The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  “Not today. Some time tomorrow morning. It depends where they camp for the night.”

  “And we will be ready for them at the pass?”

  “The explosives to trigger the avalanche are already in place.”

  “Good work, my brother. Let us be off. If the weather holds, we will be in place by dawn. If the Lord is with us, our first group of enemies will be eliminated. There is a second group shadowing the first. The SS. There are more of them. Twenty. They are on horseback and heavily armed, but they have no guides.”

  “What if the landslide does not get all of the first group?” the younger man asked.”

  The Prior shrugged his shoulders. “After tomorrow, time is on our side. The first group will have to leave their vehicles behind before they reach the second pass. The second group must dismount and sleep. Once on foot, they will be at our mercy. I have been roaming these mountains since I was a child. None of them will leave here alive.”

  DINNER that evening was more substantial than lunch, a hearty Austrian mountain stew, rich with local vegetables and chunks of lamb and beef. It smelled delicious and tasted better with crusty bread and several bottles of Barbera to wash it down. The fisherman Gregor doubled as their waiter. In his mid-forties, he had curly brown hair, large brown eyes and was clearly captivated by Mattie, hovering nearby, refilling her wine glass far sooner than the others. Their dinner was segregated. Sturm, the Professor, Mattie and Hoch sat at a table apart from the Austrians and Sturm‘s men. Mattie‘s table had candles and crystal. The other didn‘t.

  Thanks to Hoch, dinner turned out badly. It had started well when, to her immense surprise, the arrogant Hoch had pulled out a black leather violin case, opened it, and began to play Pachebel‘s Canon in D major. By the time food was served, she, Sturm and the Professor had polished off one of the bottles of Barbera listening to the music.

  Hoch may be arrogant, she thought, but he plays beautifully. His table talk, however, was as ugly as his music was beautiful. “In the animal world, as in the plant world, there are creatures we call parasites,” Hoch said. “Take mistletoe or orchids. They do not live from the soil but rather clamp their talons into the bark of a tree where there is a wound into which they can settle. They drive their suckers beneath the bark to divert to themselves the host tree‘s vital fluids so they can live as parasites with a special sense that allows them to detect where easier or better nourishment may be found. Among mankind, the Jews are just such a parasite.”

  “Not true,” Mattie said. “Jews are among the most talented, productive people on earth.”

  Hoch smiled and continued with more than just a trace of condescension. “I do not deny that many Jews are talented and hardworking. But it is rare for a Jew to become a factory worker and even less an agricultural laborer. That is because he is not willing to earn his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. No, he goes into law or medicine or retail where he can attract people with advertising and with display windows. Or he lends money and demands interest—thus, once again, sharing in the vital fluids of the work others have produced and promoted.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that law, medicine, retail and banking were the only professions countries like yours allowed Jews to pursue?” Mattie asked with an acid tone.

  Hoch paused long enough to fill his glass and then continued as though Mattie had never spoken. “Jews take root everywhere. When wholesome national sentiment resists, they infuse a degenerating poison, a fiendish poison, into the nation. They speak of individualism, of universal human rights, of loyalty and good faith, of democracy! In reality, these are only the corrosive drops of the same poison that is used by the vegetable parasites to paralyze their victims, to destroy their ability to resist, to infect their bodies with disease and rot.”

  Mattie was astonished. Anti-Semites she knew were either ignorant, ill-bred, or both. But here was an intelligent, talented German, a superb musician, setting forth an entire racial theory of anti-Semitism—the Jew as parasite, not a person. She shook her head in amazement as Hoch continued. “Nothing upsets Jews more than a gardener who is intent on keeping his garden neat and healthy. Nothing is more inimical to Jews than order. They need the smell of decay, the stench of cadavers, weakness, lack of resistance, submission of the personal self, illness, degeneracy! And whenever it takes root, it continues the process of decomposition! It must!”

  “You really believe this crap?” Mattie asked. “You sound like Goebbels.”

  Hoch looked at her and smiled. “It is not for nothing that time and again the Jews have been driven out of countries where they settled—from Babylonia, from Egypt, from Rome, from England, from the Rhineland, and elsewhere. In each of these, a gardener was at work who was incorruptible and loved his people. But now in Germany, you can once again see an enormous acceleration in the proliferation, the taking root, the stripping of corpses. Truly, if something does not happen soon, it may be too late. The National Socialists are Germany‘s only hope.”

  Professor Campbell shifted in his seat, clearly uneasy with the topic of discussion. “And does your party‘s leader, Herr Hitler believe in these…theories?”

  “I have not heard the Fuhrer speak personally, but Herr Himmler assures me it is so.”

  “I see,” Campbell said.

  Mattie turned to Sturm, who sat stoically, watching Hoch with an enigmatic expression. “You‘ve been quiet, Herr von Sturm, what do you think? Most Germans I‘ve met don‘t share Herr Hoch‘s views on Jews. I‘ve interviewed Hitler and even he doesn‘t sound like Herr Hoch.”

  Hoch spoke before Sturm could reply. “You would be surprised, Fraulein, at how many Germans agree with us on the Jewish problem but are too polite to say so. Soon the National Socialists will take power and Germans will be free to speak their minds once more.”

  “In my experience, Germans and free speech don‘t belong in the same sentence.”

  Hoch paused and then smiled unpleasantly. “Yes, Fraulein, just as the phrase ‘an honest Jew‘ is an oxymoron.” Hoch drained his glass of wine and poured another. “True Germans have nothing but contempt for your Anglo-Saxon conceit of free speech. We Germans don‘t need it.”

  Mattie turned again to Sturm who took the barest sip of his wine, still on his first glass. “What do you think?” Mattie asked. “Is Herr Hoch correct? Are most Germans anti-Semitic bigots just waiting for the opportunity to speak their minds?”

  “No. They are not. Central Europeans and the French as well have virulent strains of anti-Semitism which are unknown in Germany, but the point you raise about Goebbels and Hitler shows much insight. Goebbels is the true anti-Semite of the two. For Hitler, I believe it is a political ploy which he discarded long ago. Like you, I have talked privately with Hitler on several occasions and, as with you, he never uttered any anti-Semitic slurs in my presence.”

  Sturm paused and nodded his assent at one of the porters who offered him a snifter of brandy. Sturm accepted the snifter and exchanged it for his half-full glass of wine. “Our young friend, Reinhard Tristan, here,” Sturm said, “has neither had the experience of being in combat nor of meeting Herr Hitler. But Hitler served beside many Jews in the trenches, most of them honorable and courageous, as were the ones who served with me in airships. I know from my older brother that Jews served honorably with him in the infantry also, the blood they shed for the Fatherland as red as any German‘s. Hitler has acknowledged as much on many occasions.”

  Sturm paused and took a sip of brandy before continuing. “People deserve to be judged by who they are and what they have done, not by the circumstances of their birth. Hitler has told me this himself. But there are bankers and financiers who profited from the war and, some say, caused it. Not all of them were Jews but many were and out of proportion to those who served in the trenches.”

  “So what? Christianity once forbade charging interest and that led to more Jews in banking.” Mattie said. “I know a lot about arms dealers and those who fund them. Naturally, there are
Jews among them, especially the financiers. But the Bolsheviks had their share of Jews. And there are more Nordic types with blood on their hands from the arms trade than Jews.”

  Sturm smiled. “You‘ve proved my point, Fraulein. Some Jews are loyal Germans giving their lives for the Fatherland while others are financiers attempting to profit from our misery. But that makes them no different than other Germans—Christians—who do the same thing.”

  “Okay, I understand that‘s your point of view. But is it Hitler‘s? The Nazis?”

  “Not Herr Goebbels, certainly. Nor Himmler as well. They are true anti-Semites, as are others in the movement, our Reinhard Tristan here being one such example. But they do not control the party. Hitler does. And Hitler is a politician. He says many things to secure the support of many people. I cannot imagine a man as intelligent as Adolf Hitler spurning the contributions which could be made for the future of Germany by Jewish scientists and engineers. I have heard him express his high regard for Albert Einstein, to name but one. Hitler claims we will need all of our loyal citizens, Jew and Christian alike, if Germany is to regain its place among the great nations of the world. But Germany needs Hitler also. Someone who doesn‘t have calluses on his knees from genuflecting before the Treaty of Versailles.”

  “I see we agree on one thing, Sturm,” Hoch said, “even if you are too soft on the Jews.”

  Sturm paused for a long moment, staring directly through Hoch, until Mattie could sense Hoch becoming uncomfortable with the silence. Hoch gestured dismissively with one hand, his wine shifting uneasily in its glass. His voice intimated a note of impatience, as if he spoke to a child who was slow to understand. “I did not mean, Herr von Sturm….”

  But Sturm cut him off. “Exactly, Herr Hoch. It is difficult to mean anything when you have few coherent thoughts to begin with. Perhaps it‘s time you retire for the night.”

  Hoch rose at the insult and looked down at Sturm through what Mattie could only describe as hate-filled eyes. “In the new Germany, I assure you there will be no more class distinctions. It will take more than a “von” as a prefix for you Prussians to warrant the deference you believe you deserve.” Hoch lingered for a moment, attempting to return the stare he had received from Sturm, then turned abruptly to leave, taking his wine glass with him.

  Professor Campbell had one more brandy with them and then he too retired for the night, leaving Mattie and Sturm alone in the chill mountain air. They moved their canvas chairs closer to the fire and sat side by side. In contrast to their time aboard the Graf Zeppelin, Mattie did most of the talking, prompted by Sturm‘s questions and flattered that he had made the effort to research and locate so many of her photographs. He asked her about her photographs, the circumstances under which they had been taken, and how she came to be there to take them.

  Each photograph had a story and an adventure behind it. She realized as she talked that, more often than not, she had gotten the photograph by instinct, following Eisenstadt‘s advice. If your photos aren’t good enough, you aren’t close enough. Mattie was always close enough. Sturm would describe the photograph; Mattie would recognize it and begin her story; and Sturm would interject comments from time to time, on her bravery, her skill and her luck. Mattie realized as she talked that she could have taken many of the same photographs with far less risk. She hadn‘t needed to be that close. It occurred to her more than once that Cockran had a point.

  Then Sturm asked her about the Munich putsch. Not the famous photograph of Hitler scurrying away from the battle which had, after all, been taken by Helmut, but rather about one she had taken herself at the precise moment when the Munich police opened fire.

  “How did I know to shoot the photo at just that instant?” Mattie said. “I didn‘t. I was lucky. I was standing with my elbows on the Mercedes‘ windscreen when I heard the first shot fired. I clicked off three quick photos as the police opened fire and then I dove for the floor.”

  “It‘s a remarkable photograph. To catch a moment like that, to catch a man exactly when the bullet strikes. Especially at such peril to your own life.”

  Mattie laughed. “Come on, Kurt. I may take a lot of risks which, with hindsight, were unnecessary, even dumb, but I‘m not crazy.”

  “Crazy?” Sturm asked, looking puzzled. “I‘m not sure what….”

  Mattie cut him off. “That‘s American English for insane. I guess I‘ve been there too long. Anyway, I didn‘t think the police would train their weapons on my motorcar until after our machine gun opened fire. I knew the primary targets would be the marchers. I thought I‘d get in a few quick photos before our machine gun opened up and drew attention to us.”

  Mattie paused and took a sip of brandy. “To this day, I don‘t know who fired the first shot, the Nazis or the police. I only know it wasn‘t the machine gun in our Mercedes because if it were, I wouldn‘t have taken that photo. I would have been flat on the floor.”

  “What about those photos you took two years ago in Los Angeles of that warehouse full of arms? Those explosions were huge and shrapnel must have been flying.”

  Mattie drained her snifter of brandy and reached out and touched his arm, her hand lingering for a moment. “You‘ve got a point. That was one of the first arguments Cockran and I ever had about my taking risks. Perhaps if I had let him win that argument…” Mattie stopped in mid-sentence, mentally completing the thought he wouldn’t be sleeping with that English bitch right now. Then she continued, “But no, I couldn‘t keep my mouth shut. Cockran had been inside the warehouse and helped set the explosive charges. He had a gunfight with the IRA men who were guarding the warehouse and got himself shot in the process. That was a hell of a lot more dangerous than anything I did that night. Unfortunately, that‘s what he brings up whenever Hearst publishes my combat photos.”

  “What is it he brings up?”

  “That he‘s taken my advice to heart and has never fired a weapon or placed himself in a dangerous situation since then,” Mattie said and laughed again. “He‘s right, of course. He leads a pretty quiet life. He‘s a law school professor, for goodness sake, and he writes books and magazine articles. What‘s dangerous about that? True, he races motorcars and took up flying last year, but both are still safer than what I do.”

  Mattie felt herself begin to tear up at the thought of Cockran and she turned her head away so Sturm couldn‘t see. But he reached out and, with a soft touch on her cheek, turned her face back toward him. “You mentioned earlier today with a laugh, that you thought your boyfriend might be sleeping with his new English client. I wasn‘t sure if you were serious but, if he is truly having an affair with the Englishwoman, then he is a very foolish man indeed.”

  Mattie broke down in tears. Slowly, haltingly, encouraged by his empathy, she told Sturm everything about her and Cockran, from their argument in New York the day before she left on the Zeppelin to its renewal at Chartwell as well as her telephone conversation with Harmony about Cockran‘s birthmark on his hip and how they were “sharing” him. It felt good to unburden herself to a sympathetic ear.

  Sturm was silent and let her talk. Eventually her sobs subsided. When she finished, he took her hand in both of his. They were warm and dry. She wanted him to hold her.

  “I understand your concern. But I would not draw too many conclusions on such limited information. There may be another explanation for all of this.”

  Mattie had composed herself by now. “That‘s a gentlemanly thing to say, Kurt, especially from someone who was doing his best to seduce me a week or so ago on the Graf Zeppelin.”

  Sturm looked embarassed. “Really, I wasn‘t. Like I said, I was simply carried away by the moment, your beauty and the extraordinary way your face catches the light. Nothing more.”

  Mattie laughed. “I bet you use that line on all the girls you try to seduce. The thing with me is” she said as she stood up, leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek while she whispered in his ear, “you nearly succeeded.”

  Back i
n her tent, naked beneath her blanket, Mattie waited for Sturm to arrive.

  42.

  Autogiros

  Milan

  Tuesday, 9 June 1931

  YOU expect me to fly that? What in hell is it?” Bobby Sullivan asked. Cockran chuckled. People usually had that reaction once they saw a Pitcairn-Cierva autogiro. In some ways, it was similar to any other twocockpit monoplane with a large rotary engine powered propeller in front. The difference was a vertical shaft, a pyramid of three yard-long steel beams on the fuselage above the front passenger cockpit. On top of the shaft was a large, four-bladed rotor, poised as if it were on top of a child‘s beanie, each drooping blade longer than the aircraft‘s wings. In fact, they acted as the plane‘s “third wing,” a rotary wing.

  “It‘s an autogiro,” Cockran said, “but most people call it a flying windmill. I bought one earlier this year, a PCA-2, to fly to auto races. The Pitcairn Company in Pittsburgh manufactures it in America, but it was designed by Juan De La Cierva of Spain. They only have one for hire in Milan, a new C-19, but the Cierva factory in Madrid promised that two more will be here today.”

  Sullivan raised an eyebrow.

  “That‘s right. Two more.” Cockran said, his voice serious. “Hearst said to spare no expense and I‘m not.”

  “It‘s not the expense I‘m questioning but where you plan to find three pilots.”

  “I can fly one. I‘ll teach you to fly today and Sergeant Rankin‘s train will be arriving from Vienna tomorrow. That makes three pilots.”

  “Rankin of Scotland Yard is joining us?”

  Cockran nodded. “Winston is sending him. Says he doesn‘t need a second bodyguard.”

  “A good man for a copper,” Sullivan said. “You say he can fly one of these things?”

  “An autogiro?” Cockran said. “No. But he was a pilot during the war in a de Havilland bomber. It won‘t take long for him to get up to speed on one of these as a pilot.