by Ernst Jünger
We continued our dialogues in our new relationship. But now we had to exercise greater caution, for these embassies are touchy places; the walls have ears, all dealings are monitored. The word "friendship" strikes a sour note. As in the old religious seminaries, the officials prefer the comrades to go in threes during breaks rather than in twos.
27
Here too, there was a great deal to learn. Jagello showed me several files that were not meant for my eyes, even though he knew that I got together with old friends and relatives. My life was pleasant, and I could take my time.
One morning, when we were riding in the Tiergarten, I casually said: "Jagello — I'm going to defect."
He showed little surprise: "I've sensed it for a long time — in fact, I knew it from the very start. You're expecting a great deal from me — it would have been better if you had said nothing."
"I wouldn't and couldn't do otherwise. I suggest that in the next situation report you write that you have developed doubts about my reliability. I'll be gone before my recall order comes from Liegnitz."
Once again, my friend proved that he could think. He said: "The response won't come from Liegnitz, because the report goes to the central office — and besides, I should have notified the ambassador the instant I had any doubts. And above all: if you were to vanish right after that, they would certainly conclude that I had put on the brakes — that we had conspired together. You did study Oppenheimer's trial, after all."
Oppenheimer was a nuclear physicist — and one of the schizophrenics — whose superior had been accused of this kind of complicity in a similar situation. Jagello was right: he would have to be as flabbergasted by my disappearance as anyone else.
So I put my papers in order, took along my documents, and asked for political asylum in the West. All I had to do was cross the street.
28
All things considered, this was no easy step for me — and not only because ofJagello. After all, I was breaking off a good career. I won't go along with phrases like "more freedom." I am no liberal — at least not in the sense that people have to get together and vote on the matter. One carries freedom inside oneself; a man with a good mind will realize his potential in any regime. Once his good mind is recognized, he will advance anywhere, cross any line. He does not pass through the regimes, they pass through him, barely leaving a trace. He can do without them, but they cannot do without him. If they are strict, it hones his intelligence. Besides, the regimes are visibly growing alike; good cheer is vanishing everywhere, even the sourire is vanishing in Paris.
29
So much for my background. I would like to conclude with an anecdote I heard from one of my ancestors; he had witnessed the event. Steinmetz, the Prussian marshal, the victor at Nachod and Skalitz, became intransigent, indeed almost peculiar in his old age, like many generals who have served honorably. At times, Blucher thought the old man had an elephant in his head. In 187o, when Steinmetz was put in charge of the First Army, Waldersee said that the old man was already three-quarters crazy. And in fact, he ordered some bizarre maneuvers and was then put second-in-command to Prince Friedrich Karl. Naturally, Steinmetz was deeply offended.
When the marshal was holding a conference after Gravelotte, the prince and his retinue rode by at a certain distance. Steinmetz took no notice. Friedrich Karl sent an aide-de-camp to the marshal, asking him to report. The obstinate old man refused. With a heavy heart, the king then relieved him of his command and appointed him governor of Silesia.
Those are old stories; Steinmetz is no longer even mentioned in the encyclopedia. I have brought him up because the Prussians are surviving more strongly in the East than in the West — not in the tradition, of course, but in the style. Jagello was a good example. That explains why, when I picked up my papers in Liegnitz, I could imitate the prince — albeit only en miniature, but with success — and in the East German People's Army at that.
It occurred before my transfer to Berlin. Coming out of the barracks in my new uniform, I saw Stellmann on the square, he was operating at full capacity. Saluting me casually, he turned back to the troops. He was not to get away with that. I strode over to him:
"Don't you know you're supposed to identify yourself, Sergeant?"
He gaped at me and grew even paler, a chalky white. Then he pulled himself together. "Second Company, rifle inspection, sir."
"Thank you, carry on." That was my final encounter with him.
30
My problem is not in my profession. I have certainly had my share of trouble here, like anyone else. At first, I was even a washout; but I developed into what is known as a climber. The pattern of my military career was repeated in business. On the whole, it seems to me that we follow the same law in every segment of our lives. Plainly, our makeup is not only linear, but also cyclical. Neither excludes the other. A tire rolls across asphalt.
My desertion made headlines; I had foreseen this. Now I could have gone on with my career in a different context; offers came for secret services. I had a list of Eastern agents inside my head, but I made no use of it. Betrayal of whoever it might be is not my thing; Jagello had likewise not expected it of me. He could put his mind at ease. Anything written in a newspaper is soon forgotten, thank goodness, but it remains in the registers and may eventually resurface.
I was unemployed now and almost penniless. It was, as they say, too little to live on, too much to die with. Initially, I had a small subsidy, my relatives could contribute a little. They opened their front doors themselves now, and they did not look pleased when I knocked. I did a lot of walking and got to know the mood of someone who wonders whether or not he can afford to have his shoes resoled.
What does one do in this situation today? One smokes opium or goes to the university. I opted for the university after weeks of spending most of my time in bed. I went out only to go to the library, from which I returned laden with books.
I had old-fashioned notions about Alma Mater and the professors. Soon I realized that I could get nothing out of them. I often felt as if eunuchs were tussling with hermaphrodites. Schizophrenia was trumps. The natural sciences were encoded, history and the humanities politicized. The theologians were still lagging behind Darwin or even Copernicus and, swinging their train-oil lamps, they actually plumed themselves on their boldness. Pedagogical eros was lacking altogether; it was replaced by a kind of complicity. Where were the times when an electrical aura emanated the instant the professor appeared?
I would never have dreamed that I would long for the barracks; but even when Stellmann was yelling at us, there was still a demonic atmosphere. Not only Konigsberg was a ruin, but also Heidelberg, Tubingen, Gottingen. They were still dominated physically, spiritually, and morally by the gray factory-style of the nineteenth century, whether one entered a laboratory, a school, or a hospital. Plus the nightmarish sense that this could only be a thin skin with something monstrous hatching underneath.
I lacked a friend to share my sorrows and yearnings, someone to converse with. I missed Jagello; though we lived in the same city, we were further apart than antipodes.
31
But what good did it do? Our farmers say that you can't ask an ox for more than a piece of beef. So I focused on what was offered, and the subjects I chose were advertising, statistics, computer technology, insurance, journalism.
My situation improved considerably when I married Bertha. We had met in the student restaurant. At first, our relationship seemed casual, but soon it deepened. Bertha was not only a good lover physically and mentally, but also a reliable companion. Being both cultured and practical, she knew how to give our life a framework in which we felt good. Granted, she had to break off her studies — classical languages. Nevertheless, they came in handy: she compiled the catalogues in a second-hand bookshop; however, she also had to help out in the store and at the cash register.
We kept to ourselves in one ofthe many-storied apartment houses, as if in a cell; we had no friends and only the unav
oidable acquaintances. We could call ourselves happy, aside from the fact that Bertha was usually quite exhausted when she returned from the bookshop. This profession too calculates more with machines than with the mind; nevertheless, the work is more draining than it used to be — that is how we are hoodwinked by the machine world.
I often felt sorry for her when I saw her in the evening, as she pulled herself together at the table. I had done the shopping, no cans, and had prepared the meal, except for the spices; plus a glass of wine. These are happy hours; we relish our own delight in the other's delight.
We had the weekends, and then vacations: Mallorca, Sicily, Tunisia. Above all, my studies were gradually coming to an end, and I hoped I would soon find a profession.
32
And indeed I did, although I began with a modest, perhaps even slightly disreputable job. Let me fill in the background.
I remember my grandfather as a small, wiry man. He was also my godfather; I was named Friedrich after him. He went straight from the Liegnitz Barracks into the first of the great wars, fighting until the end — initially at the front lines, then on Mackensen's staff. He liked talking about the Rumanian campaign; those were still operations in the old style. He extended the war after the Treaty of Versailles by joining a Free Corps and distinguishing himself in a skirmish — at Annaberg, I believe.
This contributed to our family's holding on to its property for another thirty years.
I am not well-versed in these dates, for, while I am enthralled by history, my studies only went up to 1888, the Year of the Three Emperors. For me, that year marks the onset of the labor pains of Titanism, the ahistorical era. That year, Nietzsche decided to build his work "toward the catastrophe," shortly before the breakdown in Turin.
So much for these marginalia, which touch on my problem. My grandfather did not personally benefit from the reprieve he had helped to bring about — he was a younger son. Furthermore, the estates sank deeper and deeper into debt — at least until old Hindenburg's Eastern Aid. My grandfather inherited little; the best thing he got was a comfortable apartment near Charlottenburg Castle. In my childhood, I often visited him there. The rooms were relatively small. They contained old furnishings; and paintings, some of them gifts from monarchs, hung on the walls all the way out into the vestibule. Anything I know about my family history I learned there. Beyond that, more general things, for the old man liked reading memoirs and was a good anecdotist.
I say "the old man," because that was how he struck me back then; basically, he was still quite jaunty. This can be inferred from the mere fact that prior to the second catastrophe he was thinking of donning his uniform once again. But he was already having health problems; his prostate was becoming troublesome, he suffered from gout, which was revealed partly in the strangely elaborate way his fingers curled around his cigarette when he smoked.
33
Given his heritage, my grandfather could have been a stalwart reactionary; but that, as Stirner puts it, was "not his business," or was, at best, his private business. He cultivated this business in his Steglitz apartment with the old furnishings and paintings; outside his apartment, you could not tell. I even think that our left wing lacked people like him. In this respect, I probably inherited a thing or two from him. How else can I explain that after graduating from the Gymnasium, I went back to Liegnitz of my own free will?
In any case, my grandfather resolutely put an end to what he called "old chestnuts." He still subscribed to Das Adelsblatt, an aristocratic gazette, but read liberal newspapers — not just their business sections. He invested his settlement in one of the major insurance firms, and also took a position there. Now he wore suits of Scottish wool and gray ties with a pearl tiepin; the medal in his lapel had been replaced by the Rotarian cogwheel. He loved word games and mental games, and would say: "I have advanced to the position of Rot-Arier [Red Aryan]." He treated his new name similarly, for he had discarded the old one along with his title. "What should I do with it when I call on a client? It would embarrass both of us and interfere with business. We Iduna employees are discreet."
Following the example of Philippe Egalité he named himself Baroh —so that his clients unwittingly addressed him as "Herr Baron." I inherited this name from him and I can introduce myself as Friedrich Baroh.
34
I now come to Uncle Fridolin. My father did not grow old; the location ofhis grave is unknown. His name appears on my grandfather's headstone: "Missing in the Caucasus." He had two sisters: Friederike and Erika. Friederike was an ugly duckling, slightly hunchbacked, but goodnatured and a perfect housewife. Erika was beautiful, she never married, and she died during the destruction of Berlin in circumstances that I prefer not to mention.
The man who chooses a wife like Friederike is heeding a sense of realism that no imagination can dim; and he will not be deceived. Uncle Fridolin was such a man. He too had little to offer in the way of external assets, but he was a reliable man. Gradually, both of them recognized one another in their concealed harmony.
Later, it actually turned out that Friederike had made a good match. She brought along a modest fortune, but Fridolin did not find this out until he asked Grandfather for Friederike's hand, as custom demanded. Fridolin was actually embarrassed by their aristocratic background; it had not determined his choice — something for which his betrothed thought highly of him. "It was a love match," she would say.
On the one hand, Grandfather was not displeased that Friederike was getting hitched; but on the other hand, he was not exactly thrilled. Whenever he wanted to shrug off an adversity, he would lapse into the Potsdam jargon — albeit not as grossly as Papa Wrangel, who had lived in this neighborhood a century ago.
"That's all I needed, Fridolin Gadke, a little bookkeeper — and in a coffin factory to boot. But aside from that, not bad, not bad at all we had a good talk — basically, the girl's a lucky stiff "
35
What could they have had a talk about — and a good one, at that? Life insurance and coffins — these topics made for an initially vague interest, which grew as Uncle Fridolin began to prosper.
In my Gymnasium days, I occasionally paid the couple my obligatory respects. I did not enjoy visiting them, even though Aunt Friederike regaled me nicely. She was very attached to the family. They lived on one ofthe austere streets between the Spree River and Alexanderplatz. Their apartment was kept squeaky-clean and was radiant with lack of taste. The atmosphere was thoroughly unartistic. Conversations never got beyond the most banal subjects.
Uncle Fridolin was an ordinary man such as one meets everywhere in offices and behind counters, and promptly forgets. He was painstakingly neat, energetic, correct. He wore off-the-rack suits plus, as the phrase went in those days, "cuffs and crays" — that is, removable cuffs and a tie.
I found his eyes strange, if not exactly pleasant; they were dark and had what I would like to call a "character gaze," the ability to see character. What I mean is a knack for immediately grasping a person's solvency — and this gift was quite pronounced in him; it surpassed his overall level. Thus he would have very quickly seen through an imposter — not only if the latter had introduced himself as a prince or millionaire, but also as a professor or composer. It must, however, be emphasized that my uncle did not have the foggiest clue about the sciences or the arts. But he did have a sense of, almost a nose for, quality and distinction.
Uncle Fridolin was good at figures and an excellent draftsman; he had served with the Railroad Transit Corps. His talent had soon made him indispensable there, but he had never advanced beyond the rank of private. This did not trouble him; he had done his stint loyally. He was still devoted to the monarchy.
On weekdays, he would rise incredibly early — gingerly so as not wake Friederike. He stepped into a shallow basin and scrubbed himself from head to toe. Then he sat down at his easel and drew. Coffins vary in size and quality; often, personal wishes of customers had to be satisfied. He relied in part on a small library of h
eraldic, symbolic, and even botanical imagery. Subsequently, he enlarged his collection when he began dealing with headstones as well. Although moderately atheistic, he did have to consult the Bible. He refrained from officially leaving the Church because of his basic conservatism — besides, it was important for his profession.
By the time Friederike served morning coffee (it improved with time), my uncle had already been working for two or three hours. Even when I called on them, I usually found him at his easel. Before greeting me, he would wash his hands and remove his sleeve protectors. We would then converse, mostly about politics — a topic that made him uneasy — and at best, button painting. My aunt would question me about Liegnitz, especially when I had spent my holidays there, and, after making my farewells, I recovered by taking a detour through Treptow Park.
36
I have already mentioned that my uncle began to prosper. Friederike's dowry helped him in this respect; he started his own business, the well-known funeral home Pietas. The time was favorable, coinciding as it did with a flu epidemic. Doctors and pharmacists were up to their ears in work; it also filled the cemeteries. The Lower Saxons say: "One man's owl is another man's nightingale."
Uncle Fridolin was a dexterous planner; his business grew visibly — not in a hectic way, but step by step. The bad times that came later could make no dent in it quite the contrary.
The upswing also raised my uncle's lifestyle. He gave up his apartment and moved into the fashionable West Side ofBerlin, purchasing a house in our neighborhood, on Fichtenberg. He now met my grandfather not only en famine but at the Rotarians. He wore custom-made suits, Friederike wore silk frocks and, in winter, a fur coat. His demeanor was as correct as ever; it was joined by growing authority.
37
Grandfather said: "Fridolin is presentable." Indeed, gradually, my uncle became our piece de resistance. That too is a statistical matter: the decline of old families. The time comes when they either face extinction or need replenishment. Power slips from their fingers; they suffer the fate of drones or come to an arrangement. British lords, French marquis marry billionairesses, who restore their castles. Princesses elope with bandleaders. The Hungarians say: "In our country, coachmen are fathered by counts and counts by coachmen."
