The Arendt Files

by Ivan Rosemblatt

The the Mercedes open coach gave him the sense of being immersed in a fragrant past. The weather was idyllic and the slight early Summer humidity contributed to his sense of being submerged. The style and rhythm of the old south suffused everything. After having been stationed in Virginia for eight years Von Schemmel had come to appreciate the Southern way of life, it's sense of rhythm and repose. The bushes and flowers along the road were well tended but lacked the angularity he had grown up with in Cologne. It was an overgrown, luxurious flowering. Over time he had come to understand that the design of this particular plantation had little to do with chance or carelessness, it was a cultivated disorder meant to soothe the mind.

  It was the Southern gentry who were the natural allies of the Nazi, the Fuhrer in his brilliance, had recognized that. Hitler had understood that America was a nation that would need to be guided into it’s own form of Nazism; one that would, over time, strengthen into and iron determination to join the thousand year Reich. It was because of his vision and foresight they arrived armed not only with fire and steel but also with genealogies; blood would be their bond. Once they set about restoring the land rights of those expropriated by the race traitors of the north, the old traditions would take root and rise again, like a plant returned to its native soil.

  Of course there had been some bumps in the road, some difficulties along the way. The defeat of the south during the civil war seemed to have broken the spirit of many of the important families and over the intervening years decadence had been allowed to settle in, in some cases all traces of aristocratic dignity had been lost. Many of those blessed with a sudden return to power and wealth were completely unprepared for their windfall; they seemed more focused on seeking revenge for harm done to their honor over the course of the last eighty years than on managing the wealth that had been entrusted to them. They stumbled about like a chicken's with their heads cut off, bottle of bourbon in one hand whip in the other, lashing out indiscriminately.

  When he called them to task for their lack of discipline their faces turned from purple to crimson in their rage, “These are my niggers and I'll do what I want to them!” Von Schemmel would quickly revert to his army training and dress the owner down as only SS officer could. He tried to guide them as they took up the reigns again, sharing the new scientific forms of control developed by the SS. Still they tended to revert to the tried and true customs of slave punishment.

  As Regional Administrator he had inspected each plantation in the area numerous times and had seen where the vulgar nature of the landlord expressed itself in carelessness and disrepair. This was why he so appreciated visiting Wilke’s plantation. He was the only owner who retained all the qualities he expected from a man of good breeding. His family had managed to maintain and rebuild it’s wealth after the Civil War and he had been raised to run the family farm. Perhaps more importantly he had been brought up to be a true Southern gentleman of the highest caste. He had read the great philosophers and understood why a ruling class was best and the natural state of government for humanity.

  Von Schimmel could see the effects of the man's breeding whenever he visited. It made itself manifest in the disposition of all the slaves around him. Even now as he drove up the long road to the main house the black's, male and female, flashed their brilliant smiles as they waved, teeth bright and stark white against their dark faces. Of course the hands who worked on the house or gardened, the less physically demanding jobs, were lighter skinned. Out further in the field were the truly dark, unmixed Negroes. This was one of the practices he had been working to correct over the course of his tenure, the unmitigated race mixing he observed. It was fine to use the blacks for sexual gratification but Von Schemmel insisted that those women be sterilized. He believed that otherwise there would always be a tendency for Aryans to start to subconsciously sympathize with their kin. He knew blood was the true motor of history, despite what that vulgar materialist thought. He was concerned that Aryan blood would create a sense of empowerment among those blacks of mixed heritage. He was convinced that race mixing never leant itself to the foundation of an empire.

  Out in the fields the slaves labored in rhythmic unison amongst the dark orderly furrows of earth. He felt all was as it should be and order was being restored to the world, a world that had gone mad for a time. Jewish concepts of relativity had deprived every even nature herself of her brilliance and freshness. Now all things were being restored to health, cleansed by the conquering Aryan solar race, the only race with the purity of understanding and will to do what must be done.

  A joy rose up in him as he rested his forearm on the door of the Mercedes. He was happy there were some Americans who could be allies in this great project. Yes, the southerners were Aryan’s and thus Nazi’s at heart. With patience and time they would come around completely and this new piece of the empire would settle into it's proper place.

  As he relaxed more deeply into this seat he realized he had been tense, for weeks, perhaps months. He had allowed some form of fear to take hold of him. Yes he had been afraid, concerned that perhaps things weren't going as well as they should be. In that moment he let it go and in so doing felt simple and young again. He looked at the beautiful craftsmanship of his car. “To do things right and do them well, what a pleasure.” He was glad that they still imported all the cars for the officer corps from home. While the Americans rushed to buy the German designs coming out of Detroit he preferred this higher level of beauty and craftsmanship.

  Although there on “official” business Von Schimmel was genuinely pleased to be visiting this plantation. It was the most successful in the entire nation, producing well above quota. Jaspar was the most gracious host he had met, the epitome of Southern hospitality. A bit of a renaissance man,he was constantly at work devising improvements to his property. Von Schimmel thought of him along the lines of Jefferson, who he had been enamored of as a boy. Not only was he constantly reading on agriculture and working to improve yields and maintain the health of the soil, he also had a deep interest in the arts and design and was always changing some aspect of the house.

  Rounding the final curve “Berry Hill” came into view all at once, the white columns of it's facade and it's neo-classical form surrounded here by more meticulously tended gardens. The bougainvilleas were in full bloom and there were red, while and yellow roses as well “You see Willhelm” he thought to himself, “that is how time goes by when contemplating victory. Today we will enjoy ourselves and dedicate ourselves to the pleasures of life.” The Fuhrer always believed in rewards for the victorious. After the taking of Paris, Hitler had insisted the officer corps celebrate and they had indeed. had a wonderful time indulging in the bounty of food, art, and women. The French had been very accommodating and had adapted quickly to the new regime. Today he would let down his guard and enjoy the rewards he deserved.

  Around the front of the house there was a great bustle of activity as his car pulled up. An elderly black man in servants uniform, black pants white jacket, white shirt, and black tie took the stairs two at a time, hurrying towards the front double doors open wide. He rushed past two serving women as they made their way out from inside the house two carrying trays, one with a large glass pitcher of lemonade, the other with tea. He noted that the old man was barefoot and his pants were cut high above the ankle. He made a mental note to ask Jaspar about that later., it did not seem in keeping with proper etiquette. Curious?

  Jaspar stepped through the door just the Mercedes pulled up to the front steps, an amused broad smile on his face. He waved enthusiastically to Wilhelm who was touched by the friendly, unstudied gesture, but unsure how to respond. He was still not used to America's expressive style and felt he never would be. He nodded his head sternly but allowed himself a brief. genuine smile. The man had a way about him, he was one of those people who brightened up a room and made the day feel better, more full of promise. Jaspar made his way down the steps, tall, lithe, loose limbed, energetic. His clothing reminded Von Schimmel of a m
atador’s costume he had seen in Spain, flamboyant in a way quite contrary to his austere Prussian tastes. Upon consideration it was not so different really from the military dress that his grandfather or great grandfather wore, with their countless shimmering useless buttons and elongated helmets with tall plumes. It was true that very until very recently the military men in Germany let themselves be taken in by certain feminine, Jewish characteristics, a theatricality that he felt was unbecoming. Jaspar wore his bright blue cutaway with a naturalness and ease that made it all the more striking. Von Schimmel stepped out of the car as one of the servants opened the door for him. Jaspar stepped forward and shook his hand vigorously.

  “So good to see you Wilhelm.”

  Von Schimmel bowed forward formally. “Likewise.”

  “Please forgive my garish attire. I went for an early morning ride and like to greet the day with a splash of color. It is summer is it not. I forgot myself and only had time to change my shoes. His attitude at every moment seemed to be one of amusement, a shifting cheer. It was a stance towards the world that was quite difficult for Von Schimmel to put his finger on. Jaspar was charming, tremendously charming, but he could not tell what exactly he was amused about. Von Schimmel could not put his finger on the source of his Jaspar's attitude and he did not like it. He preferred to have a firm grasp of the personality of those he ruled over. In this case his concerns were dissipated by Jaspar's bright smile and friendly demeanor. An image came to Von Schimmel's mind, a memory of what it was like to be a small child, heading through the open door into the back yard, the sun was shining and the glass was green, and his mother was watching from a distance.

  “We have made some wonderful improvements I must show you, but first you stretch your legs a bit and we can enjoy some refreshments on the veranda”

  “I trust you had a good ride?”

  “Yes Wilhelm. Excellent, very invigorating. There is no mood a good canter can not dispel.”

  Chapter 3