The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  Mattie nodded and kept taking notes. Hitler remained silent until Mattie looked up into his blue eyes. It struck her that Hitler had deliberately chosen where to sit, his back to the clerestory window, so that the sunlight streaming down created a halo effect around his head.

  “Parsifal represents a model of what I want to create in Germany. Within Monsalvat lived a community of knights, united in their religious fervor and their iron determination, ready at any time to shed their blood and also, with a clear conscience, the blood of others. Those knights were prepared to sacrifice their lives in the sure knowledge that they would be born again in the blood of the Holy Grail. I intend to form my religion for Germany on Parsifal. The man who sees National Socialism as nothing but a political movement knows hardly the first thing about it. It is more, even, than a religion––it is the collective will of a new race of men.”

  Hitler paused in his monologue and took a sip of mineral water. He smiled.

  “I believed, but I could not say these things when last we talked. It was too soon. The people were not ready to hear the truth. Soon they will be. Soon they will understand. And then the whole world will understand that a new race of men has been reborn in Germany. That is why I reacted so harshly when you raised with me the question of the Hofburg Lance. I regret I misled you. I appreciate your restraint in not running a story about our interview when the annotations you showed me were in fact mine,” Hitler said. “I made them at a much earlier age, before the war. They do not represent what I believe today.”

  Mattie tried to recall what Hitler had written in the margins of that book, but eight years was a long time. Still, she wasn‘t going to let him know that. Having vowed not to make the same mistake twice, she initially had no intention of broaching the subject of the Spear again. But now, Hitler had opened the door.

  “So how do your views today differ from the notes you made in the margins of Parsifal?”

  Hitler was not to be drawn out. He smiled and gently shook his head from side to side. “Fraulein, it is not necessary for the people to know precisely what I believed then or indeed what I believe now. I have many more things to say to the German people but that time has not yet come. For example, we will not, at this point, begin a public discussion of racial issues. That would only cause more divisions among the people. Above all, my goal is to unite our people.”

  “But still, the Spear is important to you, is it not?”

  “Of course it is important, but only as an historical artifact. From the coronation of Charlemagne as the first Holy Roman Emperor, to the fall of the old German Empire a thousand years later, forty five emperors have taken possession of the Spear of Destiny.”

  Mattie knew this. She was James McGary‘s daughter. But how much did Hitler know? She kept her tone curious. “Who was the first historical figure to hold the Spear, Herr Hitler?”

  “Meuritius, the commander of the Theban Legion, held the Spear in 285 A.D. when he was forced to participate in a pagan festival sacrifice intended to renew the legion‘s belief in their Roman gods. Meuritius was a Christian and declined to do so. He submitted to a ritual decapitation, hoping thereby to spare the rest of the Theban Legion, who had likewise refused to worship the old Roman gods. The Emperor Maximian ignored his sacrifice and ordered every tenth man in the legion decapitated. Still, the Thebans refused to renounce their Christianity and so Maximian massacred the entire legion, decapitating over 6,000 legionnaires, the largest single act of human sacrifice in the history of the ancient world.”

  “My god, how positively barbaric,” Mattie said. She was James McGary‘s daughter yet she had forgotten about the mass beheadings. “I thought the Romans were civilized.”

  “History is not always what it seems on the surface, Fraulein. Still, there were unintended consequences from making martyrs of the Theban Legion for it led to the rise of Emperor Constantine and the eventual conversion of the Roman Empire to Christianity. Constantine was the first world figure to wield the Spear. Theodosius possessed it when he tamed the Goths in 385. The same for Alaric the Bold, who sacked Rome in 410. Or the Visigoth Theodoric, who turned back Attila the Hun at Troyes in 452.”

  “My goodness,” Mattie said. “I had no idea that all those early leaders had possessed the Spear.” Mattie knew this, of course, but, like most men, Hitler clearly thrived on flattery.

  “It was only the beginning,” Hitler said. “Then came Justinian, who held the Spear aloft when he exiled the Greek scholars from the territories of the old Roman Empire. The Frankish General Karl Martel carried the Spear in his victory over the Arabs at Poitiers in 732. Then it passed to Charlemagne in 800 AD, the first Holy Roman Emperor, who fought forty-seven successful campaigns with the Spear at his side.”

  “What about the German kings who held the Spear?” Mattie asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Hitler said. “The Germans, of course, are the most worthy and significant world-historic figures to hold the Spear.”

  “Of that, I had no doubt,” Mattie replied. She had no shame. She knew all this from her father but she still had a business deal to negotiate once Hitler stopped boring her.

  “Frederick Barbarossa conquered all of Italy holding the Spear and drove the Pope into exile. But even more magnificent than Barbarossa was his grandson, Frederick II, Frederick the Great. Fluent in six languages, he spoke Arabic with his Muslim soldiers, kept a large harem, and was courageous in battle. He was even well-versed in astrology. He prized the Spear of Destiny above all and once allowed Francis of Assisi to carry it on an errand of mercy.”

  “You mentioned the Teutonic Knights earlier. Do you ever anticipate their rebirth?”

  “You have seen them already, guarding the entrance to my schloss. The SS. Their leader is one of the few men in our movement who understands the symbolic significance of the Spear. The SS are the best of the best, chosen according to my model. They are ready at my command to shed their blood in a noble cause as well as to shed the blood of others. In my earlier days, I often used the phrase ‘heads will roll‘ to symbolize the changes I would make once in power. But with my SS, it is much more than a mere slogan.”

  And with that, Hitler rose, ending the interview. “Come, Fraulein McGary. Let‘s walk outside and discuss the business matters which brought you all the way from America.”

  “But Herr Hitler,” Mattie protested, “I have only one more subject I wish to raise. Our American readers would like to hear your views on Henry Ford.”

  Hitler paused in midstride and turned back to Mattie with a smile. “Henry Ford is a great man. He brought an affordable automobile to the masses. His Model T was a work of true genius. Once I am chancellor, I intend to do the same thing for Germany. In the Germany I will build, even the lowliest worker will be able to afford an automobile.”

  Mattie tried a few more questions, but Hitler ignored her and walked to the terrace where the view was spectacular. You could see nearly fifty miles in all directions. Four to five mountain peaks and the intervening valleys. Hitler took great pride in showing this to her, naming the peaks and ranges as if he owned them. It was not much different, Mattie thought, from Churchill showing off the Weald of Kent and acting as if it belonged to him as well.

  “Tell me, Fraulein McGary, why it is that Mr. Hearst pays Signor Mussolini and Mr. Churchill $2,000 for each article they write for him, whereas he offers me only $1,500? What have I done,” Hitler said, gesturing with his hands, “to warrant such a lack of respect?”

  “No disrespect was intended. But Signor Mussolini is the head of his government and, at the time Mr. Churchill was engaged, he had only recently stepped down from the number two position in his country‘s government.”

  “Stepped down, Fraulein? Turned out of power is more like it. Just as will soon happen to the government here in Germany.”

  Mattie knew she had negotiating room. Hitler was well-informed as to what Mussolini and Churchill were being paid, but he apparently didn‘t know that both those contracts we
re up for renegotiation and Hearst intended to increase them to $2,500 each. Hearst had authorized Mattie to do the same if that‘s what it took to get Hitler signed up. Mattie was determined, however, to bring Hitler in for less. “What amount did you have in mind, Herr Hitler?” Mattie asked.

  “Twice what you offer. Italy and England are small countries. I received more votes in my last election than Mr. Churchill‘s party did.‘

  “I‘m sure that‘s true, Herr Hitler, but I couldn‘t possibly go that high.”

  “But Fraulein, I know there are more people of German descent in America than Italians. My articles will sell Mr. Hearst more papers. Don‘t forget that there is another American newspaper syndicate eager to sign me to an exclusive contract. I propose $2,750 an article.”

  No, she wasn‘t going to forget that. “Their circulation can‘t match Hearst. I can offer $2,100 an article. More than we pay Churchill and Mussolini.”

  Hitler frowned. “That‘s flattering, but Lady Hay Drummond has already offered me more to sign with Scripps-Howard. I‘m not at liberty to disclose the amount, but $2,500 per article would carry the day for you. And, of course, you are far more beautiful and charming than Lady Drummond. How did an American acquire an English title anyway?”

  By marrying an 80 year old lord who died the first time they made love, Mattie thought, but she kept a poker face and inside she celebrated. She had won. She could afford to be magnanimous. What was it Winston always said? In defeat, defiance. In victory, magnanimity. Yes, that was it. Time to let Hitler save face. “Well…” Mattie began, drawing it out, “the Chief won‘t like it but if we can sign the papers today, I will ink in $2,400 per article, $400 more than Mussolini or Churchill, and hope that Hearst doesn‘t take the difference out of my paycheck.”

  Hitler beamed. “Done, Fraulein,” he said, extending his hand. “I knew we could do this together. That is why I insisted that you be the one to negotiate. It also gave me the opportunity to make amends for my boorish behavior the last time we met. Will you stay for tea?”

  Tea was served on the broad terrace, the mountains still crisp and clear in the distance. As he had the first time they had tea at the Café Heck, Hitler poured and then offered cream-filled pastries to Mattie before snatching two for himself.

  Afterwards, he personally escorted her to her BMW and gallantly opened the door for her to get in. When she was seated behind the wheel, he placed both hands on the side of the door and leaned in close. For a moment, Mattie was afraid he was moving in to kiss her on the cheek, but he stopped a foot from her face, close enough for his bad breath to overcome the lingering sweet odor of the pastries. “Let this be our little secret, Fraulein McGary. You are the only person, man or woman, to have bested me one-on-one in negotiations.” The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a grin. “My enemies must not learn how easily I can be swayed by a pretty face.”

  “I assure you, Herr Hitler, that you drove a hard bargain. But don‘t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

  CHURCHILL’S cable was unexpected when Mattie checked for messages upon returning to her hotel. She was feeling proud, having driven more slowly on her way back from meeting with Hitler than she had on her way up the mountain. Hell, at one point, she had even allowed an aggressive Mercedes convertible to pass her on a straightaway even though her BMW could have blown him away. Maybe if she began to act as a cautious person, whatever had switched off inside her would turn back on of its own accord.

  A cable from Churchill greeted her return to her hotel. COME TO CHARTWELL SOONEST. STOP. EXPEDITION FINANCES IN JEOPARDY. STOP. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE.

  Churchill. That man knew just the right buttons to push. This would disrupt her plans to see Mussolini on Monday and sign him to a new Hearst contract before heading up to Berlin for her interviews with arms dealers. She would have to call her office in Berlin and have them put Mussolini off until the middle of next week. She knew Churchill was manipulating her. That was what Winston did. She didn‘t care. It was about her father. About the Spear and the Grail.

  As Mattie closed her suitcase, she thought it was funny how life worked. Just today she talked to Hitler about the Spear, the Grail, Monsalvat, Parsifal. Now Churchill had altered her timetable to suit his purposes and tempted her with the same thing. She was helpless to turn him down. Mussolini would just have to wait. Her earlier resolve to be more careful and less impulsive was like a straw in the wind. After a phone call to Winston for more details, she was off to England and Chartwell where, she had learned to her delight, an early arriving Cockran would be waiting for her. On her way to the train station, she passed every motorcar in her path. No one passed her.

  18.

  Harmony

  Chartwell, Kent

  Saturday, 30 May 1931

  COCKRAN and his son Patrick arrived at Churchill‘s country home, twenty-five miles outside London just as the sunset leaked through fissures in the thick English cloud cover. The brutal murder of Sir Archibald Hampton in Germany had come as a shock but Churchill‘s telephone call had persuaded Cockran to cancel his Europa reservations and take the first available liner. Winston assured him that Harmony Hampton, Sir Archibald‘s step-daughter and only heir, would need sound legal advice every bit as much as her father. The sooner the better.

  The chauffeur disappeared with their suitcases as the butler opened the door to greet Cockran and his son. “So good to see you both again at Chartwell, Mr. Cockran.”

  “Thank you, George. Good to see you,” Cockran said.

  “How are you today, Master Patrick?” George asked.

  “I‘m fine, thank you,” Paddy replied.

  “If you‘d come with me, Master Patrick, Mr. Churchill has asked that you be shown directly to his study where he has arranged miniature soldiers just as they were at the Battle of Waterloo. You are free to redeploy them as you wish and Mr. Churchill will join you later.”

  Paddy‘s eyes lit up and he turned eagerly to Cockran. “Is it okay, Dad?”

  Cockran smiled. Paddy had been disappointed when Cockran wouldn‘t allow him to bring his own miniature soldiers on the journey, but Cockran knew that Churchill‘s own vast collection would be ready and waiting for his son. “Of course it‘s okay. Go ahead.”

  “If you would be so kind as to wait in the library,” George said, “I will inform Mr. Churchill that you have arrived after I see Master Patrick to the study.”

  Cockran took his hat off and stepped inside while George and Paddy headed toward the stairs. Notwithstanding the threats in America, he knew his son would be safe with Churchill as they traveled through Germany while Cockran and Mattie were in Venice. Even out of office, Winston had two Scotland Yard bodyguards with him whenever he set foot outside England.

  Cockran made the familiar turn to his left, heading down the dark hall for the library, when he noticed movement ahead of him. A small, thin frame was gliding gracefully toward him––which meant it wasn‘t Churchill while the blonde hair meant it wasn‘t Churchill‘s wife either. He stopped, watching the young woman approach, angelic in a cream and rose patterned sun dress. As she neared, she stopped as well and observed him.

  “Ah, hello,” he said, once he saw her clearly. “I‘m Bourke Cockran.” No reaction. “From America,” he added.

  “From America, you say?” the young woman said. “I never would have guessed.”

  “You must be Harmony,” he said recognizing the young heiress and academic.

  She smiled. She was beautiful. “Yes, I am.”

  “Please accept my deepest sympathy. I was so sorry to learn of your father‘s death,”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, “but he wasn‘t actually my father. He was my stepfather, though I had come to think of him like a father.” Her eyes moistened. “Certainly one who cared a great deal for my safety and…and well being.” The tears in her eyes were unmistakable now.

  “Are you all right?” Cockran asked.

  “Yes,” she said but, as she blinked, a
tear escaped and rolled over her cheek. “It‘s just that…that I can‘t believe he‘s gone.”

  “Let‘s find you some place to sit down,” Cockran said, placing a hand on her elbow. Her eyes flashed up at him, startlingly blue through the tears. “The library? A drink perhaps?”

  Cockran said nothing more when they reached the library. He helped her to a chintz covered club chair and handed her a handkerchief from his breast pocket before moving over to the sideboard. Confident that it would be well stocked, he found the Beefeaters and fixed her a gin and tonic followed by a Johnnie Walker Red and water for himself..

  “Thank you,” she said as she took the gin and tonic, her eyes flashing up at him, startingly blue through her tears.. “I‘m doing my best to cut down.” She squeezed the slice of lemon on the rim and dropped it into the glass. Then she slipped her finger in her mouth to taste the lemon. “Alcohol is decidedly detrimental to one‘s health.”

  “Not if you drink in moderation,” Cockran said.

  Harmony laughed, a gentle pleasing sound. “You sound just like Mr. Churchill,” she said. “‘Everything in moderation,‘ I hear him tell people. I must say, if the way Winston drinks is ‘moderation,‘ then he drinks an awful lot in moderation.”

  Cockran had to laugh. “True,” he said. “If there is an amount that defines moderation, Winston is likely near the limit.”

  Harmony laughed in response. She seemed to be in better spirits now and Cockran had no desire to upset that. But there were still things he needed to know. She wasn‘t his client, not yet, even though her father had been one, however briefly. “Harmony,” he said gently. “Does your father‘s death mean his controlling interest in NBM has passed on to you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Actually, I‘m now the sole owner of the family‘s holding company, Sedgewick & South, which in turn owns most of NBM. Or at least I will be sole owner when I‘m 35. Two trustees whom I don‘t even know control everything until then.”