While this is speculative, Ewers did strive to use his influence to foster German nationalism, patriotism, blood and soil. He was deliberately using his psychological insights to get the German masses behind the Third Reich. He was trying to sway the masses as only he could do.
The human brain once expanded can not return to its smaller perspective. The only rational explanation of such German nationalism is to see it in terms of his life long dream of a Nation of Culture. Somehow, someway, he viewed the Third Reich as having the ability to bring about such a Nation of Culture. Why couldn’t it be through a “Ultimate Freemasonry”? Why couldn’t it be through a Freemasonry of “Blood and Soil”!
Unfortunately once this new “Ultimate Freemasonry” was embedded within the structure of the Third Reich its creators were no longer needed. There was no place for “tainted blood” and Jewish sympathizers. What began as a glorious dream ended as the world’s worst nightmare. Ewers and others were removed from positions of power and influence and either killed or left to die in poverty. This started by 1934. It became a witch-hunt for those that were not blond and blue eyed. The concept of Aryan no longer meant from Atlantis but much more closer to home, from Germany itself. Ewers decadent lifestyle was the public reason for the banning of his books.
After 1938 he spent time and money helping German Jews get visas and leave the country. He was no longer supporting the Third Reich. He was not allowed to publish anything.
Is there any truth to this alternate version of history? Did Nazi Germany have an “Ultimate Freemasonry”? Can we find “Blood and Soil” teachings hidden within the gruesome horror stories of Hanns Heinz Ewers? Can his stories help us to confront our own dark shadows?
All I know is that he stirs things up inside me and I don’t really understand why. I don’t believe that he went insane at the end of his life as a raving German nationalist. I think much can be learned about his attempt at social manipulation in his later works. I think much can be learned about “Blood and Soil”. He knew what strings to pull to move public opinion. Those strings deserve to be studied.
Today many occultists have continued to unearth the primitive “Blood and Soil” practices of our Germanic and Nordic ancestors. Rune magick is becoming popular as people of Nordic and Germanic descent try to get back to their roots.
—Joe E. Bandel
The Spider
Three people had hung themselves in the window of room #7 in the little hotel Stevens on three successive Fridays when medical student Richard Brocquemont resolved to move in.
The first was a Swiss travelling salesman. They found his body Saturday evening. The doctor determined that his death must have occurred between five and six o’clock on Friday evening. The corpse hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the crossbar of the window serving as a place to hang clothes. The window was closed; the deceased had used the curtain cord as a noose. Because the window was very low his legs lay on the floor with his knees almost touching as well. A strong will or purpose must have certainly driven the suicide.
It was further determined that he was married and the father of four children. He had a good job, a cheerful disposition and was always an entertaining character to be around. There was nothing found on his body, not even a note. Yet no one had ever heard him mention anything that would indicate a reason for his suicide.
The second case was not much different. The performer Karl Krause had been hired as a cyclist stuntman for the nearby Médrano circus. He moved into room #7 two days later. When he didn’t show for the performance that Friday the director sent a show attendant to the hotel. He found the performer in the open room hanging from the crossbar of the window.
All of the details were the same in both cases. This suicide appeared no less mysterious. The popular performer received a high wage and everything he needed. He was a young man, twenty-five years old, his life was in full bloom and he enjoyed it. In this case as well there was no note, no insidious remark that might have hinted at a reason for the suicide. He was survived by his old mother to whom he had punctually sent 300 Marks on the first of every month for her care and livelihood.
For Mrs. Dubonnet, the owner of the reasonable little hotel, most of her clients were from the nearby Montmartre vaudeville troop. This second strange death in one of her rooms had very unpleasant consequences. Soon these guests left and the regular ones didn’t come back.
She turned to her personal friend, the commissioner of the 9th Precinct. He told her that he would do everything in his power to help her. He not only investigated the suicides of both hotel guests; he also placed an officer in the room at her disposal.
Charles-Maria Chaumié volunteered for the job of his own free will. He was an old “Marsouin”, marine infantryman, with eleven years of service, had been a sergeant at Tonkin and Annam. He had spent many nights at lonely posts, shot greetings from out of the bushes at sneaking, cowardly river pirates. He appeared completely suitable to confront the “ghost” of Rue Alfred Stevens that everyone was talking about.
The room was prepared for him and he moved in on Sunday evening, then lay down to sleep very contented after the meal and drinks the worthy Mrs. Dubonnet had so amply provided. Every morning and evening Chaumié went to the police precinct to make his report. In the first days these were very limited. He explained that he had not noticed much to report.
Wednesday, on the other hand, he believed he had found a clue. When pressed to say more, he pleaded to be silent just a little while longer. He had no idea whether what he had discovered really had anything at all to do with the deaths of the two people in any way and was afraid that he would be made fun of and laughed at.
On Thursday his behavior was a little uncertain, yet serious. He had nothing further to report. On Friday morning he was considerably excited. He indicated half laughing, half-serious that the window, in any case, had a strange power of attraction. Nevertheless he would continue to stay there, it was absolutely in no way connected with the suicides and that people would only laugh at him if he said anymore.
He didn’t come to the precinct that evening. They found him hanging on the hook of the window crossbar. Here too all the evidence was the same as in the other cases down to the last detail, the legs dangling off the floor, the curtain cord used as a noose. The window was shut, the door unlocked. The death occurred around six o’clock in the evening. The mouth of the deceased was open with the tongue hanging out.
This third death in room #7 had very serious consequences, that same day each and every guest left hotel Stevens with the exception of the German schoolteacher in room #16. He used the opportunity to lower his rent to a third of what he had been paying.
It was a small consolation for Mrs. Dubonnet when Mary Garden, star of the opera, Comique, drove up in her Renault one day and bargained for the red curtain cord. She got it for 200 Francs only because she had seen them in the newspaper by luck. If these things had happened in the summer, in July or August, Mrs. Dubonnet would have gotten three times as much for her curtain cord. Entire sections of the paper would have been filled for weeks with this stuff. But this season was filled with Wahlen, Morocco, Persia, the bank crash in New York and not less than three important political affairs.
Really, you scarcely knew how to get to the place from the papers. The result was that the affair at Rue Alfred Stevens was not talked about as much as it should have been. Further, the articles were taken from the police reports, concise, short, objective and fairly free from exaggeration.
These articles were the only things that medical student Richard Bracquemont knew of the matter. There was one other little fact that he didn’t know; it appeared so immaterial that neither the commissioner nor any of the eyewitnesses had told the reporters about it. It only came out later after the adventure of the medical student, and then they remembered it.
It was simply that when the police took the corpse of Sergeant Charles-Maria Chaumnié down from the window crossbar a large black spider
crawled out of his open mouth. The hotel servant flicked it away with his finger.
“Phui,” he cried. “That’s a big devil!”
Later in the investigation, the one of Bracquemont, a witness said that as they took down the corpse of the Swiss travelling salesman a similar spider had been seen running across the dead man’s shoulder.
But Richard Bracquemont knew nothing of that. He took the room two weeks after the last suicide on a Sunday. Then he scrupulously wrote down what he experienced there in his journal.
The Journal of medical student Richard Bracquemont
Monday 28 February
I moved in here yesterday evening. I unpacked my two suitcases, put my things in order a little, and then I went to bed. I had an excellent sleep and woke up at exactly nine o’clock by someone knocking on my door. It was the owner, herself, bringing me breakfast. She was concerned for me, you could tell by the eggs, the bacon and the excellent coffee that she brought me. Then I washed up, dressed and watched as a maid made up the room. After that I smoked my pipe.
Well, now I’m here. I know very well that this may be dangerous but I also know that if successful I will have it made. Once you could find a reasonably priced meal in Paris but no more today! Indeed it is well worth it to set aside this bit of my life for play. This is my chance and I will take it.
By the way, there were others with the same idea that found out about it. Not less than twenty-seven people have tried, have appealed to the police and to the landlady to get the room. In addition there were three ladies downstairs as well. That was more than enough competition, they were probably all poor devils like myself.
But I got the job. Why? Ah, I was probably the only one there that could give the police a plan! Naturally it was a bluff.
Yes, these reports are most decidedly for the police and they are fun for me as well. Right at the beginning I want to say I played a little trick on them. If the commissioner is sensible he will read this and say, “Hmm, straight to the point. It appears that Bracquemont is just what we need!”
I don’t really care what he says when he reads this later. But right now I’m sitting here and it appears to be a good omen to begin by telling how I so thoroughly bluffed these gentlemen.
First I went to Mrs. Dubonnet, she sent me to the police precinct. I loitered around there every day for an entire week, my offer was always “being considered”. I was always told that I should come back again the next morning. Most of my competitors had long since given up, had something better to do than wait for hours in the musty guardroom. The commissioner was getting annoyed over my stubbornness. Finally he categorically told me that there was no need for me to keep coming back. He thanked me like he had all the others for my good will, but said they had absolutely no use for “dilettante laymen”. Now if I only had some kind of operations plan worked out-
That’s when I told him that I did have such a plan. Naturally I didn’t have one and couldn’t explain a word of it to him, but I told him that my plan was a good one even if a bit dangerous and could indeed find the solution. Unlike the activity of his officer, I would not keep information to myself and deliver any relevant information to him personally.
He thanked me again and was about to dismiss me when he asked if I couldn’t give him a little hint of what my plan was. I knew I was in way over my head, so I told him a bunch of blooming nonsense that I made up on the spot. I don’t know where all of these strange thoughts suddenly came from.
I told him that of all the hours of the week there was one with a strange mysterious influence. That was the hour that Christ vanished from his tomb and descended into hell. It was six o’clock in the evening of the last day of the Jewish week. I reminded him that it was during this hour on Friday between five and six o’clock that all three of the suicides had occurred. I couldn’t tell him any more than that right then, but hinted he might refer to the Revelations of St. John. The commissioner made a face as if he knew what I was talking about, thanked me and ordered me to come back in the evening.
I stepped punctually into his office. Before him on the table I saw the New Testament lying open. Earlier I, like him, had been reading through Revelations and hadn’t understood a single syllable of it. Perhaps the commissioner was more intelligent than I was; in any case he was very obliging and told me that despite my very vague hints he believed he understood what I meant to do. He was prepared to let me go forward with my wishes and give me any help I might need.
I must acknowledge that he has been very helpful to me. He made the arrangement with the landlady, so that during the duration of my stay at the hotel everything would be free. He gave me an excellent revolver and a police whistle. The patrolmen on duty have been directed to go through Rue Alfred Stevens often and come to my aid at the slightest sign of trouble. But the most important thing is that he had a telephone installed in the room with which I could stay in direct contact with the police precinct. It is scarcely four minutes away and I can have help quickly at any time. With all of these things I have no reason to be afraid.
Tuesday 1 March
Nothing happened either yesterday or today. Mrs. Dubonnet had a new curtain cord brought in from a different room. The window has stood empty long enough. She uses any opportunity at all to check in on me. Each time she brings something else along.
I still have nothing to relate in regards to the cause of the suicides, but nothing new has happened. Mrs. Dubonnet has her own opinion. She believes that what happened with the performer was due to an unlucky love affair. A young lady had been coming to visit him this past year but Mrs. Dubonnet had not seen her anymore lately. She didn’t really know what led to the traveling salesman’s resolve. She couldn’t know everything. But the sergeant had most certainly committed suicide just to make her mad!
I must say that this explanation by Mrs. Dubonnet seems a little inadequate. But I keep quiet and let her chatter, after all, she breaks up my boredom.
Thursday 3 March
Still nothing at all, like always. The commissioner calls a few times every day. I tell him that everything is going excellently with me. It is obvious that he is not entirely satisfied with this information. I’ve sent for my books on medicine and can study them now. My voluntary imprisonment will serve a purpose in any case.
Friday 4 March, two o’clock in the afternoon
I had an excellent lunch at noon; my hostess brought me half a bottle of champagne to go along with it. It was truly a condemned man’s last meal. She considers me already three-quarters dead. Before she left, she cried and begged me to go with her. She was afraid that I would hang myself “just to make her mad!”.
I have made an exhaustive examination of the curtain cord. Will I hang myself with it? Hmm, I feel little inclination to do so. The cord is coarse and hard, pulls very poorly in the noose. I would really have to try hard to follow the examples of the others.
Now I’m sitting at my desk, on my left is the telephone, on my right lies the revolver. I am not at all afraid, but I am curious.
Six o’clock in the evening
Nothing has happened, except what I’ve already written. Unfortunately! The fateful hour has come and gone. It was like all the others. Well, really I can’t lie. Several times I did feel the compulsion to go to the window, oh yes, but for a different reason!
The commissioner called on the phone at least ten times between five and six o’clock. He is as impatient as I am. But Mrs. Dubonnet is delighted. Someone has lived for an entire week in room #7 without hanging themselves. Fabulous!
Monday 7 March
I am now convinced that I will not find anything and also inclined to believe the suicides of my predecessors were only due to curious coincidence. I have pleaded with the commissioner to take up an even more exhaustive investigation into the motives behind the three deaths. I am certain such reasons will finally be found.
How this concerns me is that I want to stay here as long as possible. It is not Paris, but I live here
for nothing, have regular meals and ample time for my studies. I need to finish my report for the commissioner and finally there is one other reason why I want to stay here.
Wednesday 9 March
Well, I am one step closer. Clarimonde—
Oh, I’ve not yet mentioned Clarimonde. She is the “third reason” I want to stay here. She is also the reason I wanted to go to the window at the fateful hour, but certainly not to hang myself.
Why do I call her that? I have no idea what her name really is but to me she is Clarimonde. I would like to bet that when I do finally ask her name sometime, that is what it will be.
I noticed Clarimonde right away in the very first days. She lives on the other side of the very small street and her window is right across from mine. She sits there behind her curtain.
By the way, I must establish that she noticed me earlier as well and visibly showed an interest in me. No wonder, the entire street knows that I live here and why. Mrs. Dubonnet has already taken care of that.
I have never had an inclination to fall in love and have had very few interactions with women. When you leave Verdun and come to Paris to study medicine with barely enough money for three meals a day, then you need to think about something other than love. I don’t have much experience in these things and have perhaps made a stupid start, but she is still there. I must please her.
In the beginning I had no intention of engaging in a relationship with my opposite across the street. I only thought that since I was here to observe, and since there was nothing to observe in my room, I might just as well observe her. You can’t sit all day long pouring over books.
Hanns Heinz Ewers Volume I (Collected Short Stories by Hanns Heinz Ewers) Page 2