by A G Mogan
“She flattered you quite heavily, thinking it would be the surest way of avoiding a rebuff,” he interrupts.
“Maybe ... it could be so. But I felt that what she was saying she was indeed truly believing. I asked her where she was from. She said she was born and raised in Vienna, but had left her home country for Germany. She said she felt Germany was much closer to her heart. The similarity in our stories made me feel a sudden attachment. At midnight, as I was leaving, I expressed my wish to see her again. She said that I would find her in the same spot every evening, as she did not have a place to stay nor money to afford a bed somewhere. She was sleeping in the train station—or in warm weather outside on a bench in the park. I took an instant pity on her, as I remembered my sleepless nights under the stars. Yet I had no proper place for myself either … ” I recount the experience breathlessly, taking a moment to collect myself.
“Interesting story. Then what followed?”
“Then, I decided to help her for as long as I could. So, I took her with me and installed her in a second-rate hotel room. It was all I could afford, but better than she had had in months. After she made herself comfortable, I promised to come see her often, and headed for the door. But, she wouldn‘t have it. She ran toward me and swiftly placed herself between myself and the door, blocking my only exit. She then begged me to stay and pushed me toward the bed. I expressed my disagreement as best as I could, saying this wasn’t the reason for my kindness and I expected absolutely nothing in return. But she just wouldn’t have it,” I say, as mixed feelings grapple with my soul.
“And then?” the doctor asks, while playing with the pencil he holds. I look at its movement while continuing to recount my story.
“And then ... she started kissing me. First on my cheeks, then on my neck, and then on my lips. I was paralyzed at first and kept my eyes tightly closed, as if I was safer that way, not seeing what was happening. Do you know what I mean?”
“I can well imagine.”
“She then grabbed my hand, placed it on her breast, and began squeezing it gently. Her gesture shot a wonderful sensation through me and all of a sudden my resistance was gone, vanished into thin air. I wanted to devour her, to kiss and suck all parts of her body. Pulling her head back by the hair, I ripped her blouse open and took her breasts in my mouth, biting and sucking her hardened nipples.”
I pause to wipe sweat off my forehead and neck, and notice a strange expression on my doctor’s face. I must have gotten carried away with the details. This embarrasses me further and I remain silent.
“What happened then?” he finally asks.
“Well, long story short, her nipples were the only things that hardened.”
“You mean … ?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. We took our clothes off and she laid on her back. I kissed her body eagerly, filled with tremendous desire. But, my member just wouldn‘t respond. It remained as limp as a glove. I took it in my hand and rubbed it vigorously, hoping to achieve an erection. Still nothing. I remember the terrorizing thoughts entering my head, an embarrassment I simply couldn’t bear … ”
I stand up to pace the room. “I wasn’t going to make a fool out of myself, so what I did was ... well, I stuffed my penis inside her with my fingers, hoping that the warmth between her legs would attain the much desired and much needed erection.”
“And did it?”
“It didn’t. So, I resolved to satisfy her using other methods, lest it would save my dignity. But it felt like I didn’t do that either. So, my wretchedness, embarrassment and shame took over me and, dropping onto the floor, I burst into tears. She tried her best to soothe me, but to no avail. I was inconsolable. And as if my failure to perform wasn’t bad enough, I made another mistake.” I continue to pace his room diagonally.
“Which was?”
“I felt a deep need to justify myself and my failure and ... stupidly ... I told her that I had syphilis, and surely that was the reason for my failure. That was an unforgivable stupidity on my part, and I shall never forgive myself for that lack of judgment, but at that moment I wasn’t thinking straight. Bottom line, Doctor, I am hopelessly impotent.”
“You say impotent, but that might not necessarily be the case. Many other factors could have been at stake on that evening.”
“Like what?”
“Like ... let’s say ... your fear. You panicked. It happens all the time to many men out there. Yes. You perceived it as a responsibility, so to say, to please her, and that could have weighed on your psyche pretty heavily, thus affecting your performance and ability. And this, Herr Schicklgruber, it is not a matter of any disease or affliction, but simply a matter of your brain playing nervous tricks on you.”
“You realize that what I am telling you is excruciatingly demoralizing and awkward, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then what makes you imagine that I would ever, in my life, speak about it if I didn’t believe it to be an absolute truth?” I spit the question out.
“I am sure you believe it. I know you believe it. But your believing it, does not make it the absolute truth, it does not wipe away other factors that could be the cause of what you perceive as your impotence. Plus, even if indeed you have syphilis, there could still be other factors at stake for your failure, which are not necessarily related to the infection.”
“What other factors?”
“I prefer to discuss them, nay, to identify them, after we have discovered your infection. Or its absence, for that matter.”
Silenced by the doctor’s last words, I fall into my chair. Dropping my shoulders and sighing deeply, I look pensively through his window at the wind blowing through the early autumn’s leaves.
“Look, Herr Schicklgruber…” I hear him as if I were in a dreaming state, “even if you do have the infection ... it can be treated, not cured yet, but treated. Using the best treatment available these days, you can live unperturbed by it for a very long time.”
“Tell that to the girl.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, after our failed encounter and my stupid mistake, the tables turned and now it was me that had to consolate her, as she started crying and sobbing, accusing me through her tears of having ruined her life. She shouted that she wished she had never met me and that if her life was miserable before, she preferred it to the one I now helped to make unlivable. I vowed to her that I would always take care of her, but she was inconsolable. I cannot even begin to describe the miserable state possessing me when I left her. The next day I went to see her again … ”
I try to continue, but my bitter tears force me to stop. The doctor pours a glass of water and hands it over to me. I drink up the cold liquid, hoping it will cool me down, and to some extent, it does.
“Take your time, Herr Schicklgruber, there is no rush.”
I nod my head.
“The next day I went to see her and knocked on her hotel door at least ten times. She wasn’t answering. I went downstairs to ask the concierge if he had seen her leaving. He hadn’t, so I asked for a spare key. He wasn’t allowed to give me one, he said, and took me there himself. I entered her room and there was no apparent sign of her. I called her name and again no answer. I was about to leave when something strange caught my eye. At the top of the closed bathroom door I saw what it appeared to be a big knot. I stretched my hand to touch it and saw that it was indeed a knot, made out of a bed sheet.
In that moment it struck me. I grabbed the knob with my hands and flung myself against the door repeatedly until it finally got opened. When it did, the knot fell from the door and I heard a loud thud. Struggling to make my way inside the bathroom I saw Miss Liptauer’s naked body lying motionless on the floor.
I dropped to my knees and brought my ear close to her mouth, searching for the sound of her breathing, all the while screaming at the concierge to come help me … ”
“She took her own life … ” my doctor whispers.
“She tried to. I was there
on time to save her. Unwrapping the bed sheet from around her neck, I assisted her, using the first aid knowledge I had been taught at the front. Those, Doctor, were the longest seconds of my entire life.”
“Thank God for that! Such events can throw even the strongest mind into a delirious vortex. What happened to her afterwords?”
“We took her to a hospital and she remained there for a couple of days. While in there, I encouraged her to take a blood test, for the same reason you took blood from me earlier … ”
“Wassermann, yes.”
I pause a while on the name. “That’s a Jewish name. Of course. They might as well have a test for the scourge they know so well,” I whisper to myself.
“Come again?”
“I was saying her test came back negative. Yet she was still terrified and went two weeks later to take it again, being afraid that the first one could have been a false negative.”
“It was a smart decision. The test is highly sensitive, and can be inconclusive, especially in the early stage of the disease. Good for her.”
“The second one also came back negative.”
“This is great news!” my doctor blurts out. “Not only for her, but for you as well! Didn’t the news bring some relief to you?”
“It didn’t.”
“Well, it should have. It means there is a big chance that yours will return negative as well. And, in my opinion, that‘s exactly how it will return.”
“Didn’t you say that it can be inconclusive?”
“One must keep the faith, Herr Schicklgruber.”
“Keep the faith to yourself, Doctor. I am convinced that I am infected,” I conclude, and standing up, I leave his office.
Once on the street, a feeling of emptiness seizes my soul. A feeling of ... nakedness, I should better say. I feel as if I had the entire conversation completely naked, and on my way out, left my clothes behind. I disclosed too much.
Too bloody much.
The Agent Of The Creator
I am greeted warmly the next time I attend the German Workers’ Party meeting.
I communicate to Drexler my intention of accepting the membership and he gleefully announces I am the Party’s 55th member. I smile. The less the better, I tell myself. This small, absurd formation, with its handful of members, without money for either membership cards or a mere rubber stamp, possesses the great advantage of still being open to adjustment. Here, it is still possible to determine the character of the movement, the aims to be achieved, the road to be taken. Here, it is fertile ground for my future activity.
“I am so happy you arrived at this decision, Adolf. You belong here. We need you. If we are to be less boring, you are the missing ingredient,” Drexler says, as I notice, over his shoulder, a man who stares at me intently. Other men are surrounding him, talking to him, but he just stares in my direction.
“Who is he?” I ask, indicating with my chin.
“Oh, the poet, Dietrich Eckart. An outstanding member.” He grabs me by the arm. “Let me introduce you.” We walk up to the man, who continues to stare, ignoring everything else around him.
“Herr Eckart,” Drexler says, faltering, “this is Adolf Hitler, our new rising star!”
I extend my hand to shake his. He slightly tilts his head back and narrows his eyes in a discriminating gaze.
“Can you speak?” he asks, skipping the introductions.
“Can I speak?” His lofty, self-confident attitude intimidates me.
“That’s what I’m asking. I am good at writing verse, and I stick to that. Are you good at speaking? At addressing an audience? Because that’s what’s missing from our party. Else you’re not a rising star, but yet another idle member.”
“An audience! Do you find that a handful of idlers is an audience?” I snap, but immediately regret it. I cannot let anyone intimidate me; hence, react as if being attacked. That would only send out weakness. Plus, I’m here to make friends not enemies.
The man smiles. “I like you. Welcome!” I smile back, a little puzzled.
“You seem to have passed the test,” Drexler adds, patting me on the shoulder. “This is our poet, always making up ways to test the character of our new members.” He looks somewhat relieved and asks, “Did you read my pamphlet?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Well, I surprised myself by nodding. And, I must say…that’s not a thing that comes to me easily.”
“Great, great,” he utters, straining to hold back a smile.
“Although, I sensed the influences of Guido von List’s ideology here and there, and probably that is why I had been so impressed with its content, him being one of my favorite writers. And I said to myself … Look, Adolf, there are other people out there sharing your convictions and strivings! You might as well join them! Two in distress make sorrow less!”
“You know what he said on his deathbed?” Eckart interrupts in his odd manner.
“Who?” I demand.
“Von List.”
“I had no idea he passed!” I exclaim.
“Only a few months ago, apparently from a lung infection. But he was in his seventh decade, so it was expected,” adds Drexler.
“Poor fellow! What a loss!” I lament, shaking my head in disbelief. “I really felt for his writings and prophecies…”
“Speaking of prophecies…” adds Eckart, then pauses to take another sip of the beverage he holds in his hand. I can’t decide if it is beer or brandy or whisky, but it definitely gets him. I can see it in his bloodshot eyes.
“Yes! You were saying … ” I urge him on.
“Well…shortly before he took his last breath, he prophesized that by 1932, a racially pure Reich would be established in Germany.”
My heart leaps. “That’s thirteen years from now.”
“A fated number,” says Eckart, as a whiff of his disgusting drink hits my nostrils. It is definitely brandy. One of Father’s favorite drinks. I twist my face in disgust.
“I don’t know how fated, but definitely a popular one in Norse mythology,” Drexler jumps in. “It could have been his last wish, rather than a prophecy.”
Both Eckart and I look at him suspiciously.
“Have you lost faith?” the poet asks him.
“Not in his ideology, merely in his prophecies. During the Great War he proclaimed that there would be victory for the Central Powers of Germany and Austria-Hungary. He claimed to have learned this information from a vision he experienced the year before the war ended. And I need not remind you how everything actually turned out.”
“Well, it only remains to be seen,” says Eckart.
“I believe it. This last prophecy of his … I believe it,” I whisper, my eyes staring at the roof in supplication. “Standing alone it might not mean anything to you, but to me … well … many similar things have been revealed to me over the years, and they are all pointing in the same direction.”
“And which direction would that be?” asks Eckart.
“The one von List already pointed out. You’ll see. It has already been written.”
He narrows his eyes again and they crinkle at the corners. This time I read not scrutiny in them, but admiration.
“Really?” he asks.
“Indeed. And not only by famous great minds, but also by a dear friend of mine.”
“And who would that be?” Eckart inquires again.
“Lanz von Liebenfels.” His eyes open wide now.
“You know von Liebenfels?”
“As I said, he was one of my friends. He took me under his wing while in Vienna. But then I left to come to Germany and lost all contact.”
“Maybe not,” comes the poet’s strange remark.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I am one of the first members of the Thule Society, Herr Hitler.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.
His eyes narrow again and his lips draw back in a hefty smile.
“How fascinating!” h
e blurts out. “The man befriended von Liebenfels, and Thule Society doesn’t ring a bell! Outstanding!” he continues, and bursts into laughter.
“I have been busy defending my country, and haven’t the time to look at the societies of Munich,” I retort somewhat defensively.
“Weren’t we all?”
“Well, what is it? Some sort of Order like von Liebenfels’?”
“It is not only an Order like von Liebenfels’, it generated from his Order. Many of his members are now members of Thule Society,” the poet explains.
I look at the small bronze pin on his shirt. It represents a shield upon which are two spears crossing a swastika. “That explains the symbol on your collar.”
“Right. The swastika is the Society’s sign.”
“Just as it was for von Liebenfels’ Order.”
“It is a very old symbol that’s been used by the ancients.”
“Yes. He taught me all about it.”
He gazes at me again, tilting his head to the side as if that position helps him to think in better terms.
“I would like you to be my guest of honor at our gathering next Saturday and meet the founder and Grand Master, Herr Sebottendorff,” he concludes abruptly, throwing his arm around my shoulders and dragging me around the room for introductions to the rest of the idlers.
On Saturday, I meet Eckart at the Four Seasons Hotel, the place where the Thule Society gathering is taking place. The Society captivates me instantly, so refined and mystical at its core, so different from the party I participate in. It is like … well, like a meeting of like minds. It reminds me of my mystical, wise friend, von Liebenfels, as well as it should.