Hopeful Monsters

by Nicholas Mosley

  explosion might be required. And what sort of explosion might be imagined to be required - for creation or destruction - by two such exiles in a strange country on a cold Christmas Eve?

  You said That is a good story.' Then - 'Yes, it should be true.'

  I said 'It is not all that far from what I imagined in Spain.'

  Donald Hodge said 'The day after Christmas, Otto Frisch travelled to Copenhagen to see Niels Bohr. And Niels Bohr said "But what fools we have been, not to have seen this before!"'

  I said 'Oh but how would it have been proper for us to have seen it before!'

  You said 'How long will it take?'

  Donald said 'It will take time to handle, if indeed it can be handled at all - time, and a great deal of money, and work, and imagination.'

  I said 'Then that's all right.'

  Donald said 'What is?'

  I said 'I think imagination is on our side.'

  Donald said 'And, with luck, money.'

  You said 'But time?'

  It was not long after this that Hitler marched into what was left of Czechoslovakia; then began to make threatening noises against Poland. I thought - It is obvious what is in runaway: what else but a coincidence like this might be imagined to be in control!

  I said 'We always knew that there was something urgent to be done.'

  You said 'I don't think this makes it easier to separate from each other.'

  In the summer, you set off for Zurich: to find what news you could about your father; to try to make contact with Franz, to find out what was happening in Germany about a Bomb; perhaps to pursue the course of study that you had embarked on years ago -the one concerning the connections between coincidence, the workings of the imagination, and fact.

  I said 'You will be careful.'

  You said 'And write to me every day.'

  I said 'Meet you on top of the gasworks, twenty minutes.'

  Ascona this year is on The Symbolism of Rebirth in the Religions of All Times and Places'.

  These metaphors! They remind us that language is no more than a shot at reality.

  - In reality, am I in touch with you?

  I have been told of an experiment in which you take a mother and a child cat, separate them, then if you kill the child cat, for instance in Australia, the mother cat, in Europe, attached to suitable recording instruments, will show signs of instantaneous distress.

  I am sad. I am lonely.

  You are happy?

  I sit on a jetty and look out across the lake. I imagine rising up out of the water a hand with a sword with a message on it -

  - You call this reality?

  There is no more news from my cousins about my father. He was in Sachsenhausen concentration camp in 1936; he remained there till probably early this year; then he was let out. He is now said to be working for the government.

  Why did the Nazis let him out? Does he know what he is doing? Does he expect me to know?

  Might we not both be in danger if I, his errant daughter, try to make contact with him?

  Practising. Testing.

  In the years before 1936 he had become known for his outspokenness in defence of Jews: it was for this, presumably, that he was arrested. He was also becoming known for his work on the philosophical and even political implications of modern science. For this (as well as for the other accomplishment) he had gained the respect of many different kinds of scientists. So the government might well have thought that he could be useful to them in the runup to war; and his wife, my mother, a Jewess, was now dead.

  There might be good or bad reasons for his not getting in touch with me. There might be good or bad reasons for my not having got in touch with him. He might be ashamed: or he might be something more rare on this strange planet

  He might have some design. He might know that I would know what he is doing. To take responsibility on oneself - to expect others to take responsibility on themselves - this is to go against the dependence on others that is taken to be social responsibility on this sad planet.

  So what are the techniques - if we do not accept that the human race should destroy itself?

  Practising.

  The seminars we have been engaged in this last term have been to do with how one might, as an individual, get in touch with some operational level of this so-called 'reality'. There are Eastern techniques for this; but these are apt to encourage a mystical turning away from the world rather than a dealing with it. There are Christian techniques; but with these one puts oneself into the hands of a religious authority, and why should such hands be any more to do with reality than one's own? Jung and his coven of witches here advocate what they call 'active imagination' - you let consciousness go, and then messages come in from an unconscious that is said to be universal. But why should such a game between consciousness and unconsciousness be to do with reality? It seems to me that anything called 'reality' would have to be a to and fro between oneself and the outside world - at least between oneself and that which has the appearance of an outside world. I mean, if you let the barriers that form the defence of your personality go, then the messages that pop up will be in the form of actual events, juxtapositions, recognitions.

  I am trying to write my thesis about this. When I am not sitting at the end of this jetty and trying to imagine what you are doing, I am by the window in my room which has a view over the jetty where I have been sitting. You have said - It is necessary to have a way of looking down on oneself. I can say from here - Why, there I was at the end of the jetty! How interesting that I am lonely and sometimes frightened!

  Do you think this is possible?

  Seeing a pattern is on a different level from what is frightened or frightening? Testing.

  I am wondering if I can bring into my thesis something about our experiences in Spain: I was here; you were there: what can one say about connections? An appreciation of these would be aesthetic. The state of mind required, looking back, was not to plan, not to try to sort out: but to listen, and carry on, and discover.

  Should I go myself into Germany now? There is not much time if there is to be war.

  I have tried to get in touch with Franz. I have tried to get in touch with Walburga. Walburga, as you know, is a friend of Franz. They

  are both away. I have not thought it proper to try to get in touch directly with my father.

  We know there are patterns because there is our experience of what is aesthetic. But knowing this involves us in more than knowing that the patterns are there. What do we do, as part of a pattern?

  What should I do now? In the humdrum world, what is moral?

  The one thing that I have not done which I have thought I should do (looking down on myself) is to try to get in touch with Stefan or even Rudi (you remember Stefan and Rudi? the people with whom I went across the Sahara). Stefan is a Swiss: I know his home is somewhere near Zurich. Rudi came from southern Germany. I have not wanted to get in touch with them because after the dramas in North Africa I did not think that they would want to see me; nor did I want to see them. Also I thought that there might still be some trouble for us all with the authorities. Up to now I have felt myself protected by my new passport.

  But - morally, should I not get in touch with Stefan or Rudi? To find out how they are? Also I have something of their property.

  But what would this have to do with any pattern we have imagined?

  Testing. Testing.

  With anything aesthetic or moral, however, one knows not what will emerge: only the means; not even the connections.

  So I will go out now and see what might be done.

  See you behind the gasworks, forty minutes?

  Bodensee August 30th 1939 My Angel,

  I went to the polytechnic, but they had no news of Stefan or Rudi: they had an address, however, for Stefan on the shores of the Bodensee. So I have come here. I have found where Stefan lives, and have left a message for him to meet me. I don't know why I am doing this. It is true that I owe something to him
and Rudi.

  I am in a cafe and am sitting looking out across this lake on the other side of which is Germany. Is this why I have come here? To put myself close to what you physicists call 'potentialities'?

  I feel as if I have put myself into one of those experiments of which you physicists are fond: will this or that potentiality become

  actual. But as we know - does this not depend on the conditions chosen by the experimenter?

  Talking to you. Talking to myself. Experimenting.

  Later.

  I was sitting in the cafe writing this to you in my notebook when Stefan turned up. He looked awful; he had pale gold hair; one eye seemed to be bigger than the other. He said 'I hear you were looking for me.' I said 'Oh Stefan, how nice to see you!' He said 'We thought you were dead.' I said 4 I wanted to find out what happened to you!' He said 'Well, here I am.' He sat down at my table. He seemed aggrieved: perhaps he was frightened of what I would want. It seemed that he had succeeded in turning his face into a mask. I thought - Well, this was always one of his potentialities. I said 'But what happened to you? I mean, in Morocco?' He said 'I came on later in the bus.' I said 'Did you find Rudi?' He said 'Of course I found Rudi!' I said 'He was in hospital?' He said 'I picked up both Rudi and the truck.' I said 'Oh Stefan, you are clever!' Then - 'Rudi was all right?'

  I thought - One of my potentialities perhaps must be to wear a mask.

  He said 'Yes, Rudi's all right.' Then - 'But what about you?'

  I tried to tell Stefan the story about how I had got to Spain. But this came out wrong; I could not make it sound anything but chaotic. And Stefan was not interested; both he and I seemed to be waiting for something quite different.

  He told me more about himself and Rudi in Morocco. He had come across in the bus the scene of what he called the 'accident'; he had learned where Rudi was in hospital; they had been told that I had been taken off by soldiers. In hospital Rudi had recovered from concussion; he and Stefan had retrieved the truck and what was left of the contents and then, because of the war in Spain, they had got to the French port of Oran and had taken a boat to France. I found that I was not much interested in this story either: I was thinking -Oh, but what makes anyone interested in this sort of stuff?

  Stefan was saying 'We got hardly anything for the contents of the truck: it scarcely covered our expenses.' I said 'Oh what a shame!' I thought - He is giving reasons, I suppose, why none of the proceeds should come to me: then - But this is still not what is concerning him. Then he said 'Rudi wants to see you.' I said 'Is Rudi here?' He said 'He's not here now, but he's coming tomorrow.' I said 'I

  suppose I know why he wants to see me.' Stefan said 'You know why he wants to see you?' I was feeling ill. I thought - Oh but I can see why this might not be boring.

  You remember the diamonds that Rudi had been carrying when he ran the truck into a tree; that I had found when he was unconscious; that I had been carrying around with me in their small leather pouch ever since. Of course, it was likely that I had been reluctant to see Rudi or Stefan simply because I had not wanted to tell them (or to lie to them?) about these diamonds: but this was also why I had felt I had to see them now. But now I had begun to feel ill. It seemed that I was being waylaid by a business that had nothing to do with what I was properly involved in; that I must get it over with quickly. I thought - But at least I have kept the diamonds safely. Then - But it is diamonds that are boring: they are part of a pattern of self-destruction. Then Stefan said 'Rudi has been keeping a letter that was sent to you.'

  I said 'A letter?'

  He said 'It came to the polytechnic some time ago. They gave it to me, and I gave it to Rudi. We didn't know what had happened to you.'

  I said 'What sort of letter?'

  Stefan said 'Rudi will bring it with him when he comes tomorrow.'

  I thought - You mean, he will give me the letter if I give him the diamonds? This is the point of this business?

  I said 'You're sure he'll bring it?'

  Stefan said 'Yes.' Then - 'The reason why I was travelling on the bus in Morocco, you know, was because I didn't agree with what Rudi was doing.'

  I said 'I'm awfully sorry, I'm feeling ill, I must go and lie down.'

  Stefan said 'But you'll be here lunchtime tomorrow?'

  I am writing this in my room in the Gasthaus where I can look out across the lake towards Germany. A letter addressed to the polytechnic might well be from my father: so was this why I had made efforts to see Stefan or Rudi? You see how this is difficult. The way in which I am feeling ill is that waves seem to be breaking into my head; a white light coming down; you know the feeling.

  Rudi must want to see me because I have the diamonds? And how else would I have ever heard of this letter! Would I have wanted to see Rudi if I had not had the diamonds? The speculations

  are fruitless. What a style to have to learn, to be in a pattern with what is happening.

  Testing. Testing.

  Oh how interesting that I am feeling ill!

  The gasworks may blow up, twenty minutes.

  I have been to the landlady downstairs and asked her if I could use her telephone. I wanted to talk to you, but there was no chance of a line to England. I suppose everyone is talking about something boring like war. So I booked personal calls once more to Franz and to Walburga in Germany. One goes on, does one, casting lines, lifelines, over the water.

  Don't you think we might settle down, one day, you and I, on the edge of some beautiful painted desert?

  You remember when you said - There is no mathematical reason why messages should not come to us from the future -

  - It is just difficult to imagine how we might be able to recognise these.

  Practising.

  The landlady came to tell me that one of my calls had got through: I hoped it was to Franz: it was to Walburga.

  Walburga said 'How marvellous to hear your voice! I cannot wait to see you! Where are you?'

  'I am just the other side of the Bodensee.'

  'Then I am coming!'

  'Tell me, have you any news of Franz?'

  'Why do you ask that?'

  'It is important that I get in touch with him.'

  'Always Franz! But I will find out.'

  'But do come tomorrow! I am longing to see you.'

  'Where shall we meet?'

  'At the Cafe Miramar, Romanshorn; it is on the lake. I will be there at lunchtime.'

  'I will be there!'

  I am now back in my room: I do not know what is happening: there are these waves coming in.

  Do you think Walburga will have found where Franz is? Do you think I should try to see Franz? Do you think Rudi will bring the letter? Do you think it will be from my father?

  Should I have asked Walburga to find out about my father?

  I still am not used to this: testing!

  Do tell me what you are doing.

  I imagine you, yes, walking in a wood. You come to a cottage in which a beautiful girl is imprisoned. I cry out to warn you - This is a witch! My cry goes round the world like that of the kitten to its mother. You say to me - But it is children, not witches, who are imprisoned!

  This is what the witches here call 'active imagination'.

  Bodensee August 31st 1939 My Angel,

  I went to the cafe today. There we were acting like people in masks. It does seem, does it not, that war will be declared.

  Rudi was like someone whose mask has grown out from the inside: a skeleton become a shell: a lobster: a glove-puppet.

  I said 'Oh Rudi! How good to see you! I am so glad you are all right! I had such guilt about leaving you!'

  This is my mask - of Legba, the trickster?

  Rudi said 'I imagined those people gave you no option but to leave me!'

  'Oh yes, that's right!'

  'I'm glad you say so.'

  Stefan had come to the cafe with Rudi. I thought - Of course, they are living together: like the two Ugly Sisters.

  I said 'Stefan says
you've got a letter for me.'

  'I've got something to ask you first.'

  'Oh I know!'

  'I understand why you ran away: why you never got in touch with us.'

  'Have you got my letter?'

  'Stefan says you may know what happened to some property of mine -'

  'Have you got my letter?'

  Rudi took a letter out of his pocket and held it up in front of him. I could see that the name on the envelope was, yes, in the handwriting of my father. There was a different writing for the address. I was not sure I recognised this.

  Rudi said 'Did you take -

  I said 'You always said there weren't any diamonds.'

  He said 'Do you want your letter?'

  I leaned forwards to take the letter. Rudi held it away. I said 'Yes,

  502

  I've got the diamonds. The soldiers would have got them if I hadn't taken them first.'

  He said 'You've got them here?'

  I said 4 No, but I can get them. You can have your share.'

  I saw Walburga coming towards us along the promenade by the lake. When she saw me she began to run. She was like a Valkyrie; like an actress playing both a Valkyrie and her horse.

  Walburga shouted 'My darling! My precious! What a feast for the eyes!' She hugged and kissed me.

  Stefan took the letter out of Rudi's hand and held it out to me. The handwriting of my name, yes, was that of my father: the writing of the address seemed to be Franz's. I thought - But that indeed is not possible! Then - Stop thinking. Walburga leaned back with her hands on my shoulders. She said 'Let me see you!' Rudi was watching us from across the table.

  I was holding the letter from my father. I said 'This is Walburga. This is Rudi. Stefan.'