I fear for my country when so many of my fellow writers, thinkers, and artists turn a blind eye to what is happening. I wonder how these sympathisers can sleep at night as they observe our homeland being overrun by fascists. Perhaps they have no contact with anyone outside their own ‘racially pure’ Aryan tribe, but the Group actively embraces other cultures. We welcome members who are Jewish, as well as other diverse ethnicities.
Sometimes Langer adopts a more relaxed, anecdotal style—especially when he’s writing about one of these ethnically diverse Group members. It becomes clear, within the first page of meeting her in the journal, that she’s someone special for him:
In the spring of 1931 a young Irish woman, Caitlin O’Connor, arrived in Zurich to study with Jung. Caitlin was only twenty-one when we met, ten years younger than me, but she was already a talented artist, writer, and one of Carl’s brightest students.
She is also one of the most strikingly beautiful women I have ever been fortunate to meet: tall, slender, jet black hair contrasting wonderfully with translucent, pale skin. She has a certain Celtic wildness about her, and she carries herself with a confidence that belies her years.
She commandeered one of the communal rooms, set up her studio, and began running painting workshops with an enthusiasm that is, frankly, a breath of fresh air here in stuffy old Zurich! She is a free spirit, questioning everything, and she soon became a valued member of our Group.
Ludwig is obviously besotted with this beguiling young Irish woman, and it seems to be a case of ‘opposites attract’ ...
In some ways, she is a more radical thinker than myself and we disagree about many things, but the mutual respect between us has become a closer bond. We have had many heated discussions, often stemming from her revolutionary political convictions. She has studied Marx and Lenin’s socialist theories and believes passionately that the world’s wrongs can be righted by the correct ideology, whereas I look for salvation within the individual’s psyche, as argued by Nietzsche.
Even though each of us rejects religion, agreeing with Nietzsche that God is dead, we are both products of our cultural heritage. She was raised in a staunchly Catholic family, the middle child of six. The whole family attended mass religiously and Caitlin was educated by nuns in a convent school. I was born into a strict Protestant family, the only son of a Lutheran preacher who laid down the law.
Our arguments, and personalities, often seem to reflect these archetypal extremes: Caitlin’s flamboyant Catholic excess versus my puritanical Protestant restraint.
So much for the opposites, now he succumbs to her attractions:
From the moment I met Caitlin, I was struck by her fierce intelligence, physical beauty, and inner strength. My respect for her only increased when she told me about her humble origins.
She was born in 1910 in a tiny, remote village on the Dingle peninsular—a rocky headland jutting out into the Atlantic on the wild west coast of Ireland. Her family struggled to eke out an existence with subsistence farming, fishing, and foraging. Growing up she barely had enough to eat, but she managed to escape from the prison of poverty by the sheer force of her intelligence.
To their credit, the nuns who schooled her realised that she might be capable of great things and encouraged her to continue her education. They helped her to win a scholarship and attend the University of Dublin—the first student from the convent who had ever managed this.
My roots might not be quite as deprived as Caitlin’s, but her story resonated with me. We both managed to escape from poverty and a miserable future by becoming the first of our tribe to go to university. Education is a great leveller for people like us.
Ludwig’s next entry reveals that Caitlin and I shared something else—a love of the ocean and a need to be close to her:
Caitlin often speaks of what she misses most in her new life: the wild sea, the surf, the beach where she used to take long walks: Brandon Bay. It was her solace when life became intolerable; her special place, where she could be alone to think.
So, she was clearly a kindred spirit—someone who understood the true meaning of that modern cliché: ‘life’s a beach’.
Her birthplace also struck a chord with me—the Dingle peninsular. Where had I come across that evocative name? Of course, in a windsurfing magazine! Her ‘special place’, Brandon Bay, was the location for one of the notorious Red Bull ‘Storm Chase’ events, in which a select group of the world’s best, most hardcore wave-sailors seek out and compete in the most extreme conditions the planet can produce. I closed my eyes and pictured the majestic, empty beaches (reminding me of those in Esperance), wild weather, epic waves …
An hour had passed since we’d taken off. We were thirty thousand feet above the Indian Ocean and I’d read twenty pages of the journal. Pablo and most of the other passengers were asleep. I was exhausted, but the story of Ludwig Langer and Caitlin O’Connor had me hooked. I returned to the manuscript and read on …
As I’d guessed, their story is about the attraction of opposites. Ludwig is captivated by Caitlin’s wild nature, but he doesn’t share her love of the ocean or her obsession with politics:
Caitlin is passionately committed to the struggle against British rule in her homeland. She believes that the island of Ireland should be an independent republic and that political violence is necessary to achieve that goal. Politics and violence are alien to me, but her ancestors have suffered hundreds of years of British conquest. Resistance and rebellion are in her blood.
In April 1916, when Caitlin was six years old, the Easter Rising took place. Members of the Irish Volunteers and Irish Citizen Army seized the centre of Dublin, proclaimed a republic, and held off British forces for almost a week. Although only a child, she remembers how the execution of the Rising’s leaders was the talk of her village. It led to a surge of support for republicanism and the formation of a local brigade of the Irish Republican Army.
Langer goes on to explain that Caitlin was never openly a member of the IRA—she’s too astute, but he suspects she’s working for them covertly. As a staunchly apolitical pacifist this worries him, but by the time his suspicions are confirmed, it’s too late—they’re in love ...
In 1935 Caitlin invited me to travel to Ireland with her to witness the struggle at first hand. We spent several weeks in Dublin—meeting prominent activists, writers, and artists, attending political rallies, doing a great deal of talking and, I have to confess, drinking a lot of the local stout. The Irish are a vibrant people, excellent company, and quite fond of these latter two pursuits.
Later, we travelled to the rural west coast to visit her family. The Dingle peninsula is just as beautiful as Caitlin described it, and as beautiful as she herself is. We spent many happy hours walking the length of Brandon Bay, her ‘special place’, and it was there that we fell in love.
As I listen to her stories of poverty, famine and ruthless exploitation by the colonial oppressors, I began to understand her people and their struggle to survive on this extreme frontier, where Europe vanishes into the Atlantic rollers. I am sympathetic, a Republican sympathiser, but I find it impossible to condone violence.
Over the following pages, Ludwig describes how Caitlin makes regular trips back to her homeland. As her involvement in the armed struggle deepens and the political situation in Germany worsens, he becomes increasingly anxious about their future …
We both abhor the National Socialist thugs who have taken over my country, but Caitlin tells me: “whoever is the enemy of your enemy is your friend, or at least, your ally”. She means that Irish Republicans share a common enemy with the Nazis—the British. I fear the IRA may already be collaborating with Hitler, negotiating an invasion of Northern Island, and that Caitlin may be involved in these negotiations. Of course, she denies this, and my feelings for her prevent me from being objective.
My love for her is like a noose around my neck, choking the breath of reason. I fear for us, for her country, and I fear for my own, as the waves of h
atred gather.
As the decade progresses towards the inevitable conflict, Ludwig’s journal entries become ever more desperate. At least he manages to find some solace in their love and as darkness is about to descend over Europe there’s a chink of light …
Christmas 1938—Caitlin has just discovered she is pregnant! She told me as we sat down to celebrate Christmas Day with the Group. It was a joyful way to mark a day neither of us feels a connection with. However, just as Catholics and Protestants unite to celebrate the birth of their prophet, so we joined with our fellow travellers to toast this new life. If only the rest of the Christian world could unite against the evil that seems intent on overrunning Europe and smashing the continent to pieces.
As he fears, it’s not long before war is declared, but as the armies prepare to fight each other to the death, a new life, and fresh hope is born:
On September 1, 1939 the Nazis invaded Poland. Subsequently, France and the United Kingdom issued declarations of war on Germany.
The very next day, Saturday, September 2, our relationship was blessed with a son. Our son! He is a light in the darkness that threatens to destroy our lives.
Caitlin insisted on travelling home to Ireland for the birth and I accompanied her. Neither of us required our love to be encumbered with a conventional marriage ceremony, so he was born out of wedlock. Of course, her tightly knit Catholic community did not approve of this, but she won back some goodwill by giving our son her father’s first name: Martyn. For his middle name, we chose her grandfather’s, which is also the name of her special place. And we decided that given his place of birth, and the uncertainty surrounding our situation in my homeland, he would take her surname and be Irish, rather than German.
So, we named our son: Martyn Brandon O’Connor.
I put Dr Langer’s manuscript down at this point and gazed out of the window. There was still nothing to be seen, but several thousand kilometres of that nothingness had passed beneath us while I’d been engrossed in the journal. I’d reached page thirty-five, the halfway point, and there was a lot to digest.
Pablo was still sleeping soundly in the next seat. There was much I wanted to ask him, but it would have to wait. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift into blissful unconsciousness.
Several hours later I was again woken by a tap on my shoulder. This time it was a member of the crew. Pablo and I opened our eyes and the flight attendant served us lunch (or perhaps it was breakfast, or maybe supper—I didn’t have a clue). Eventually, he broke the silence:
“¿Quieres una cerveza, señor Nick?”
I smiled, relieved the deaf-mute act was over. Perhaps I might get some answers now, and yes, a beer would be most welcome.
“Sí, por favor, gracias Pablo, pero ... Do you mind if we speak English?”
“OK, Nick. I hope you are resting a little now, but please to tell to me: what are you thinking about the journal?”
“Well, I’ve only read half of it. I just reached the point where Caitlin has a baby son, Martyn—he must be the Master’s half-brother, no?”
Pablo nodded.
“So, what happened to him?”
“Ah, that is a good question, Nick …”
A pause.
“And …?” A voice-in-my-head demanded.
“You must finish the story, and then this is becoming clear.”
I looked at him sceptically.
“No, I promise. It is becoming clear when you finish the journal.”
Another pregnant pause. I ate my plastic airline meal, sipped my beer, and wondered if he’d say more. Eventually, he did:
“Also ... this is explaining why we are going to Dublin.”
I let that sink in for a moment. It seemed unlikely there’d be any further ‘explaining’ until I’d finished Dr Langer’s journal, so I tried a different tack:
“Tell me about yourself, Pablo. How did you come to work for Alejandro, and what’s your role in his Group?”
He shrugged, but I continued probing:
“I was under the impression that you’re the captain of his yacht, but one year ago you pop up in the transit lounge at Heathrow airport, and the next—here you are escorting me from Australia to Ireland ... You seem to spend a lot of time in the air, for a seafaring man?”
He grinned, not a gesture I’d seen from him often.
“Is true, Nick. I am master of the Abyss when the Master is not aboard. Other times he is sending me on missions everywhere he cannot go to. I’m like a ... how-you-say ... a mister ...”
He looked at me for help as he struggled to find the appropriate English expression.
“?” A shrug from me. Then he found the description he was looking for:
“... a Mister Fix-it!”
Now it was my turn to smile. I liked Pablo. He was an amiable bloke and I felt at ease with him in a way I never did with his boss.
“When you return to Australia last year, Alejandro send me there to keep the eyes on you—is that correct, my English?”
“Not really” I muttered. Now I wasn’t quite as relaxed about Mr Fix-it. So, he’d been spying on me for the past year and keeping Big Brother updated. He sensed my unease and did his best to reassure me:
“No worries Nick ... (he said this with such a ridiculous imitation of an Ozzie accent that, against my will, my face creased into another smile) ... the Master is pleased with you. I am in Perth when you give evidence to the politicians ...”
I interrupted him, astonished: “You mean you were at the legalisation hearing? I didn’t see you there.”
“I am wearing ... how-you-say ... a dress? No, no es correcto ... un disfraz ...” He looked at me for a translation.
“A disguise?”
“¡Sí! I am wearing disguise, but this no matter. I tell Alejandro what you say to the important peoples, how you say it to them ... and he very happy, you know? He say you are learning how to change the world.”
He had me smiling again now, but I had to put him straight:
“Well, Pablo, I tried my best, but it wasn’t good enough to change anything, and in the end it all went pear-shaped.”
“¿Qué? I no understand. Why this fruit?”
He gave me a look of such comical confusion that I struggled to keep a straight face. But he’d understood the gist of what I’d said:
“OK, yes, I know what happen. You go to prison, no?”
I nodded, ruefully.
“The Master, he send me with money for your friend, Mr Mandu. Money to get you out of jail. And I buy tickets—for us, travel to Dublin.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I suppose I should thank you. Muchas gracias señor Fix-it.”
He looked at me with genuine warmth, clinked my glass with his own, and replied, in his indomitably comic version of my own accent: “Cheers. No worries, mate!”
I just couldn’t hold back the laughter this time, and he joined me. The two of us collapsed in giggles, and the besuited business men around us pretended not to be appalled.
20
Missing Pieces
We were in mid-air—halfway through the twenty-four hour flight to Dublin. I was halfway through Dr Ludwig Langer’s journal, but no nearer to understanding why I was going there. It was like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. Pablo insisted they could all be found in the journal. It was certainly fascinating reading, and it explained the historical context, but what did it have to do with me? I needed more information to complete the picture.
Over the next couple of hours, as we sank a few more beers, I probed him about the Master’s modern version of his father’s Group: how it functioned, his role in it, and how I fitted in. Pablo told me it included influential writers, scientists, philosophers, artists, and wealthy entrepreneurs—likeminded individuals sharing knowledge across disciplines. Their aim was to fulfil Dr Langer’s ideals—the evolution of human society to the next level. They were distributed all over the planet, communicating and collaborating online. Apart from
Alejandro and himself, I’d already met two other members: Nicole and Mandu—the Master called them his ‘shamans’.
My throat was dry now. I gulped down the rest of my beer and ordered another. Pablo had reawakened my paranoia by mentioning Nicole. I told him the Group sounded like a religious cult, an elite secret society like the Freemasons, a clandestine political party ... I even mentioned the Knights Templar. I’d been groomed and then lured into the cult by forming a close relationship with a ‘teacher’, who’d then been snatched away, to leave this poor sucker waiting for the next carrot to be dangled.
Pablo laughed off my comparisons, scoffed at my paranoia, and tried his best to reassure me:
“Not true, Nick. This in your mind only. You must not worry about Alejandro. He not a bad man. That no es correcto, ¿entiendes?”
I tried not to shrug, but he could see that I wasn’t convinced.
“The Master, he is above good and evil. Ah, my English is so bad. I cannot explain this ...”
He tailed off in frustration, but I understood him. If anybody could persuade me of the Master’s integrity it was Pablo. It was hard to imagine anyone grooming him. He didn’t seem to have the kind of brain that could be easily washed. He wasn’t interested in grand ideas, just focussed on practical matters—the Group’s Mr Fix-it, indeed. But he still hadn’t allayed my doubts about my current mission:
“I’m sorry Pablo, but I am worried about this trip to Ireland. Why are we going there?”
Too Close to the Wind Page 24