by A G Mogan
How could I not see before that the Jew is responsible for all the problems our society is encountering?
My internal conflict finally reaches its end.
Too Few Heads
September is one of my favorite months, but I like the end of it all the more. The temperatures have cooled, allowing me to wear my favorite suit. In one of the long walks I take through the city at this time, I halt in front of Hansen Palace, in Schiller Square, where I am to present myself for the entrance examination. I stand motionless, looking at the front entrance for several long minutes, trying desperately to refresh my enthusiasm. A several meters high poster, announcing the examination for October 2nd, seems to do the trick.
Only a week separates me from the great event and I resolve to spend this entire time getting ready for the exam. I draw, paint, then draw some more, sometimes even forgetting to eat. My good fortune is Mrs. Zakreys, who takes pity on me and occasionally brings either a bowl of soup or crackers. Often, my thoughts fly to the social and cultural disease in the streets, yet I push them away, for nothing must come between me and my greatest dream: becoming the most famous painter history has yet to behold.
I write to Gustl, giving him my new address and receive a response within a few days. He writes of how happy he is to hear from me, of Mother’s anxiety over me not writing to her from that distant, unfamiliar city, but not a word of Stefanie. Her silence consumes me and makes me feel like the extinguishing flame of a candle that struggles not to die out. What is the matter with her?
As the great day of the long-awaited examination breaks through the shutters, I decide to set aside the distracting thoughts about Stefanie and Vienna and fully enjoy the dawn of my glorious future. Today is the first day of a future I have pictured every single day for the past decade. I feel like a student attending his first course, and I have no doubt the examination I must complete will prove nothing but child’s play.
I jump into my blue suit, comb my hair over my forehead and, armed with the folder containing my most beautiful paintings under my arm, I exit into the street. Except for the carpet of rust-colored leaves covering the courtyards all around me, it does not feel like an October day. The sun, breaking through the thin layer of clouds, burns my skin. Everything around smells of spring, of new beginnings.
Once I reach the Hansen Palace, I am shivering with enthusiasm. I ask for instructions and head for the waiting hall, located in the west wing of the building. The large number of candidates I find already waiting does not surprise me; although, I was secretly hoping it would be lower. There are 112 in all. I patiently count them while waiting, then stare down at the shoes my aunt gave me and smile. For all of her ugly hump and scrutinizing cold eyes, she proved to be a nice woman in the end.
Suddenly, I hear a thick, guttural voice breaking through the muffled noises in the hall.
“Good morning, everyone and thank you for your patience.” It is the Rector himself, it says so on the badge hanging from his vest.
“As you know,” he continues, “in order to pass the examination, you will first have to be selected based on your individual portfolio. You’ll be called out in alphabetical order, so please have it ready. Good luck to you all!”
With a swift turn, he retires inside the auditorium, where I’ll follow later, once called out.
One by one, the candidates enter the auditorium. I can barely wait for my turn. I peek at the others’ paintings, but fail to see much, as they are all jealously guarding their scribbles.
A long, exhausting hour passes before I hear my name. I jump to my feet and imperiously enter the vast auditorium. For a moment, I halt behind the closed doors, inspecting the fascinating room. The Rector clears his throat bringing me back to earth.
The examination committee consists of seven people, who intimidate me a little, but I confidently approach them and hand over my portfolio.
Four of them are Jews, including the Rector.
Wherever I go I see Jews, and the more I see of them, the more strikingly and clearly they stand out as a different people from other citizens. They seem to be everywhere … in the streets, exhibiting their most sophisticated outfits and jewelry; at the Opera, occupying the most expensive seats; and now, behind examination desks, resting their bottoms on seats with authority. The same expensive clothes, the same rough features and hawk-like noses, the same steady intent and lofty gazes.
I bet if I get closer, I can even detect their smell. They have a distinct smell, as have all non-German races. My Polish landlady has it about her person and all over her house ─ a naphthalene and mold-combined sort of smell. The Jew smell is quite different ─ a heavy, gypsy-like smell, concealed only by expensive perfumes. But, I can still sense it. Some would argue that to say that one can discern the distinctive smell of other people, of other races, is a hilarious statement. But it’s not. I smelled them. I sensed it.
This isn’t how I had expected my country to look. I feel like little Buddha coming out of his bubble, only to be forever damaged by the ugliness around. What had happened to those Nordic myths, to the fairytales of our ancestor’s bravery in battle that Mother used to read to me? Where are their descendants? Surely, not in Vienna! The population here has nothing to do with the ethnic ancestry in those fairytales!
I find it difficult to hold back my words, to swallow the nerve with which an immigrant assumes the right to decide the fate of a German. But for the sake of my own future, I keep my temper in check. I sit on a chair and wait in silence, while the illustrious men pass my paintings from hand-to-hand and whisper inaudible things in one another’s ears.
The whole affair lasts about ten minutes, after which, without any words on how I did, they return my portfolio and ask me to wait until the completion of their examination of the remaining candidates. I mumble some kind of “okay” and disappear behind the doors.
For two long hours, nagged by my grumbling stomach, I parade the waiting hall. Just when I’m about to lose my patience, a member of the committee announces the names of those who had not passed the initial examination. Thirty-three names echo from all over the hall. Of course, mine is not among them.
For the rest of us, the two-day examination follows, beginning the next morning, October 3rd.
Armed with my drawing kit, I take my place in front of one of the tripod easels arranged for the candidates and open the envelope resting on its frame, wherein lies the theme to be reproduced. Expulsion from Paradise on the first day, An episode of Noah’s flood on the second. It is evident that the Jews decided on these themes. Nevertheless, the task seems quite easy and I am very pleased with the outcome.
The results are to be announced October 6th, and I spend this entire time in a state of total euphoria. I can barely eat and hardly sleep. All I do is daydream about my achievement and design grandiose plans for a new home. For the first time in my life, I feel completely happy with my own person. If only Father was still alive to see how wrong he was. I wish he could come back from the dead, see what I have become, then go back again.
On the 6th, once out the door, I realize that I am about to live one of the most beautiful days of my entire life. I let the kind morning sun caress my cheeks, filling me with its warmth. I imagine what a fabulous painting I could make immortalizing the thick carpet of autumn leaves covering the city.
Driven by so much inner happiness, I almost float to the Palace. Once there, I head for the panel that displays the examination results.
The names of those admitted, as well as of those rejected, are displayed in two distinctive columns ─ the admitted on the right, the rejected on the left. Only twenty-eight candidates have passed. I eagerly scan the admitted list for my name. It’s not at the top, I notice, and impatiently scroll up and down the list. There must be a mistake, as I do not find my name among those admitted.
I re-read the list over and over again from top to bottom to top, and for the first time, an uneasy feeling of doubt creeps into my heart. Out of the corner of
my eye, I glance at the column on the left, still convinced a serious error has been made. But then, there it is, black on white in the left column, second row, my name, shamefully displayed.
A violent dizziness forces me to sit down. This can’t be true! I rave in my head, while desperately gasping for air. This can’t be true! My name there? Written publicly for everyone to see?
I force myself to stand up and look at it again. Further to one side, the shameful column contains an extra section with the committee members’ feedback.
Next to my name, I read: Unsatisfactory result, too few heads.
I get out of the building quickly, as its infested air causes me to throw up. One thought returns to haunt me: good-for-naught … good-for-naught … and I could swear I hear Father’s mocking laughter, see him clutching his grotesquely booze-swollen belly. The gates to my anger open and I begin pacing around like a lunatic, up and down the front stairs, yelling angrily at invisible enemies. How could such a mistake go unnoticed? Someone must be held responsible for it! My name ought to be erased from the bloody list I don’t belong to!
I must ask for an explanation immediately, so I quicken my steps toward the Rector’s office. I clench my fist and knock unremittingly on his door.
“Yes?” I hear as the door opens, revealing the silhouette of an elderly woman, probably one of the secretaries.
“Good morning. I am here to speak to the Rector.”
“And you are?” she demands in a high-pitched voice.
“A student.”
She eyes me suspiciously then pulls back to close the door. “Herr Rector does not hold audience today, try tomorrow.”
I prop my hand violently against the door, forcing it to remain open. “He must make an exception today.”
“I said─” she counters, but is interrupted by the Rector, who appears behind her.
“It’s okay,” he says and sends the woman away with a jerk of his chin. “Come in, young man.” His benevolence is almost disarming. “How can I help you?”
“I am here to bring to your attention the mistake committed by one of your secretaries.”
“I am all ears, son. What is it about?”
I breathe in and drag my voice. “Two days ago, I took the entrance exam for Painting, and now my name is on the wrong list, the one of the failed candidates. Impossible thing, I assure you!”
“What is your name, my son? I will check that out at once!” He invites me to sit on the chair in front of his majestic wooden desk.
“Adolf Hitler.”
He nods and begins browsing through the stack of files placed on his desk.
“Ah, here!” he exclaims, opening the folder with my name on it. He pulls out my paintings and inspects them thoroughly. He then goes through a list with the results, lingering on the left one.
An error that must be immediately corrected! I repeat in my head, but wait in silence.
He clears his throat and begins in a low, candid voice.
“My son, there is no error. You have indeed failed the examination.”
I fix him with a cold, silent stare while he continues his absurd speech.
“After a long deliberation with my colleagues, we’ve decided you would be better suited for Architecture, since portrait painting does not seem to be part of your talent. Now, don’t get me wrong, but we firmly believe that you should try your luck at─”
I continue to stare at him, yet no longer hear his words, only a buzzing noise getting louder and louder in my ears. My blood rushes up my cheeks and I grip at the chair until my fingers hurt.
“I tell you again, my name, Adolf Hitler, must disappear from that list and be placed on the other! Or else … !”
“Herr Hitler, read for yourself!” he says, throwing the bloody list under my nose. “Do you see the reason here? Too few heads?” he says, circling those damned words with his pencil. “Isn’t this self-explanatory enough?”
I jump up as if the chair suddenly burns my bottom and push it violently behind me. It rolls a few times, hits the tall indoor library, then bounces back and hits his imposing desk. I am already at the door, but before I exit, I glare at the man one last time.
“I wish someone would put up a list for all of you Jews, and find you all rejected! Maybe someday, I, myself, shall put up that list! Fear that day, Sir, for there won’t be too few heads rolling in the sand. Good day, Herr Rectum … I mean, Herr Rector.” I storm from the room, slamming the door behind me.
As the outside air hits my nostrils, I find myself stricken with shame. I don’t even know what’s gotten into me. It is as if the worst part of me possessed me entirely, as if those words came out without passing through any judgment. I start running, elbowing my way through the crowds, stopping only when I reach my tiny room. Bitter tears stream from my eyes, burning my flesh in their fall.
The room suddenly feels cramped and suffocating, denying me the freedom to pace. I am no longer the little Buddha, but a caged, maddened lion struggling to get out. I fail to dispel the tormenting thoughts, and the earlier dizziness returns, its strength renewed, plunging me into agonizing spells of delirium … good-for-naught … sluggard … student at the Academy … dear child with strong personality … too few heads … she is a great dancer …
I fall on my bed and everything plunges into darkness.
When I regain my consciousness, I realize a few days have passed. I remember opening my eyes a few times and each time it was either day or night. My head hurts and my body barely listens to my commands. It’s not only my body, but also the harrowing depression spreading through me that keeps me in bed.
The events succeeding my examination return to haunt me and I almost puke. It’s them! It’s the Jews! They conspired against me! They conspire against every talented German! I howl.
I want to get up and pace the room, but the wretched dizziness pulls me back.
My frustration mounts and I release it through tears. Also through tears, my gaze falls on the books I brought with me from the library, sitting on the corner of the bed. Impulsively, I grab a volume with a dark-blue cover. It resembles Mother’s Bible. I glide my fingers over the carved gold letters of the title and read them aloud: The Inequality of Human Races. As I read the preface, it reveals that the author, Arthur de Gobineau, was a dear friend of Wagner’s. My curiosity mounts and I begin flipping its pages, avidly reading, drinking in every word. Soon, it all becomes clear to me. The text resonates so strongly with my own concepts and theories, formulated by scrutinizing the city and the people in it, that I become fully convinced of its accuracy.
The more I read, the greater a feeling of enthusiasm, as well as unrest, grapples with my spirit.
“Societies perish because they are degenerate, and for no other reason. This is the evil condition that makes them wholly unable to withstand the shock of the disasters that close in upon them; and when they can no longer endure the blows of adverse fortune, and have no power to raise their heads when the scourge has passed, then we have the sublime spectacle of a nation in agony. If it perishes, it is because it has no longer the same vigor as it had of old battling with the dangers of life; in a word because it is degenerate. And the word degenerate, when applied to a people, means, as it ought to mean, that the people has no longer the same intrinsic value it had before, because it has no longer the same blood in its veins, continual adulteration with members of an inferior race having gradually affected the quality of that blood.”
My skin breaks out in goosebumps and my heart races at a maddening speed. Yet I am unable to put the book down. Sweat beads on my forehead, then rolls down to drip on the yellowed pages.
“The inferior races owe their civilizing qualities to the great white invasions, particularly to that of the Aryan race. The white race originally possessed the monopoly of beauty, intelligence, and strength. By its union with other varieties, hybrids were created, which were beautiful without strength, strong without intelligence, or, if intelligent, both weak and ugly
. Further, when the quantity of white blood was increased to an indefinite amount by successive infusions, and not by a single admixture, it no longer carried with it its natural advantages, and often merely increased the confusion already existing in the racial elements. Its strength, in fact, seemed to be its only remaining quality, and even its strength served only to promote disorder.
The apparent anomaly is easily explained. Each stage of a perfect mixture produces a new type from diverse elements, and develops special faculties. As soon as further elements are added, the vast difficulty of harmonizing the whole creates a state of anarchy. The more this increases, the more do even the best and richest of the new contributions diminish in value, and by their mere presence, add fuel to an evil which they cannot abate. If mixtures of blood are, to a certain extent, beneficial to the mass of mankind, if they raise and ennoble it, this is merely at the expense of mankind itself, which is stunned, abased, enervated, and humiliated in the persons of its noblest sons. Even if we admit that it is better to turn a myriad of degraded beings into mediocre men than to preserve the race of princes whose blood is adulterated and impoverished by being made to suffer this dishonorable change, yet there is still the unfortunate fact that the change does not stop here; for when the mediocre men are once created at the expense of the greater, they combine with other mediocrities, and from such unions, which grow even more and more degraded, is born a confusion which, like that of Babel, ends in utter impotence, and leads societies down to the abyss of nothingness whence no power on earth can rescue them.
