by A G Mogan
I not only meet the founder, but also some of the greatest personalities active in the political and artistic worlds, judges, professors, industrialists, and even royalty. I meet Ernst Pohner, police president, Wilhelm Frick, assistant police chief, and the one and only Bavarian Minister of Justice, Franz Gurtner, who will prove to be a long-standing friend and sympathizer, as well as a blessing for me, personally.
From this point, I am repeatedly invited to join in their secret meetings and I always accept.
The Four Seasons Hotel hall is adorned with the Society’s arms, representing a curved swastika pointing right, a sword, and a wreath. Each time, Eckhart greets me with the same curious phrase: Welcome, Adolf! We’ve been long expecting you. It sounds so flattering and so…prophetic, as if they all know something of great importance. What is certain is that each time I am around them I feel … well, I feel what I always wanted to feel … that I am the one destined for a magnificent purpose, the core of the greatest event that history is yet to witness.
Just like with the von Liebenfels’ Order of the New Templars, all the members of the Thule Society must prove their Aryan purity back to at least two generations. No trace of Jewish poison must be contained in the members’ blood. And this, I believe, I am at a loss to demonstrate. I curse Father yet again, and I curse my stupid grandmother. If her story was true, she should have killed the fruit of that consummation. I curse my aunt still, for poisoning my head with that bloody story; hence, condemning me to forever doubt my blood’s purity. The sword of insecurity shall forever hover over my head, ready to strike me down at last. I am forever condemned to live with the horror that my blood may have traces of venom in it. Yet I will fight, I will give my last breath to the extirpation of this poisonous race.
“I will revenge myself on the Jew and I will revenge myself on Father! Do you hear me? Yes! Father! The poisoned fruit! His mother could not destroy him, I could not destroy him! I cannot save myself, but I will save the others!” I scream at the top of my voice and hit the mirror into which I am staring. As the shattered pieces spread all over the floor, I open my eyes. I am again soaking wet, panting desperately for air. Will these nightmares ever go away?
I spend the Christmas day 1919 in total isolation, locked away from the outside world, my memories and despondency are my only comrades. The room at the barracks is cold and I throw an extra blanket over my shoulders. I warm up my milk, hoping that this white liquid will be able to relieve the numbness in my toes. I pull Mother’s last portrait from the pocket of my trench coat and gaze at it until tears over her loss obstruct my sight. Without her, nothing will ever be the same.
Yet I thank the Heavens for my books, for they always saw me through my darkest moments. A thin one with a dark blue cover, the Christmas gift Eckart gave me, lays on my little table. I read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion breathlessly, several times in a row. The book reproduces, point by point, the secret plans adopted by a secret Jewish council, through which the bacillus seeks to dominate and finally destroy the entire world. I find myself plagued with that awful sensation again, the anger stemming from my deep-seated sense of justice. But, my hands are tied. This is the living proof of the Jewish conspiracy, and all I can do is pace my tiny room roaring like a captive lion.
At dawn, as the strange reddish light of a still-invisible sun shoots through my window, it dawns on me. The Jew must be beaten at his own game! All of a sudden everything becomes clear and I know I must imitate my enemy’s thinking and modus operandi to defeat him.
Inspired by the Jewish muse of the Protocols, I sit down at my writing table. I am now ready to formulate the unvarying driving-points of my Party:
The nationalization of the masses
The reversal of the great betrayal of 1918
The elimination of the Versailles Diktat
The material and psychological rebuilding as the prerequisite for external struggle
The attainment of a position of world power
The destruction of Germany’s internal enemies
Above all, the removal of the Jews
I put down the pencil and leap from my feet. Covered in sweat, I shake uncontrollably, yet not a nervous trembling, but rather the feeling of an out-of-body experience. It feels as if a mysterious force has just possessed me. I look into the mirror. I am so proud of myself that I cannot take my eyes off my reflection. I sink to my knees, tears of gratitude wetting the floor. I feel so full of joy again, so beside myself with happiness I no longer fit into my own body.
But somehow, my happiness feels incomplete. A strange sensation, an inconclusive thought is nagging at me from a shadowed place in my mind. It takes me another couple of sleepless nights to bring it to the light of consciousness.
Religion does not exist. Well, it does, but not to serve the purpose I thought, but rather, a totally different one. If not too long ago I regarded religion as a vehicle of spreading the word of God, the true God, if until Mother died I had regarded her teachings as the absolute truth, now I arrived at one of the most important realizations of my entire life: my former religion, and all religions of the world, have been created to serve a strictly political role. To serve the various models of governance from the ancient times until our present days, to create the confusion that the god of a specific civilization, tribe, or more recently, State, is the only true God that exists. Whose purpose is to intimidate, and to finally subjugate other communities. Religion is a cult that was created by man, so rich people could get richer still, and conquer any territories not theirs.
I can’t help but wonder: where does this leave God? Moreover, where does that leave me?
Two long weeks pass until I am ready again to sit at my writing table. When I do so, the enthusiasm enveloping me is an experience I would never forget. I have a different muse now, the one who inspired all the other geniuses, the one who inspired Wagner, Liebenfels, Nietzsche. This invisible, kind force possesses me again, and picking up my pencil, I begin to write:
The world is divided into the light, blue-blond Aryan heroes and the dark, non-Aryan demons, divided into good and evil, order and chaos, salvation and destruction
Both men acknowledge the Aryan supremacy as the tool of all good, artistic, constructive, and holy. The non-Aryan is characterized by confusion, subterfuge and corruption
Christ was the son of our true Creator, a pure Aryan spirit, who must be avenged by punishing his murderer, the Jew
My duty, as a disciple of our true Creator, lays with my people, to free them from the hostile religious indoctrination
Our true Creator smiles upon us from now on, for we will fulfill his work
The common interest, before the personal one, is the law of the true Lord
The Bible must be purified, cleansed of the Old Testament and much of the New Testament; what remains requires critical examination
The Jew was expelled from Egypt because he produced a state of rebellion by inciting the mob using humanitarian phrases; this they are doing here today
Christ was an Aryan spirit, with blond hair and blue eyes
We must act instead of idly praying
We must transform the ideals of Christ into deeds and we must end the work he began, but could not finish, because of his mortal enemy, the Jew
We must reinvent Christianity, but it must be a warlike Christianity, not one of silent suffering and burden wearing, but of Fight
We have the right to fight against injustice with all the weapons Christ had given us, it is time to fight with the fist and sword
Christ created a new world vision, and that vision we call today is socialism, but the churches did not understand him, thus they denied and betrayed him
The sin against blood and race is the hereditary sin in this world and it brings disaster on every nation that commits it
An Aryan religion cannot possibly deny the spirit’s survival after death; The Talmud is not a book that could prepare someone for afterlife, but only for the practical and p
rofitable one on this earth
Violence can only be defeated by violence and terror by terror
There is yet another great sin on this earth: the ignorance of the people who accept and approve the destructive, poisonous lies about the nature of their existence.
Now, I am completely at peace. Our only hope for survival and salvation is not in Christianity, but in the pure faith of the Old Aryans, which has been abandoned for centuries. The greatest secret reveals itself to me: the next Messiah will be of German blood. He will be entrusted with the mission of saving humanity. In fighting the Jew, who is altogether a different species created to enslave humanity, I am doing the Lord’s work in fighting the Devil. Therefore, I am convinced that I am acting as the agent of our Creator.
I should think of a pompous name to baptize my own religion, just to amuse myself. “Hitlerism”? Or maybe, “The Law of Adolf the Great”? How about “The Hitlerian Scripture”? It does have a nice ring to it, I tell myself, with a satisfied, lofty smile.
Instead, I must think of a proper name for my ideology and practice, a name that would reflect what I, nay, what we stand for as a Party. After a few moments of hesitation, I decide. I shall call it National Socialism. The National Socialist movement will not be merely a political movement but a Creed, an Order meant to fulfill the work of the one true God.
Only faith creates a state. What motivates people to battle for religious ideas? Not cognition, but blind faith. Religion and politics mingled together create the greatest power in and over the entire world.
Once more, Christmas has spun the dreadful wheel of fate, but this time it chose favorably.
Catharsis And Birth
January 1920 begins with a frightful nightmare. I lie in bed, with the once-white sheets under me now soaked in blood. As is the custom in my nightmares, I cannot move, and feel how my blood drains off my body through all the orifices: mouth, eyes, nostrils and anus. The blood in my mouth chokes me, sucking the last remaining shred of life out of me.
“You should be happy to get rid of your poisoned blood, you little tramp!” I hear Father’s voice and realize at once that I am dreaming. With whatever lucidity I am permitted in that unconscious state, I impel myself to wake up.
Sitting up, I desperately inspect the sheets underneath me. There is no trace of blood anywhere, only damp spots of sweat.
Later in the day, I rush to Doctor K.’s office. Even if he practices from his home, I am still overwhelmed by the same feeling of dread I have each time I find myself around medical institutions. Thank heavens he never wears a white coat.
“There is nothing more than your fear of disease,” he says, as soon as I recount my nightmare. “An unfounded fear, for what it’s worth.”
“How so?”
“Well, the Wassermann came back negative.”
“This means that … ?”
“Precisely. The French disease exists only in your imagination.”
“Impossible,” I whisper, propping my elbows against his desk and burying my face in my hands. “Impossible.”
“The test vehemently contradicts you.”
“The test can fail. The result can be a false negative, and you know it.”
“Well … if you prefer that frame of mind … ”
“I prefer the truth!” I snap.
“This might be the truth, and yet you resolve to deny it.”
I look through his tall window at the enormous snowflakes plunging slowly to earth. The sight of it acts like a chemical substance meant to chase away your anxiety. I ponder on the doctor’s words.
“Then how else could you explain my inability to … how can you explain my uselessness?”
“What you experience today as impotence might be the unfavorable effect of many different causes.”
“What causes, if not the direct cause of being so weak as to…” I stop, as embarrassment seizes me again.
“Well, the causes are hidden in your subconscious, and they might prove difficult to uncover.”
“There must be a way we could try to find out, isn’t there?”
“There is. There are many questions to be asked, and many answers to be given.”
My face contorts in a lofty grimace. “What sort of nonsense is this? Had I the answers, would I be sitting in this chair right now?”
“You do have them, yet you are unaware that you have them. Right now, you don’t know that you know, and to be frank with you, it’s not easy to uncover them.”
“You are talking in riddles. What is there left to do, then?” I ask, scrunching up my shoulders.
“Only one thing. You must allow me to guide you in bringing those answers to the surface.”
“And how do you plan to do this?”
“Through conversation. All you must do is be honest and open with the answers you give to my questions. Talking, Herr Schicklgruber, the easiest, and yet the hardest thing in the world.”
I am already on my feet, marching his room. “No, no! Not you too with all that Jewish nonsense!” I snap, and become aware of the poor prospects of my curing.
“I didn’t realize that a good talk, nay, psychotherapy would ever have anything to do with the Jews,” he says, feigning a smile. Is he mocking me?
“That’s because you are the unconscious one, and not me! All you psychotherapists do is regurgitate the aberrations of Freud! The Jew! You pick the brains of the poor gullible souls as if you were the Spanish Inquisition!” I roar, throwing my arms about furiously.
“I am not necessarily a partisan of Freud’s, although I can appreciate his contribution to psychotherapy. I am fascinated by the work of another brilliant mind and guess what … she is not Jewish, but German!”
“Ha! I’ll be damned! I don’t really know what’s worse, Doctor, a filthy Jew or an intellectual woman! The thought that your method is based upon a woman’s piffle, scares me all the worse! Abominable!”
The room fills with chilly silence, and that helps me to get hold of myself.
“Is this the only available procedure?” I finally ask.
“The only one I could help you with. My intuition tells me that your affliction has psychological causes, and to be able to eliminate the unwelcomed effect, we must be able to discover the causes that produced it in the first place. And to be able to achieve this, we must make use of introspection.”
“I see.”
“If, on the other hand, you believe that you could find the solution to your problem someplace else, I strongly suggest you look for it there.”
Of course I didn’t know someplace else. I sigh despondently and drop into the armchair. “Well, then, I suppose I could try. There is nothing bad that could happen to me. The worst already has.”
“Of course nothing bad will happen … but I feel the need to draw attention to the matter of honesty again. If you hide something or your answers are only half-exposed, then you should understand that you are hiding from yourself, and it will only affect … yourself,” he says emphasizing the last word. “The success in therapy relies largely upon sincerity.”
I nod my head and try to make myself comfortable in the chair. But my muscles pay no heed to me and they clench my fists and jaw.
“I understand.”
“Very well then. I should like to begin by taking you on a journey back in time, more precisely to your childhood. If I remember correctly, you mentioned that you grew up in the presence of both your parents. Were there any other members of your family living with you?”
“Yes. My aunt, a brother and two sisters.”
“Were you the youngest?”
“No, my little sister, Paula, was.”
“Alright. Can you tell me a few things about your mother?”
“I better not. She was a saint, that’s all there is to know.” This talk is definitely making me feel out of place and I begin fidgeting in my chair.
“Should I remind you about sincerity, Herr Schicklgruber?”
“You don’t need to remin
d me! I’m neither stupid nor forgetful! I’ve got a memory like an elephant! And I wasn’t going to lie!”
“Omission is also dishonesty and it will only waste both our time,” he retorts, infuriatingly composed.
I wring my hands nervously and give a deep sigh. “As you wish! My mother was the light in the darkness that was my family. Loving, caring, she was always ready to help and serve.”
“Was she a joyous, happy woman?”
“Joyous? Sometimes. Happy? Never. That’s why she died so young. My father saw to that.”
“Was there something you did not like about your mother?”
“Oh, no, I don’t believe there was,” I answer, but the doctor remains quiet. “Or maybe there was something, but too insignificant to mention.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Well, I think that I disliked her servility, her obedience. To some extent, anyhow. I wish she’d stood up to my father more often, to defend herself the way I should have defended her.”
“Do you feel guilty for not helping her more?”
“Guilty? I don’t think that’s the right word. I feel rather … resentful.”
“You were but a child. Are you aware of that?”
“Painfully aware. Being a child didn’t make my resentment much more bearable, for I always sensed the injustice. I hated my father for what he was doing and my mother for letting him.”
“Were there never moments in which she opposed him?”
“Almost never. Her only way of rebelling against him was through her tears,” I recount, and the memory of my dear mother’s tears shakes me to the core. “I hated my childhood.”
“You said almost never. This means that there were times when she did stand up to him. What was happening then?”
“Well, it always depended on the mood my father had at a given moment, but most of the times he would be mad as a hatter.” Tears burst out of my eyes, indifferent to my pride.
