”
“But you want her to desire you rather than him, even though you know that would make all three of you unhappy. “
“Yes, that is true.”
“And the greater the desire she has for you, the greater will be her despair at not having you.”
“Yes, that is undeniable.”
“But you love her, and you desire her happiness. And if she is in pain, you too will suffer?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. Everything you say is correct.”
“And one last question. You say she is a superstitious Catholic? And Catholics adore ritual and miracles. How then does she relate to your ideas of God as Nature, to your rejection of ritual and superstition?”
“I would never speak of those views with her.”
“Because she will reject them and perhaps reject you as well?”
Bento nodded. “Every word you say is true, Franco. I have strived so hard, given up so much to be free, and now I’ve given up my freedom and become enthralled by Clara Maria. When I think of her, I am quite incapable of thinking of other loftier thoughts. In this matter it is obvious that I am not my own master but am enslaved by passion. Though reason shows me what is better, I am forced to follow what is worse.”
“It’s a very old story, Bento. We have always been enslaved by love. How shall you liberate yourself?”
“I can be free only if I absolutely sever my connections to sensual pleasure, wealth, and fame. If I do not heed reason, I will remain a slave to passion.”
“Yet, Bento,” said Franco, standing and preparing to depart, “we know that reason is no match for passion.”
“Yes. Only a stronger emotion can conquer an emotion. My task is clear: I must learn to turn reason into a passion.”
“To turn reason into a passion,” whispered Franco as they walked toward the music room, where Clara Maria waited. “A stupendous task. When next we meet I hope to hear of your progress.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BERLIN—MARCH 26, 1923
I find it difficult to get on with our Baltic families: they seem to possess some negative sort of quality, and at the same time to assume an air of superiority, of being masters of everything, that I have encountered nowhere else.
Adolf Hitler on Alfred Rosenberg
Dear Friedrich,
With regret, I must cancel my upcoming visit. Though this is the third time I’ve done so, please don’t give up on me. I am entirely serious in my desire for consultation with you, but demands on my time have sharply increased. Last week Hitler asked me to replace Dietrich Eckart as editor in chief of the Völkischer Beobachter. Hitler and I are closer now—he is much pleased about my publication of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. A month ago, with the help of a generous donor, the VB became a daily and now has a circulation of 33,000 (and, by the way, you can now find copies available on Berlin newsstands).
Every day there is a new crisis to report. Every day the future of Germany seems to hang in the balance. For example, at the moment we must decide how to cope with the French, who have invaded the Ruhr in order to extract their criminal reparation payments. And every day spiraling inflation brings our entire country to the edge of the precipice. Can you believe that a U.S. dollar, that only a year ago was worth 400 marks, is worth 20,000 marks this morning? Can you believe employers in Munich are beginning to pay workers three times a day? Is it also true in Berlin? The wife accompanies her husband to work, and they are paid once in the morning, and then she runs to buy breakfast before prices rise. She appears at noon to collect the pay (higher now) and must again rush to buy lunch—100,000 marks that bought four wursts the day before now buys only three—and a third time, again at a higher rate, at the end of the day, when the money is safe once the markets close until the morning stock exchange opens. It’s a scandal, a tragedy.
And it will get worse. I believe this will be the greatest hyperinflation in history: all Germans will be pauperized except, of course, the Jews, who, naturally, profit from this nightmare. Their company safes bulge with gold and foreign currency.
My life as a publisher is so hectic I find it impossible to leave the office for lunch, much less board the train for the ten-hour, 20-million-mark journey to Berlin. Please let me know if ever anything brings you to Munich so we could meet here. I would be most grateful. Have you ever considered practicing in Munich? I could help: think of all the free ads I could run for you.
Dr. Karl Abraham read the letter and handed it back to Friedrich. “And how do you plan to respond?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to use my supervisory hour today to discuss it. You remember him? I described my talk with him some months ago.”
“The publisher of The Protocols of Zion? How could I forget him?”
“I haven’t seen Herr Rosenberg since then. Just some letters. But here’s yesterday’s copy of his paper, the Völkischer Beobachter. Just look at this headline:CHILD ABUSE IN VIENNA BORDELLO:
MANY JEWS INVOLVED
Glancing at the headline, Dr. Abraham shook his head in disgust and asked, “And The Protocols—have you read it?”
“Only extracts and a few discussions that label it a fraud.”
“An obvious fraud, but a dangerous one. And I have no doubt that your patient, Rosenberg, knew that. Reliable Jewish scholars in my community tell me that the Protocols were concocted by a disreputable Russian writer, Serge Nilus, who wished to persuade the tsar that the Jews were trying to dominate Russia. After reading The Protocols, the tsar ordered a series of bloody pogroms.”
“So,” Friedrich said, “my question is how can I do therapy with a patient who commits such vile acts? I know he is dangerous. How do I handle my countertransference?”
“I prefer to think of countertransference as the therapist’s neurotic response to the patient. In this case, your feelings have a rational basis. The proper question becomes, ‘How do you work with someone who is, by any objective standard, a repulsive, malignant person capable of much destruction?’”
Friedrich considered his supervisor’s words. “Repulsive, malignant. Strong words.”
“You’re right, Dr. Pfister—those were my terms, not yours, and I believe you’re alluding, quite correctly, to another issue—the countertransference of the supervisor—which may interfere with my ability to teach you. Being a Jew makes it impossible for me personally to treat this lethal, anti-Semitic individual, but let’s see if perhaps I can still be of use as a supervisor. Tell me more about your feelings toward him.”
“Though I’m not Jewish, I’m personally offended by his anti-Semitism. After all, the people I am closest to here are almost all Jews—my analyst, you, and most of the faculty of the institute.” Friedrich picked up Alfred’s letter. “Look. He writes proudly of his career advancements, expecting me to be pleased. Instead I feel increasingly offended and frightened for you, for all civilized Germans. I think he’s evil. And his idol, this Hitler, may be the devil incarnate.”
“That’s one part. Yet there is another part of you that wants to continue seeing him. Why?”
“It’s what we discussed before—my intellectual interest in analyzing someone whose past I shared. I’ve known his brother all my life; I knew Alf
red as a young child.”
“But Dr. Pfister, it’s obvious that you’ll never be able to analyze him. The distance alone makes that impossible. At best you’ll see him only for a few scattered sessions and never be able to do deep archaeological work on his past.”
“Right. I have to let that idea go. There must be other reasons.”
“I remember your telling me about your sense of an annihilated past. There is only your good friend, the brother. I’ve forgotten his name—”
“Eugen.”
“Yes, there remains only Eugen Rosenberg and to a much lesser extent, in that you were never close to him, Eugen’s younger brother, Alfred. Your parents are dead, no siblings, you have no other contacts with your early life—neither persons nor places. It seems to me that you’re trying to deny aging or transience by searching for something imperishable. You’re dealing with that, I hope, in your personal analysis?”
“Not yet. But your comments are helpful. I cannot stop time by clinging to Eugen or Alfred. Yes, Dr. Abraham, you’re making it clear that seeing Alfred does nothing for my inner conflicts.”
“That is so important, Dr. Pfister, I will repeat it. Seeing Alfred Rosenberg can do nothing for your inner conflicts. The place for that is in your own analysis. Right?”
Friedrich nodded, resigned.
“So I ask again—why do you want to see him?”
“I’m unsure. I agree that he is a dangerous man, a man who spreads hatred. Yet I still think of him as the little boy next door rather than a man who is evil. I consider him misguided, not demonic. He truly believes that racial nonsense, and his thoughts and actions follow in a perfectly consistent manner from Houston Stewart Chamberlain’s premises. I don’t believe he is a psychopath, a sadist, or a violent person. He’s rather timid in fact, almost cowardly and insecure. He relates poorly to others, and is entirely given over to the hope of love from his leader, Hitler. But still, he seems aware of his limitations and surprisingly ready to do some therapeutic work.”