Chapter 68

Klaus was astounded at the amount of human energy that can be released by pushing all conflicts into the unconscious.

He was an educated man; he knew that the Nazis represented a radical break with European traditions – but then, Germany had never really been a part of Europe anyway. That Europe. The Europe he had studied in England. The Europe of reason and compromise and all the natural difficulties of different viewpoints. In Germany, there were no different viewpoints. There was one note; you could play it loud, or soft.

Klaus had been out of Germany for six years. When he had returned, he had mostly stayed at his father’s house. He had spent a little time in the larger cities – mostly Berlin and Hamburg, but they became depressing as the Depression worsened. His city friends had scattered with the onset of Nazism; a few had fled, most had joined. His local friends – the rural idiots, he called them – were largely indifferent to politics. They were happy that the Nazis were in power, because they got to keep their farms, which had been mortgaged to the hilt during the Depression, when it was impossible to make a living from honest crops. But such city matters as freedom of the press didn’t trouble them much.

In his new ‘Nazi experiment,’ Klaus had tried talking to them about Hitler, but it didn’t do any good. It was quite fascinating, and he found it hard to avoid the alienating contempt of the intellectual. They could only see politics in the most local, tangible and practical of terms. They cared nothing for freedom, the Reichstag or the death of the Republic. They wanted good rains and dependable insurance. They wanted their sons to work and their daughters to get married. They wanted to go to church and sit with a pipe. They wanted to know the words to every song that could be sung. They were the rhythm of the land, of the seasons, of the decades between birth, marriage and re-birth. When he was younger, Klaus thought that they might be wise, in their own slow, stolid way. But now, he knew that it was not so. Extend that principle, he thought, and trees become sages.

The Nazis were a curious bunch. Klaus could never quite decide if they believed their own propaganda or not. They would seem to – some at the salon evenings at Count Orsky’s were most passionate on this point – but in their very next breath, they could as easily say that all these lies were only designed for the masses, and that whoever swallowed such idiotic bait was utterly unsophisticated. Klaus could not follow their transitions.

Another curious item was the Nazi’s ability to combine a hatred of authority with an absolute allegiance to the Fuhrer. When Klaus, early on, began to point out some of the contradictions inherent in the Nazi theory of life and history, he was reviled. Any attempt to bring the authority of logic or experience on their beliefs was considered more insulting than a physical attack. They hated external authorities, but crawled before the image of Hitler without a thought. Most odd.

Their attitude towards religion was strange as well. Hitler was compared to Christ, as someone who suffered, fought and bled for the sake of freeing his people. The Germans were the Chosen People (a phrase which, in conjunction with their anti-Semitism, was strikingly strange), destined by God to rule over mankind. Yet they did not like traditional Christianity. Endless arguments raged about the creation of a Nazi Church. Hitler was divine – there was little question of that. But what relationship did Hitler have to Christianity? The permutations were endless, the arguments exquisite. It seemed to Klaus, at times, as if he were transported back in time to some of the more obscure debates of medieval scholasticism. Where did the next generation after Kane and Abel come from? There was no other woman. Incest?

Nazis could not sit still for long. Well, that was only mostly true. Most of them could not. Some of them sat perfectly still. They had thin little round glasses, frozen facial expressions, and acerbic tongues. They were paper flesh around some sort of icy core. Coagulated rage, was a phrase which popped into Klaus’s mind from time to time.

There were those who were in it for the violence. That was clear. Klaus remembered this type from the Twenties. The men who had come of age in the Great War, and had very little use for life in ‘Civvy Street.’ They lived for the military life. They were, in their personal lives, extremely disorganized. They loved the training, the uniforms, the camaraderie, staying up half the night singing, the regular meals, the external regimentation, the sense of purpose. They loved the excitement of violence.

Then, there were the degenerates. Something in the Nazi life had loosed the restraints of sexual deviance. It might have had something to do with Julius Streicher, who always carried a whip, had a legendary collection of bestial pornography, and had private parties which only the basest imagination could picture. Klaus was occasionally tempted to ask if Streicher was the kind of German who represented the Master Race, but never did. He could imagine the answer. Certain men are above morality. They represent a higher ethos. They cannot be judged by historical standards. Blah, blah, blah.

It wasn’t that Klaus didn’t believe in any of these things. He did, and he didn’t. He tried explaining this to his father once, soon after his indoctrination began. Martin was clearly going through some profound moral crisis, which Klaus found both amusing and depressing. To imagine that there is One Answer to all these questions, which have merely been placed in our minds as pleasant diversions…

Martin had asked him whether he though the Nazis were immoral.
“I know that this is delicate, son,” said Martin earnestly, one night after everyone else had gone to bed, “because you’re sort of in the thick of things, but I have to know what you think.”
“About what? The Nazis being immoral?” Klaus smiled. “I – I would say that that is sort of like the question posed to a man, the question of: how is your wife? His answer: compared to what?” Klaus laughed. “I think that is brilliant! You could spend your whole life thinking about that exchange, and still not be done.”
“In your heart. In your heart?”
“Oh, father! You suffered a lot to get me educated. Surely you don’t want me to fall back on such a faulty oracle!”
“But they have concentration camps. It is rumoured.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure they do. I would actually be shocked if they didn’t.”
“So – what do you think?”
“I hope I never end up in one. But if I did, well, that would just be the next chapter in the story. You shouldn’t be so attached to things, father.”
It was strange how, since the coming of the Nazis, father and son had changed places, as far as their authority went. Klaus sat, perfectly composed. Martin sat, hunched over, staring at the wooden table.
“I don’t know whether to act against them.”
Klaus smiled. “I am glad that you trust me enough not to think I will turn you in. Our relationship has improved considerably.”
“If you did…” started Martin, then paused. “If you did, then I wouldn’t have to decide. Just experience. Martyrdom is easier than questioning.”
“You can say that now!”
“What do you think, though?” insisted Martin, biting at his cuticle.
“Dad, you’re going to chew your hand off,” said Klaus gently, taking his father’s arm down. “First of all, I don’t think that my opinion is that important, but here it is. Part of me is horrified. I’ll be honest. I think of what’s going on in those camps, and I shudder. I feel sick. It’s a natural reaction.”
“Yes!” exhaled Martin.
“But then,” continued Klaus, “just when I’ve worked myself into a fine, traditional moral storm, I feel all the wind go out of my sails. In my mind’s eye, my ship goes from great storm to glassy sea, in an instant. And I think: so what?”
“So what,” echoed Martin, his eyes wide and empty.
“So what!” said Klaus, with sudden vehemence. “So these sows and piglets want to be ordered around. So they might all end up being shot. So what? What have they ever done to earn or keep their freedom? An illiterate man will always take a hunk of bread over the freedom of the press. And even these so-called ‘educated men’ – what happened to them? They did not put up much of a fight! The early Nazis all came from the universities! And the Jews? What do they do? We strip them of everything, they don’t run. I actually get very angry at sheep that lick the knife which will open them up. Don’t you want to just crush them? You think: one good fight, one good show of resistance, and we will both be free! But they bleat and squirm to kiss your hand as it closes on their throats. Agh! Who wouldn’t want to rid the world of these people?”
“Intellectuals?”
“Whoever begs for their own immolation. The intellectuals? Who knows? Whoever. Because…” Klaus frowned, wiping his high forehead. Martin noticed that the colour seemed to have gone out of his son’s fair hair. ‘Blonde’ had just become ‘pale.’
“Because,” continued Klaus, “there is one thing that is true that the Nazis say. One thing that… Well, they weren’t the first to say it, not by a long shot, which is why is has something… Might does make right, but might is not what most people think it is. It isn’t the gun. Might is not the gun. Might is the will to use the gun. Not do die for a cause, but to kill for it. Christ in the temple, whipping the money-changers. People always follow whoever is the most sure. The most committed. The most consistent. Have you ever read the transcript of Hitler’s trial for the Beer Hall Putsch? It’s almost beyond words. 1923. He tried to overthrow the government. Failed. Hauled in front of the court. The lawyers try to browbeat him. They say: ‘You just wanted to seize power.’ Hitler smiles and says: ‘But of course I wanted power. We all wanted to overthrow the government. I’m just sorry we failed!’ And they look like fools. He’s had the same message since 1920. Twenty five points. Fifteen years. Who do you know who’s kept exactly the same beliefs for that long? And he says to the sheep – he screams at them – I will kill the Jews and go to war! And they bleat and titter and give him the shepherd’s crook. Hitler is like a principle of nature. He’s like the wind that blew down a crumbling wall. Blame the wind? No! Blame the wall! And all the walls to follow, like domino’s. Pop, pop, pop!” Klaus gestured violently.
“If you – if you knew what was going to come,” said Martin evenly, trying to keep the horror from his voice, “would you have opposed them?”
“Father, you can say it. Nazi. Nahh-zii. Come on, try it.”
“Please. Please, Klaus. I need to know.”
“Would I have opposed it?” Klaus frowned, looking away. “Would I have opposed it..? Can it be opposed?”
“What I mean is,” interrupted Martin, afraid that his son was going to go off on another tangent, “what if everyone was just waiting for someone to say: No! That’s what terrifies me. If I stand up and say: No!, then perhaps everyone will say: Oh, my god – I was just thinking that, and they will all rise up as one.”
“Rise up? Rise up?” laughed Klaus contemptuously. “From what? Who is unhappy? What glories were lost with the Republic? The November criminals, the signers of the Versailles Treaty, all dead. Everyone cheers. Just drive through town with a big picture of Hitler. Women will throw themselves at your car. In Berlin, they faint in his presence. It’s like going back to the thirteenth century and agitating for the overthrow of the Catholic Church. No one would have any idea what you were talking about. Not to mention that the Catholic Church might have an opinion of its own.”
“Something someone once said to me keeps coming back to me. He was looking at a picture of a hall of Hindus, all kneeling in prayer, thousands of them. And he said: ‘everyone in that picture thinks that the person next to him is really talking to a god.’ He was a hopeless sinner, this man, but he had something. Not about God, but about this perhaps. This case of the Emperor’s new clothes…”
“Oh, that would be too bad, father,” said Klaus softly. “That would be too bad, if you ever said anything like that to anyone else.”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps. But I have to answer to a higher authority.”
“A higher authority which put Hitler there.” said Klaus slowly. “Above you. Well… armed.”
“Sometimes there is the test of obedience,” said Martin. “And sometimes there is the test of disobedience.”
Klaus almost spoke, then got up and poured himself a cup of water from a stone jug. Martin could not help but notice how his son’s clothes hung loosely on his body.
“Let me ask you something,” said Klaus, returning to the table. As he sat, a ripple of displaced air guttered the candle. “Why didn’t you oppose them?”
“I have asked myself that daily. I believe in authority. The Republic could not last. But why all this murder?”
“You mean, you wanted to give a man absolute authority, but have him use it well.”
“Yes,” said Martin, without any trace of irony.
“What made you think that was possible?”
“Divinity. Divine power. If God put him there, He would guide his actions.”
“So you thought Hitler was divine.”
“Not Hitler, no. Don’t blaspheme. But his course. His cause.” Martin could not resist going for his cuticle again. “How could he have done it?”
“Ahh, the great question,” said Klaus, with slow sensuality. “The greatest question, I think, in the history if the world. How did he do it? How does anyone do it? It’s very simple, Father. Because we agree with him. We agreed with him from the very beginning. Germany was great. We were betrayed at Versailles. We didn’t start the war. Logic is French prejudice. Emotions are everything! Democracy is decadent. Strength is all! We are encircled. Either a nation expands, or it is destroyed.” Klaus snorted. “How were we going to fight him? We agreed with him!”
“Not all…” whispered Martin, unable to find his voice.
“Do you want to know one of the funniest things I’ve heard? Do you know where Hitler got his army? His civilian Stormtroopers? It’s the most wonderful thing! The government paid them. The government paid for its own executioners! The simple German taxpayer paid to be enslaved for a ...