“So, then, your goals in therapy are . . .”
“Perhaps I’m being naïve, but isn’t it true that if I can change him into a more moral person, then he’ll do less mischief in the world? That has got to be better than doing nothing. Perhaps I can even help him address the power and the irrationality of his anti-Semitism.”
“Ah, if you could successfully analyze anti-Semitism, you’d get the Nobel prize that has, so far, eluded Freud’s grasp. You have ideas about how to approach that?”
“Not yet—it’s off in the distance, and certainly it’s my goal, not the patient’s goal.”
“And his goal? What does he want?”
“His explicit goal is to relate more effectively to Hitler and other party members. I would have to smuggle in anything loftier than that.”
“Are you a good smuggler?”
“Just a novice, but I have an idea. I’ve mentioned to you that I’ve tutored him on Spinoza. Well, in Part 4 of the Ethics—the section on overcoming the bondage of passion—there is a phrase that caught my attention. Spinoza says that reason is no match for passion and what we must do is to turn reason into a passion.”
“Hmm, interesting. How do you propose to do that?”
“I don’t have a precise method in mind. But I know that I must fertilize his curiosity about himself. Doesn’t everyone have an intense interest in himself? Doesn’t everyone want to know everything about himself? I know I do. I shall strive to inflame Alfred’s self-curiosity.”
“Interesting way of framing therapy, Dr. Pfister. An original way. Let’s hope he’ll cooperate, and I’ll do what I can to be helpful in supervision. But I wonder if there’s not a flaw in your argument.”
“Which is?”
“Overgeneralization. Therapists are different. We’re odd ducks. Most other people don’t share our passionate curiosity about the mind. So far, I hear that his goal is vastly different from yours: what he wants is to make himself more lovable to his fellow Nazis. So keep in mind the danger that therapy just might make things worse for all of us! Let me be more concrete. If you succeed in helping Rosenberg change in a way that would make Hitler love him more, then you’ll have only made him more efficiently evil.”
“I understand. My task is to help him embrace another, quite opposite goal—to understand and diminish his desperate and irrational need for Hitler’s love.”
Dr. Abraham smiled at his young student. “Precisely. I love your enthusiasm, Friedrich. Who knows? Maybe you can do this. Let’s search for some professional meetings in Munich you might attend and have additional sessions with him there.”
Bayreuth—October 1923
Despite his work pressures, Alfred followed through on his plan to pay a visit to Houston Stewart Chamberlain and easily persuaded Hitler to join him. Hitler, too, had been set afire by Chamberlain’s Foundations of the Nineteenth Century and would claim, to the end of his life, that Chamberlain (along with Dietrich Eckart and Richard Wagner) were his primary intellectual mentors.
Chamberlain lived in Bayreuth, in Wahnfried, Wagner’s massive old home, with his wife, Eva (Wagner’s daughter), and Cosima, Wagner’s eighty-six-year-old widow. The hundred-and-fifty-mile drive to Bayreuth was most pleasant for Alfred. It was his first trip in Hitler’s gleaming new Mercedes and an opportunity to enjoy Hitler’s sole attention for several hours.
A servant greeted them and led them upstairs, where Chamberlain sat in a wheelchair, his legs neatly covered by a blue and green tartan blanket, and stared out of the large window overlooking the Wagner inner courtyard. Ailing from some mysterious nervous disorder that left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak clearly, Chamberlain looked far older than his seventy years: his skin was blotchy, his eyes vacant, half of his face distorted by spasm. Fixing his eyes on Hitler’s face, Chamberlain nodded from time to time and appeared to comprehend Hitler’s words. He never glanced at Rosenberg. Hitler leaned forward, his mouth close to Chamberlain’s ear, and said, “I treasure your words in your great book, Foundations of the Nineteenth Century: ‘The Germanic race is engaged in a mortal struggle with the Jews that is to be fought not only with cannon but with every weapon of human life and society.’” Chamberlain nodded, and Hitler continued, “Herr Chamberlain, I promise that I am the man who will wage that war for you,” and went on at great length to describe his twenty-five-point program and his absolute unshakeable determination to have a Jew-free Europe. Chamberlain nodded vigorously and from time to time croaked, “Yes, yes.”
Later, when Hitler left the room for a private audience with Cosima Wagner, Rosenberg was left alone with Chamberlain and told him that at the age of sixteen he, like Hitler, had been enthralled by Foundations of the Nineteenth Century and that he, too, owed an enduring debt to Chamberlain. Then, leaning closer to Chamberlain’s ear, as Hitler had done, he confided, “I’m starting to write a book that I hope will continue your work for the next century.” Perhaps Chamberlain smiled—his face was so distorted that it was hard to tell. Alfred continued, “Your ideas and your words shall be everywhere in my pages. I am just beginning. It will be a five-year project—there is so much to be done. I have, however, just written a passage for the ending: ‘The sacred hours of the Germans will reappear when the symbol of awakening—the flag with the swastika sign of resurgent life—has become the sole prevailing creed of the Reich.’” Chamberlain grunted. Perhaps he said, “Yes, yes.”
Alfred sat back in his chair and looked about. Hitler was still nowhere to be seen. Alfred again bent over to Chamberlain’s ear, “Dear teacher, I need your help with something. It’s the Spinoza problem. Tell me how this Jew from Amsterdam could have written works so greatly revered by the greatest of German thinkers, including the immortal Goethe. How could this be possible?” Chamberlain moved his head in agitated fashion and uttered some garbled sounds of which Rosenberg could only distinguish, “Ja, Ja.” Shortly afterward he slumped into a deep sleep.
On their drive home, the two men spoke little of Chamberlain, for Alfred had another agenda: to persuade Hitler that the time had come for the party to act. Alfred reminded Hitler of the basic facts. “Chaos envelops Germany,” Alfred said. “Inflation is veering out of control. Four months ago, a dollar was worth 75,000 deutschmarks, while yesterday a dollar was worth 150 million marks. Yesterday my corner grocer was charging 90 million deutschmarks for a pound of potatoes. And I know for a fact that, shortly, the treasury printing presses will be rolling out 1-trillion-mark notes.”
Hitler nodded wearily. He had heard all this from Alfred several times.
“And look at all the coups cropping up all over,” Alfred continued. “The Communist putsch in Saxony, the Reichswehr reserve putsch in East Prussia, the Kapp coup in Berlin, the Rhenish separatists’ coup. But it’s Munich and all of Bavaria that’s the real powder keg ready to explode. Munich is crammed with a host of right-wing parties opposing the government in Berlin, but, of these, we are by far the strongest, the most powerful, and the best organized. It is our time! I’ve stirred up the populace with article after article in our newspaper, readying them for a major action by the party.”
Hitler still appeared uncertain. Alfred pressed him, “Your time has come. You must act now, or you will lose your moment.”
When the car arrived at the office building of the Völkischer Beobachter, Hitler merely said, “Much to think about, Rosenberg.”
A few days later Hitler visited Alfred at his office and with a big smile waved a letter he had just received from Houston Stewart Chamberlain and read parts of it aloud:Sept. 23, 1923
Most respected and dear Herr Hitler:
You have every right to be surprised at this intrusion, having seen with your own eyes how difficult it is for me to speak. But I cannot resist the urge to address a few words to you.
I have been wondering why it was you of all people, you who are so extraordinary in awakening people from sleep and humdrum routines, who recently gave me a longer and more refreshing sleep tha
n I have experienced since that fateful day in August 1914, when I was first struck down by this insidious sickness. Now I believe I understand that it is precisely this that characterizes and defines your being: the true awakener is at the same time the bestower of peace. . .
That you brought me peace is related very much to your eyes and hand gestures. Your eye works almost as a hand: it grips and holds a person; and you have the singular quality of being able to focus your words on one particular listener at any given moment. As for your hands, they are so expressive in their movement that they rival your eyes. Such a man brings rest to a poor suffering spirit! Especially when he is dedicated to the service of the Fatherland.
My faith in Germandom has never wavered for a moment, though my hopes had, I confess, reached a low ebb. At one blow you have transformed the state of my soul. That Germany in its hour of greatest need has given birth to a Hitler is proof of vitality; your actions offer further evidence, for a man’s personality and actions belong together.
I was able to sleep without a care. Nothing caused me to awaken again. May God protect you!
Houston Stewart Chamberlain
“He must have recovered his speech and dictated it—a magnificent letter,” said Alfred as he strained to conceal his envy. Then he quickly added, “And well deserved, Herr Hitler.”
“Now, let me give you some real news,” Hitler said. “Erich Ludendorff has joined forces with us!”
“Well done! Well done!” replied Alfred. Ludendorff was, to put it mildly, eccentric, but he was still universally respected as the world war field marshal.
“He agrees with my idea of a putsch,” Hitler continued. “He agrees that we should combine forces with other right-wing groups, even the monarchist groups and the Bavarian separatists, and storm into the evening meeting on November 8, kidnap several Bavarian government officials, and force them at gunpoint to accept me as their leader. The following day we will all march through the center of the city to the war ministry and, with the help of the hostages and the reputation of Field Marshal Ludendorff, win over the German army. And then we will emulate Mussolini’s march to Rome by marching on to Red Berlin and bring down the German democratic government.”
“Excellent! We’re on our way.” Alfred was so joyful that he barely minded Hitler overlooking that Alfred had suggested this very plan to him. He was used to having Hitler appropriate his ideas without crediting him.
But everything went wrong. The putsch was a complete fiasco. On the evening of November 8, Hitler and Alfred went together to the meeting of the coalition of right-wing parties. These parties had never before conferred together, and the meeting grew so unruly that at one point Hitler had to jump on a table and fire his pistol at the ceiling to establish order. The Nazis then kidnapped the delegates of the Bavarian government to hold as hostages. However, thinking they had come over to the Nazi view, the kidnappers failed to guard them properly, and the hostages escaped into the night. Nonetheless, Hitler acceded to Ludendorff’s insistence that they proceed with their mass march in the morning, with the hope of creating an uprising among the citizens. Ludendorff was certain that neither the army nor the police would dare to fire upon him. Rosenberg rushed back to the office and prepared the VB’s headlines calling for general revolt. Early in the morning of November 9, 1923, a column of two thousand men, many of them armed, including Hitler and Rosenberg, began their march to the center of Munich. In the front row were Hitler; Field Marshal Ludendorff, resplendent in his full military uniform with his world war pickle helmet; Hermann Göring, the popular world war ace wearing all his many war decorations; and Scheubner-Richter, who walked arm in arm with his close friend Hitler. Rosenberg was in the second row directly behind Hitler. Rudolf Hess marched behind Rosenberg, as did Putzi Hanfstaengl (the donor who had enabled the VB to become a daily paper). A few rows back, Heinrich Himmler marched, carrying the Nazi Party flag.
As they reached an open square, a barricade of troops awaited them. Hitler yelled to the troops to surrender. Instead they opened fire, and a three-minute firefight ensued during which the marchers immediately disbanded. Sixteen Nazis and three troops were killed. Field Marshal Ludendorff marched straight ahead unflinchingly to the barricade, pushed the rifles aside, and was greeted politely by an officer who apologized for the necessity of taking him into protective custody. Göring was wounded twice in the groin but crawled to safety and was taken to a kindly Jewish physician who gave him excellent treatment, after which he was quickly driven out of the country. Scheubner-Richter, who had locked arms with Hitler, was instantly killed and dragged Hitler to the ground, dislocating his shoulder. A bodyguard, Ulrich Graf, fell on Hitler and took several bullets, saving Hitler’s life.
Though the man standing next to Alfred was killed, Alfred was unharmed and crawled to the sidewalk away from the carnage and scampered into the crowd. He did not dare go home or to the office—the government immediately closed the VB indefinitely and posted guards before the newspaper offices. Ultimately Alfred persuaded an elderly woman to allow him to hide in her house during the next few days, while at night he wandered through Munich trying to learn the fate of his comrades. Hitler, in great pain, had crawled a few feet, was pulled into a waiting car, and, accompanied by a party physician, was driven to the home of Putzi Hanfstaengl, where his shoulder was treated and he was hidden in the attic. Just before he was arrested, he scribbled a note addressed to Alfred and asked Frau Hanfstaengl to deliver it. She found Alfred the following day and handed him the note, which he immediately ripped open and to his great surprise read:DEAR ROSENBERG, LEAD THE MOVEMENT FROM NOW ON.
ADOLF HITLER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RIJNSBURG—1662
Within a few days, Bento’s fear had subsided. Gone were the racing pulse, the tight chest, and the intrusive visions of the assassin’s attack. And what a blessed relief to breathe easily and feel safe in his skin! With some dispassion, he could even visualize the assassin’s face and, following Franco’s suggestion, look at the slashed black overcoat hanging in plain sight on the wall of his room.
For weeks after the assassination attempt and Franco’s visit, he pondered the mechanisms of overcoming terror. How had he recovered his equanimity? Was it not his improved understanding of the causes motivating the assassin? Bento leaned toward that explanation—it felt robust; it felt reasonable. Yet he was suspicious of his strong attachment to the power of understanding. After all, it hadn’t helped him at first; it was only after Franco appeared that the idea gained purchase. The more he thought about it, the clearer it was that Franco offered something essential to his recovery. Bento knew he had been at his worst when Franco arrived and then, very quickly, began to improve. But what precisely had Franco offered? Perhaps his major contribution was to have dissected the ingredients of the terror and to have demonstrated that Bento was particularly unsettled by the fact that his assassin was a Jew. In other words, the terror was augmented by his buried pain of separation from his people. That might explain Franco’s healing power: not only had he helped the process of reason, but, possibly even more importantly, he offered his sheer presence—his Jewish presence.
And Franco had also jolted Bento out of his tormented jealousy by confronting him with the irrationality of yearning for something that he neither truly desired nor could possibly have. Bento steadily regained his tranquility and before long reestablished his camaraderie with Clara Maria and Dirk. Still, dark clouds gathered in his mind once again the day Clara Maria appeared wearing a pearl necklace given to her by Dirk. The clouds became a major squall a few days afterward, when they announced their engagement. But this time reason prevailed; Bento maintained his equilibrium and refused to allow passions to rupture his relationships with his two good friends.
Even so, Bento clung to the tactile memory of Clara Maria holding his hand throughout that night after the attack. And he recalled, too, the way Franco had clasped his shoulder and also how he and his brother Gabriel had o
ften held hands. But there would be no more touching for him, however much his body yearned for it. Sometimes fantasies of touching and embracing Clara Maria or her aunt Martha, whom he also found attractive, stole into his mind, but they were easily swept away. Nighttime yearnings were another matter: he could lock no doors barring entry into his dreams, nor could he stem the nocturnal flow of his seed often staining his bedclothes. All this, of course, he held in the deepest vaults of silence, but were he to share it with Franco, he could predict the response: “It has always been thus—sexual pressure is part of our creatureliness; it is the force that allows our kind to persevere.”
Though Bento saw the wisdom of Franco’s advice to leave Amsterdam, he nonetheless lingered there for several more months. His linguistic skills as well as his powers of logic resulted in many Collegiants seeking his help with translation of Hebrew and Latin documents. Soon the Collegiants had formed a philosophy club headed by his friend Simon de Vries that met regularly and often discussed ideas formulated by Bento.
But this growing appreciative circle of acquaintances, so salutary for his self-esteem, also intruded heavily into his time, making it difficult for him to attend fully to the thoughts burgeoning within him. He spoke to Simon de Vries of his desire for a quieter life, and soon Simon, with the help of other philosophy club members, identified a house in Rijnsburg where he could live. Rijnsburg, a small community on the river Vliet forty kilometers from Amsterdam, was not only the center of the Collegiant movement but conveniently close to the University of Leiden, where Bento, now proficient in Latin, would be able to attend philosophy classes and enjoy the company of other scholars.
Bento found Rijnsburg much to his liking. The house was made of sturdy stone, with several small-paned windows looking out to a well-tended apple orchard. On the entry wall was painted a brief verse echoing the discontent of many Collegiants about the state of the world:Alas! If all men were wise,