A man accused me of being communist volunteer and other madness that makes sense. These crazy things have provoked seven months in prison and much silence, because I know not many words of German and people are not kind to me at work hour because they think I am red.
My imprisonment is a test for the Germans…[illegible] But now everything will be resolved because I will leave the gaol, we will get back our money and our little [illegible, a child’s name, probably “Toni,” Anita’s biological and Marco’s adoptive son] will have his father by his side again. We will have tranquillity. I will demand justice from my enemies and the recovery of salary for the seven months spent in prison.
I know very well how much you have suffered but all that is almost over and soon we will be together. In all this time not one day has passed when I did not think about you, nor one moment without kissing my wedding ring. It is all I have left; everything else is kept by the prison. But you know how much love I have. I have resisted seven months in prison for you.
I have been thinking that it would be good for you to come here. [Child’s name, illegible, probably “Toni” again] could come here too and love the German land more than our own country. Perhaps here there is not the blue sky and the dazzling sun of our country, but the men here have these things [the blue sky and the dazzling sun] in their soul. Yes, we could come and live here because we are like the Germans: careful and with open hearts. Here I have learned to love them.
In fact, this is something I thought about before and this is why I started looking for a house. I wanted to surprise you with the news, but this trial has ruined everything. Now is the time to resume those plans. I earn enough money in my job and in only a few months after my release you could come to the city.
I hope that all our relatives are well. Give my regards to aunt Kathe and uncles Richard and Francisco.
My darling, I send all my love to you and to our son.
Your Heinrich
(I do not write more because my German is still bad)
Judging by what he told his wife, Marco was optimistic about the outcome of his trial; but perhaps he simply wanted to seem so, or wanted the Germans to believe he was: the truth is that, several days before the court hearing, when he must have known the charges against him, he had no real reason to be optimistic. In the charges filed by the prosecutor, a certain Doktor Stegemann, on July 18, 1942, Marco is accused of a grave crime: “Systematically planning actions—of high treason—with intent to change the constitution of the Reich by force” (in German: das hochverrätische Unternehmen, mit Gewalt die Verfassung des Reichs zu ändern vorbereitet zu haben). Specifically, the prosecutor claimed that Marco was a communist and had been a volunteer in the Republican army during the Civil War, and accused him of disseminating propaganda among the Spanish workers. There is no need to pay much heed to the accusation that Marco was a communist; in such matters, the German authorities used the term broadly, making no distinction between communists and anarchists: as far as they were concerned, both were Rotspanier—Spanish Reds. As to the charge of disseminating propaganda, the prosecutor based this on the testimony of Jaime Poch-Torres and José Robledo Canales, two of Marco’s Spanish co-workers who had heard him boast about having fought against Franco, criticising Hitler and the Nazi party, and predicting that the Russians would defeat the Germans and revelling at this thought, since—according to what Marco said, or what Poch-Torres and Robledo Canales said that Marco said—he would be able to go back to his country “and fight for inevitable, indispensible communism in Spain.” It is true that none of this seems to be of great import, certainly it was no more than a number of injudicious remarks made in the presence of the wrong people; but there can be no doubt that the crime of high treason—or “promoting the ideals of International Communism and thereby imperilling Germany,” to use the phrase in the prosecutor’s report—was very serious, all the more so in Nazi Germany, and especially in Nazi Germany in the fourth year of the war. So serious that the most lenient sentence Marco could expect was to be sent to a concentration camp.
But the fact is that he was acquitted. How do we explain this verdict? I don’t know. In his ruling, the presiding magistrate explained it by stating that Marco was not dangerous and based his ruling on the retractions of Poch-Torres and Robledo Canales, who insisted that Marco had not attempted to convert them to communism (he was, they said, simply a young man trying to impress them), and on the testimony of Marco’s immediate boss, who exonerated him of any acts of sabotage and praised him as an excellent worker. The problem is working out how the magistrate came to a finding so favourable to Marco, and so at odds with the unequivocal initial view of the prosecutor, and indeed an order from the RSHA—the Reich Main Security Office—issued two years earlier on September 25, 1940, which determined that communist veterans of the Spanish Civil War were to be sent to concentration camps (though it is true that this order was issued before the signing of the Hispano-German Agreement that had brought Marco to Germany, and that it referred to prisoners of war; it is also true that the order was rescinded shortly afterwards, in 1943, so that Spanish communists could be used as manpower in the war effort); let me put it another way: it goes without saying that Marco was not a dangerous man, but countless utterly innocuous men were condemned by the Nazi courts while Marco was not. Why did his Spanish accusers recant? Why did the prosecutor himself recant, why did he ultimately withdraw the charges? I don’t know. In his letter to his wife, Marco mentions his defence lawyer, a midshipman whom Marco freely admits did not understand a word of Spanish, so communication between them was not easy. Nor can it have been easy for Marco, with his faltering German, to write a statement to the prosecutor rebutting the charges against him, still less to defend himself before the magistrate when, one September morning, he was transported from Kiel to Hamburg for the hearing. These linguistic difficulties must have made the proceedings somewhat confusing. More so than was already the case. That said, let me reiterate that Marco thrived in such circumstances, chaos and confusion were his natural habitat, since this allows me both to highlight one of Marco’s essential traits and to offer a theory about his curious acquittal: Marco, as I have said before, is essentially a conman, a shameless charlatan, a peerless trickster, so it is impossible to dismiss the idea that, just as he managed to dupe the French military authorities, convincing them that his past was blameless or inoffensive and that he was an inoffensive, not to say irreproachable, young man, he similarly duped the Nazi judicial authorities, managing to persuade the German magistrate that he did not represent the slightest threat to National Socialism and as such deserved to be released. Whatever the case, on October 7, 1942, the President of the District Court of the Hanseatic High Tribunal signed a ruling rescinding Marco’s incarceration.
* * *
—
Our man remained in Germany for several months after this, but these are merely the epilogue to this crucial chapter in his biography. In the ruling that brought an end to his trial, Marco was ordered to “make himself available to the police for supplemental inquiries” while a note in the margin ordered that a copy of the ruling be sent to the “directorate of the Secret State Police [Geheime Staatspolizei, the actual name of the Gestapo] in Kiel.” This order is open to a variety of interpretations, but Marco says that, although in theory he was set free, in practice he was still a prisoner, and for several weeks or perhaps months he was incarcerated, not in the prison in Kiel, but back in the Gestapo barracks on Blumenstrasse, from where he remembers two officers escorting him every morning to Kiel University library, where he spent hours classifying Spanish books and magazines. Marco also says that he clearly remembers that one afternoon, without warning, he was driven to the lobby of the barracks and left standing, with no explanation, with a duty officer who did not even seem to notice him. And he says that, after he had been there for some time, waiting for he knew not what or whom, he suddenly noticed a number
of familiar objects on the officer’s desk—a passport photograph, his expired permit as a Spanish volunteer worker, a few other things—but he said nothing and carried on waiting. And he says that at some point, by which time he had been waiting several hours, the duty officer finally seemed to register his presence, looked from him to the objects on the desk and back at him, then without looking at his belongings he swept them to the floor and bellowed “Raus!”
He says he hurriedly gathered up his belongings and raced out of the barracks. He says that it was dark, that it was raining, that he suddenly found himself alone, with no money and nowhere to go. He says he searched for somewhere to shelter and was unfortunate enough to find it in a park that turned out not to be a park, but a cemetery. He says that he does not remember where he slept that night, though he’s almost certain it was out of doors, on the other hand he does remember going to seek help the following day at the only place where he knew anyone, the dockyards of the Deutsche Werke Werft, from which he had been evicted and where he was no longer permitted to work, but where he found a German who acted as an interpreter between the Spanish labourers and their German employers, a man, Marco remembers, or says he remembers, who had lived for some time in Argentina and had returned to Germany, lured by the promised prosperity of triumphant Nazism, someone with whom Marco was apparently on good terms, and may have been the same man who, according to the German court records, had acted as interpreter during his trial. Whoever he was, the man took pity on Marco, or so he claims, and managed to find him a job at Hagenuk, a telecommunications company, which meant he was provided with a roof over his head in a camp ground located in the factory. The memories that Marco retains of this period, or what he says he remembers, are scant and unhappy, because although his job was easier than that at the dockyards—here he built electronic components for rockets and aeroplanes—the atmosphere in the factory and in the camp was much more violent, given that, he says, it was full of dirty, brutal and desperate Lithuanians and Ukrainians.
Marco too was desperate, but he was desperate to return to Barcelona. Or so he says. And he says that, one day, the same providential interpreter who had secured him the job in Hagenuk suggested a way for him to return home: after a year spent in Germany, Spanish workers were entitled to return home for a one-month furlough on condition that they then returned to their post; Marco had not yet worked a full year, having spent most of his time in Germany in prison, but the interpreter assured him that he could arrange for Marco to join one of the convoys of workers returning to Spain on leave. Marco says that he accepted without a second thought, without considering what he would do when the time came for him to return to Germany and he failed to do so, without considering what he would do when, after he’d failed to return, the Spanish authorities demanded he complete his deferred military service, and of course without worrying about the fact that, in Spain, Franco was still imposing a reign of terror, without considering anything other than fleeing Germany and returning home, like those animals that can smell an imminent disaster in the air; in the summer of 1943, Marco had already intuited that a few short months later, on December 13, the city of Kiel would be destroyed in a rain of fire unleashed by hundreds of American bombers. Marco arrived in Germany when it looked set to win the war, and left Germany when it was certain to lose it. We do not yet know what sort of life our man led once back in Barcelona, but we know something much more important: at least up until this point, Marco always sided with the majority.
PART II
The Novelist of Himself
1
Marco was born in an asylum; his mother was insane. Is he mad too? Is this his secret, the conundrum that explains his personality? Is this why he always sides with the majority? Does this explain everything, or does it at least explain the essential? And if Marco truly is mad, what is the nature of his madness?
When the scandal broke, there were few who abstained from offering an opinion on his character: journalists, historians, philosophers, professors waded in; not to mention psychologists and psychiatrists. The diagnosis offered by the latter was unanimous and, to a certain extent, concurs with that of many of our man’s acquaintances: Marco is a textbook narcissist. Obviously, narcissism is not a form of madness but rather a personality disorder, a simple psychological anomaly. It is characterised by blind, unwarranted faith in one’s own greatness, a deep-seated need for admiration and a lack of empathy. The narcissist has an inflated sense of self-importance, he is shamelessly self-aggrandising, blows his own trumpet at the slightest pretext and, regardless of what he does, expects to be recognised as superior, unconditionally admired and revered. In addition to a tendency to arrogance and overconfidence, he cultivates fantasies of unlimited power and success and, though loath to put himself in another’s shoes (or incapable of doing so), he ruthlessly exploits others because he believes that the rules that apply to them do not apply to him. He is an incorrigible charmer, a born manipulator, a leader determined to win over disciples, a man hungry for power and control and almost impervious to feelings of guilt. Is the narcissist, then, essentially a man in love with himself? Is the narcissist that psychologists speak of the same as the narcissist of popular wisdom? Or is he the Narcissus of myth? Who is the mythical Narcissus?
There are several versions; the most well known—and the finest—is the account given by Ovid in the third book of the Metamorphoses. It is a tragic story that begins with an act of violence: Cephissus, the river god, abducts and rapes the wave-blue water-nymph Liriope, a Naiad, and as the fruit of this violation she bears a son of dazzling beauty whom she names Narcissus. Liriope hurriedly goes to the blind seer Tiresias to ask whether her son will live to see old age; Tiresias’ response is cryptic yet categorical: yes, “si se non nouerit”; meaning, yes, “if he does not know himself.” The childhood of Narcissus passes without incident, despite the enigmatic prediction of the voice of destiny. During his adolescence, many youths and many girls desire Narcissus, but he does not reciprocate their love. One day, while hunting deer in the woods, he spies Echo, “she of the echoing voice, who cannot be silent when others have spoken, nor learn how to speak first herself”—and she too falls in love with him; unwavering in his coldness and his arrogance, Narcissus scorns her and, filled with shame, and overwhelmed with sorrow, Echo hides herself in the woods and curses he who has mocked so many men and women before her, “So may he himself love, and so may he fail to command what he loves!” And Nemesis, daughter of night and goddess of retribution, hears Echo’s entreaty; her intercession seals Narcissus’ fate. Coming to “an unclouded spring of silver-bright water” ringed by grass, Narcissus stretches out to rest and drink, but, when he seeks to slake his thirst in the pool, a different and insatiable thirst grows within him: “seized by the vision of his reflected form, he loves a bodiless dream, believing what is merely a shadow to be corporeal. He is astonished by himself, and hangs there motionless, with a fixed expression, like a statue carved from Parian marble.” Echo’s curse is fulfilled: burning with love for his image reflected in the water, Narcissus fails to command what he loves; and Tiresias’ prophecy also comes true: when he sees himself, when he knows himself, Narcissus dies and his body is transformed into “a flower, with white petals surrounding a yellow heart”: the narcissus.
So the Narcissus of myth is not the Narcissus of popular wisdom, but his antithesis. In Ovid’s tale, Narcissus does not fall in love with himself, but with his reflected image; in Ovid’s tale, Narcissus hates himself, is horrified by himself, scorns himself with all his might, and this is why when he sees himself he dies. The narcissist, through his self-aggrandisement, fashions delusions of grandeur and heroism, a flattering fantasy, a lie behind which he can shelter and take refuge, a fiction capable of hiding his reality, the sheer sordidness of his life or what he perceives as the sheer sordidness of his life, his mediocrity and his abjectness, the utter contempt he feels for himself. The narcissist has an insatiable need for the a
dmiration of others to shore up his fantasy, just as he needs power and control so that no-one can demolish the magnificent façade he has created to hide behind. The narcissist lives in fear and misery, plagued by a crippling insecurity disguised as self-confidence (even arrogance or smugness), on the brink of madness, terrified by the bottomless void that exists, or that he senses, within him, enamoured of the flattering fiction he has created to forget his repellent reality, and so, he has made himself impervious not only to guilt, but to almost every emotion, which he strives to keep at bay for fear that he might be weakened or even destroyed.
Moreover, many psychologists claim that narcissism develops in childhood, born of violence or of profound injury—just as Narcissus is born of the initial violence Cephissus visits on Liriope—of some terrible trauma the child is incapable of processing, some humiliation, some devastating blow to his self-esteem, some premature experience of horror suffered within the bosom of the family. This may be true. What is certain is that fiction saves Narcissus, and that, if Marco in his own way is a narcissist, perhaps it was his lies that saved him: Marco was an orphan forcibly removed from his mother, a poor, mentally ill woman who had been abused by her husband; a boy who experienced a nomadic, loveless childhood; an adolescent inspired by a short-lived revolution and crushed by a horrifying war; a born loser who, at some point in his life, in an attempt to win the love and admiration he had never had, decided to invent his past, to reinvent himself, to rework his life into a glorious fiction that would hide the embarrassing, pedestrian reality. He proclaimed that he was not who he was—an utterly normal man, a member of the vast, silent, cowardly, grey, depressing majority who always say Yes—but an exceptional person, one of those singular individuals who always says No, or who says No when everyone else says Yes, or when it is most crucial to say No: at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, though he was hardly more than a child; as an impassioned combatant against fascism in places of the greatest risk and stress; as an intrepid anarchist guerrilla operating behind enemy lines during the war and, after the war, the first or one of the first foolhardy resistants to oppose the victorious Franco regime; as a political exile, a victim of and fighter against the Nazis, a champion of liberty. These were Marco’s lies. This was the fiction that perhaps saved him, and which, as in the case of Narcissus, prevented him for many years from knowing himself or from recognising himself for who he was. Of course, if lies saved Marco, the truth I am telling in this book will kill him. Because fiction saves, but reality kills.
The Impostor Page 14