by A G Mogan
“No need, Herr Hitler, I assure you, I am quite used to being thrashed as such,” he retorts jokingly, easing the atmosphere.
“Herr Hoffmann, it would be most painful for me if the memory of your bad luck soured your good humor today, ruining this festive party.”
“I can assure you that almost nothing can ruin my good humor.”
“I am truly relieved,” I say, and shake his hand again.
“Well, then let us drink to that!” He guides me to a table and offers me the host’s chair. Then he pulls out the chair to my right and sits next to me.
“Only water or tea, Herr Hoffmann,” I say, stopping him from pouring the wine in a glass in front of me.
“No! But this is the best wine a German could find! I went to great lengths to acquire it for this very event!”
“I can’t but disappoint you, as I detest both alcohol and cigarettes.”
“Well, maybe the cake will do you pleasure.” He grabs a knife and starts cutting the enormous wedding cake placed in the middle of the table.
“Shouldn’t this action be reserved to the bride and groom?”
“With all due respect to them, Herr Hitler, this was an inconsequential occasion until you showed up. I heard you are very fond of sweets, and if this piece of cake will cheer you up, then you shall have cake.”
His definitive words amuse me and his flattery even more so. But it is nothing compared to the astonished look on his face, when, on cutting the cake, a most curious surprise comes out. A two-feet-high marzipan effigy of … myself reveals itself from the cake to the bewildered crowd. Bewildered myself, I do not know what to make of it. It does not even resemble me, of course, whoever made it did not know how I looked. Just the tiny mustache brings some resemblance as well as the uniform and the Iron Cross resting on it.
“Look here,” I hear Esser, “we cannot possibly cut the man up and eat him before his very eyes!”
“The confectioner meant well,” says Hoffman embarrassed. “Bad workmanship can always be forgiven if it were carried out with a good heart.”
“You are right, Herr Hoffmann. Go on! Help yourselves to a piece of my body!” I say thinking of the Last Supper. Everyone laughs at my joke, unaware that I was not at all joking. In time, they will all find out.
“So, I hear you are artistically inclined, Herr Hitler, is it true what they say?”
“Very much so. It was my first career choice, and I would have become a great artist if it wasn’t for the bloody corrupted Jew.”
Painful, resentful memories invade me and I am not sure whether to go on talking on the subject or demand a different topic. I pull out my handkerchief and wipe away the drops of sweat invading my forehead. Hoffmann shoves under my nose another piece of cake.
“What about you? Have you always dreamt of becoming a photographer?” I ask, crunching on the marzipan mustache.
“No. Actually, I was quite determined to become a painter. I was even a pupil of Professor Heinrich Knirr’s Academy, at one time.”
“What do you know!” I exclaim, setting the sweet effigy aside. “I, too, wanted to become a painter! But first my father, and then the Jew … ”
I stop, trying to cast away the hatred invading me.
“Unfortunately, my father had other ideas, too, and insisted that I should adopt the profession of photography, and thus equip myself to take over the family business. Better a good photographer than a bad artist, was my old man’s dictum.”
“Better a revered civil servant than a bankrupt painter, was mine! We have much in common, Hoffmann, more than I expected. I must apologize to you once again for your failure to snap me. I did not realize we have common friends. But you must realize there are certain good reasons for not allowing pictures to be taken of me.”
His face betrays mild disappointment.
“Yes, Dietrich Eckart is my friend. Too bad he couldn’t attend…but with his heart condition and such…” he says, passing his fingers through his light blond hair. “Esser also, and many others. Some are even my clients. To be frank with you, when I joined the Nazi Party two years ago, I was hoping to extend my circle of paying clients. And I did. But I then heard you speak. And from that moment on, I knew that joining your party was no mere coincidence.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, I agree with your movement’s policy completely. It is the only movement that brings hope to the people of Germany, the only uncorrupted and unyielding body in today’s politics.”
“Well then, I am happy you joined us, Hoffmann. We need people like you … you know … believers in the cause,” I say and pat him on the shoulder to make him feel welcomed. Yet he attributes too much familiarity to my gesture and again brings on the subject of photographing me.
“Eckart explained recently to me the reasons of your camera shyness.”
“Did he?” I immediately hate the guts with which others take the liberty of talking about my personal likes and dislikes. It embarrasses me to realize others have noticed what I tried so hard to conceal, and more so, they are gossiping about it.
“Yes. And to a certain degree, I can well appreciate them.”
I began to feel more and more irritated. I do not care a fig if others appreciate my actions or not, I think to myself, wiping off my sweat again.
“But to turn down an offer of twenty thousand dollars, and ask for thirty … well, that seems to me to be inconceivable,” he continues in the same familiar tone.
“Herr Hoffmann, I never accept offers, I only make demands. They are carefully thought-out demands, mark you. Don’t forget that the world is a very big place. When you think out what it means to a newspaper concerned with obtaining exclusive rights to publish my photographs in thousands of newspapers all over the world, you will realize that my demand for thirty thousand dollars is mere chicken-feed. Anyone who accepts an offer without further ado simply “loses face”, as the Chinese would say.”
It is enough to hear myself explaining my actions to trigger my temper. I stand up and begin pacing the room, hands behind my back.
“Just look at our present-day politicians!” I resume loudly. “They live in a state of perpetual compromise, and one of these days they will come to a bad end as a result. Mark my words, Hoffmann! I’ll haul all those bargain-hunting, pact-making gentlemen clean off the political stage! I’ll … ”
All faces in the deadly quiet room are now turned to me, as my voice echoes from all corners. This embarrasses me. I am attending a wedding breakfast, not a Party meeting.
I return to my seat and look at the guests, who resume their bubbly chatter just to ease my embarrassment.
“When I’ll permit myself to be photographed, I cannot say; but this much I can promise you, Hoffmann, when I do so, you will take the first photos. But I must ask you to refrain from now on from trying to take any without my permission.”
He pushes before my eyes a photographic plate just handed to him by his assistant. “Too late. I set up my camera in a hidden place, just before you arrived. Take a look,” he urges me, as he grabs the plate and holds the negative up to the light.
“What can I say … good enough for your much desired print,” I say ironically, once again, disappointed.
With a swift movement, he smashes the plate on the edge of the table.
“Yes, it would have been a great print, indeed. But a bargain is a bargain, and until you ask me to do so, I will photograph you no more.”
I look at him with plain admiration.
“Herr Hoffman, I like you. May I come often and see you?”
His eyes glint with joy. “Nothing would do me a greater honor.”
The time is now for the bride and groom to make their speeches and I look at them admiringly, each one declaring eternal love to the other. They look serene and unburdened, and I think of myself, of the sad truth that these feelings will always be denied to me.
“Herr Hitler, why don’t you make a speech yourself? For sure, the wedded pair would a
ppreciate it. So would the rest of us!”
“Definitely not! I must have a crowd when I speak. In a small, intimate circle, I never know what to say. I should only disappoint you all, a thing I should hate to do. As a speaker, either at a family gathering or a funeral, I am of no use at all … ”
“Really? I would have never guessed … ”
“The Goddess of History possesses me only when I speak to my men; otherwise, I am a shy, inconclusive speaker,” I say most frankly. “And that is not something I would like people to notice.”
“Yes, of course, it makes sense.”
“I will tell you a secret, Hoffmann. I experience what it is called stage fright, every time I am supposed to deliver a speech. Every time, without exception, I change my mind a million times about getting out there on the platform. People look at my mouth with an admiration that boards on veneration, and it scares me. The fear that I will somehow disappoint them paralyzes me to the point of canceling the speech. Only when the supporters start banging their beer mugs on the tables do I know there is no turning back, as I would disappoint them by turning my back on them. They look at me and see hope. What a great crime it would be to take away their hope!”
“Indeed!”
“I remember, as I was lying blind in that dreadful hospital at Pasewalk in 1918 … that bloody pastor came in with the most dreadful news of my entire life! ‘A day when a country loses its freedom is a sad day. And today it is that day for Germany. The House of Hohenzollern is no longer wearing the Imperial Crown and the Motherland has become a Republic.’ I can still hear his voice … the way he announced our loss … the loss of war, the loss of freedom. But it wasn’t the freedom I was concerned about losing … it was hope. I felt lost, because I felt I had lost my hope. Today, I am that hope for thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of people. So, I must continue to get up there on the podium and speak.”
“You are most profound, Herr Hitler, and I find myself even more admiring … but, if you would allow me … ” He searches for my approval with his eyes.
“You can speak freely, Hoffmann. You earned my trust, and I shall always need around me people who I can trust. With fame, there is always something to lose…and that is your trust in the people around you. They become scoundrels, always ready to sing in your ear for some filthy materialistic benefit … and you soon lose touch with the meaningful reality … ”
“Well then, if you are serious about politics, and it is obvious that you are, then forgive me for asking, but … why don’t you learn how to speak properly?”
I am not sure what to make of his query.
“Did it occur to you that I do not know how to speak just because of my admitted stage fright?” I answer, irritated. “You heard my speeches! My words alone enrolled tens of thousands in my movement!” I am raising my voice now, and pull my handkerchief from my pocket again, as sweat bursts from my forehead once more.
“No, forgive me, I did not mean it like that … you do know how to speak, all right! What I meant was that speaking alone does not make for the greatest orator of all times. And you must definitely be that!” he replies apologetically, passing his fingers through his hair again.
My temper cools a little. “How do you mean then? Recognizing strengths as well as weaknesses gives you power. And, above all, that is what I am after: power. The power to change destinies, the power to write history, the power to fulfill God’s true agenda.”
“Well, words are certainly important, but how you deliver them is equally important,” he says, emphasizing how. “Your position on the podium, your gaze, your body language and so on, can definitely help your words get across more effectively. It could double or even triple your followers by the day. ”
“And what do you, Hoffmann, a photographer, know about public speaking? With all due respect, it is not exactly your area of expertise.”
“It is not, but do not underestimate the simple spectator’s power of perception.”
That was great advice indeed. If I wanted to become as effective an orator as possible, I would have to learn what the audience wants to hear and drill on that. I would have to connect with it on a new level.
“The first time I realized this myself,” he continues, “I was attending the show of a good friend. I was not exactly awed by what he was saying, as I was by how he was saying it. A true magician!” His face animates with pleasant memories.
A true magician! This is what I want to be! The greatest of them all.
“And what is your friend’s name?” I ask.
“Hanussen. Erik Jan Hanussen.”
“Ah, yes! The astrologer and mentalist. I met him once at a Thule gathering, but we didn’t get to talk to each other. We just shook hands—and I noticed the strangest thing, he held my hand for the longest time and held my gaze longer than was comfortable. In point of fact, he is the only person who ever stared me down. That is why I remember him.”
“Precisely! That is what I am talking about! I bet that made you feel … ”
“Submissive.”
“Domesticated was the word that sprung to my mind. But, yes, submissive is a much more … elegant word.”
“You are very shrewd, Hoffmann. What’s on your mind?”
“I am thinking he could have some valuable advice for you, Herr Hitler. This is what you need from him, to teach you how to control your masses, how to subdue them, domesticate them, using your stare. And, maybe more.”
This was how I met my loyal friend. And this was how, thanks to his persuasive character, I arranged a meeting for us at Hanussen’s apartment a few months later.
The astrologer’s apartment is not as modest as I had expected. I always held a strong conviction that people who deal with mystical and spiritual stuff in their walks through life should be meek and humble when it comes to materialism. However, since I am already here for a less-than-ordinary reason, I resolve to keep an open mind.
A beautiful assistant greets us upon ringing the house bell and invites us in. Beautiful paintings of German mythological characters adorn almost every wall in the house. I inspect them all, fascinated, as I had read about them extensively in my Vienna years, and now can attach these images to my long-learned knowledge. Even his bathroom doesn’t resemble most of those found in the normal houses in Germany, with walls covered in expensive silk wallpaper. You can even regulate the temperature of the water, using an extraordinary system hidden under the sink.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” says a deep, coarse voice behind me. I turn to face the man, the owner of this marvelous house, who I have met before but briefly. His face shows no trace of a smile, seeming cold, but not mean or unwelcoming, just expressionless. Everything about this man seems highly developed, from the long bones of his arms to his elongated face and enormous ears to bushy eyebrows that grow in a continuous line from the outer corner of one eye to the outer corner of the other eye. He is not very tall, but his hands are huge, like those of a giant, with unnaturally long fingers. I look instinctively at his feet and am not surprised to see grotesquely huge shoes. Yet the most striking quality this man possesses is the gaze coming from his eyes─deep, dark, penetrating eyes that stare into your very soul.
“Good evening, Herr Hanussen, a pleasure to meeting you again,” I say, and extend my hand to shake his. He grabs and holds it, just as before. I no longer feel uncomfortable, however, thinking that this is what I am about to learn from him myself.
“I am most impressed by your collection of art. Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to find a portrait of Wotan on your walls,” I continue, still looking into his eyes.
“And why not?”
“I don’t know. But, I am pleasantly surprised.”
“Thank you,” he says, “it is a much appreciated compliment.” He drops my hand and extends his to Hoffmann, chatting on the same introductory generalities. While they talk, I find myself examining him again, especially his head and hands. Sometimes, at the Thule Society’s gatherin
gs, the members measure their hands and heads with special measuring utensils. The practice is carried out to establish the background of the person being measured and can find the traces of Aryan ancestry or can expose Jewishness. I have never permitted them to measure me.
“Where were you born, Herr Hanussen?” I find myself asking, interrupting the two men’s polite conversation. His gaze is on me again.
“Vienna.”
“Ah, an Austrian, just like myself!”
“Only by birth. I have Danish roots.” His answers are always short, yet elucidatory. I think that his Nordic roots might well be the cause of his giant-like appearance. Who knows if his ancestors weren’t these exact super humans adorning his walls ... the racially pure Germanic ancestors, whose blood had been tainted by the inferior races, the Slavs and the Jews. Thus displacing them from the top of the human superiority scale, and eventually, stealing their blood power and exterminating them as a race.
“I, too, lived in Vienna, for five dreadful years.”
“I am most attached to Germany and do not care much for my place of birth,” he answers coolly. “Your friend explained the reason for your visit. He said you would welcome my teaching you what I know.”
“Yes. Indeed, I would.”
“Did he also tell you about the one condition I demand before we might begin?”
I glare at Hoffmann. “I am afraid not. I never accept conditions; I only make demands, as my good friend here surely knows.”
“Then I am afraid I cannot help you.”
I pause briefly, unnerved by his inflexibility.
“What was your condition? As long as I do not have to undress or something along those lines … ” I joke, trying to ease the tension created by my foolish friend.
“I cannot take you in unless you allow me to cast and read your horoscope, and then compare it to your palm.”
I almost burst into laughter and strain to conceal my reaction.
“My dear friend, if I were to quote an ancient Chinese sage, I would say that the course of a man’s life, once decreed by Destiny, cannot be arrested by human calculations.” My words bring about unwanted silence, as I hear my last dictum echoing in my head.