by Franz Werfel
The privy councillor folded his arms. His long face took on an expectant look. "And do you, Dr. Lepsius, know another method of intervening in the domestic policy of a friendly, an allied power?"
Johannes Lepsius looked as intently into his hat as though he had stored a sheet of notes in it. But, God! no notes would have been necessary. Ten thousand notes, day and night, kept singing in that poor tired mind, so that now he could scarcely ever sleep. He made an effort to collect himself, to broach the thing shortly and methodically.
"We ought above all to be perfectly clear as to what is happening, has already happened, in Turkey. An anti-Christian persecution of such dimensions that former persecutions under Nero and Diocletian bear no comparison. And more -- the worst crime in recorded history so far -- that in itself means something, I think you'll admit . . ."
Vague curiosity lit up the pale eyes of the privy councillor. He was silent as, with careful words, Lepsius felt his way, further and further. No doubt, since his defeat by Enver Pasha, he knew a little more than he had, about how to deal with politicians.
"We mustn't see the Armenians as some kind of half-savage, eastern tribe. . . . They're educated, cultivated people, with a nervous sensibility which, frankly, I say one doesn't often find in Europe."
No twitch in the narrow, equine face gave any reason to suppose that perhaps, in its view, this classification of the Armenian "mercantile race" was slightly exaggerated.
And Dr. Lepsius continued. "This isn't by any means a mere matter of domestic policy, for the Turks to settle as they think fit. Not even the complete extermination of a tribe of pygmies can be considered as entirely a matter between exterminators and victims. All the less can we Germans afford to take refuge in deploring, or despairing, neutrality. Our enemies abroad hold us responsible."
The privy councillor pushed away the documents with a shove, as though he needed air. "It's part of the deepest tragedy of Germany's position as a combatant that we, no matter how clear our consciences may be, should be loaded with the blood-guilt of other races."
"Everything in this world is primarily a matter of morals, and only very much later one of politics."
The privy councillor nodded approbation. "Excellent, Herr Pastor! I quite agree. In every political decision one ought first to calculate the moral effect."
Lepsius sensed a victory. He must make the most of his advantage. "I'm not here as a mere powerless individual, Herr Geheimrat. I don't think it's too much to say that I'm here in the name of the whole of German Christendom, both Protestant and Catholic. I'm acting and speaking on behalf of such influential men as Harnack, Deissmann, Dibelius . . ."
The privy councillor glanced appreciatively, his eyes gave due weight to each of the names. But Johannes Lepsius was now in his old, and dangerous, full spate: "The German Christian refuses to look on any longer with folded arms at a crime against the whole of Christianity. Our consciences will no longer permit us to be its lukewarm accomplices. The empire's hope of victory is dependent on the satisfaction of German Christians. I personally am sick with shame that the enemy press should be printing columns on these Armenian deportations, whereas the German people gets fobbed off with Enver's lying communiqués and otherwise isn't told a word. Haven't we earned our right to know the truth about the fate of our co-religionists? This shameful state of affairs must be ended."
The privy councillor, rather astonished at the hortatory voice, set finger tips together, remarking innocently: "But the censorship? The censors would never allow a thing like that! You really have no idea how involved such matters are, Herr Lepsius."
"Not to be tricked is the simplest right of the German people."
The privy councillor smiled indulgently. "What would be the result of such a press campaign? A heavy strain both on German nerves and the Turkish alliance."
"That alliance must not be allowed to make us accomplices in the eyes of history. So we want our government to act as quickly as possible. Why don't you demand, with the uttermost insistence, in Istanbul, that a neutral commission of inquiry of Americans, Swiss, Dutch and Scandinavians be admitted to Anatolia and Syria?"
"You know the Young Turkish potentates well enough yourself, Herr Lepsius, to be able to judge the sort of answer we should be likely to get to such a demand."
"Then Germany must use the most drastic methods."
"And those would be, in your opinion . . . ?"
"The threat to withdraw all support from Turkey, recall the German military mission, and retire German officers and troops from the fronts."
The repose, the winning affability, on the privy councillor's steady features, melted into genuine kindliness. "You know, Herr Lepsius, you've been described to me just as you are -- so . . . innocent."
S1im, he arose. His grey summer suit sat less stiffly on him than they do usually on his kind. His slight negligence of manner inspired instant sympathy and trust. He turned to the big map, Europe and Asia Minor, hung on the wall. His blue-veined hand approximately covered the Near East.
"The Dardanelles, the Caucasus, Palestine and Mesopotamia are German fronts today, Herr Lepsius, more even than Turkish. If they collapse, the whole war structure collapses with them. We really can't threaten Turkey with our own suicide unless we want to make ourselves ridiculous. I don't think I even need remind you of the tremendous significance which His Majesty the Kaiser attaches to our power in the East. But aren't you even aware that the Turks by no means feel indebted to us -- on the contrary, they consider themselves our creditors. I don't see why you shouldn't be told that a very powerful group on the Committee would be perfectly ready at any minute to change horses, and negotiate with the Allies. You might easily live to see France and England, who today raise such a howl over Armenian atrocities, shut both eyes to the same atrocities tomorrow. You speak of truth, Herr Lepsius. The truth is that the Turks hold trumps in this particuar game, that we have to mind our p's and q's and keep well within the limits of the possible."
Johannes Lepsius listened quietly. He had heard them all, again and again, these "truths" which the children of this world utter with their sharp logic. They led to incontestable conclusions. Whoso admitted a single link in the chain was forever lost. But the pastor was far beyond the point of admitting anything. In these few weeks his mind had grown a shell, which rendered it impervious to such processes. He would not let himself be drawn out of it. Stubbornly he remained on his own ground.
"I'm not a politician. It's not my business to find possible ways by which, even now, a part of the Armenian nation can be saved. But it is my duty as the representative of a great number of German Christians, who think as I do, to voice the urgent petition that such ways and means may be discovered, and discovered before it's too late."
"No matter how we may turn the thing and twist it, Herr Lepsius, it may be possible here and there to ameliorate the lot of these Armenians, but unluckily we shan't be able to change it."
"Neither my friends nor I can accept that unchristian standpoint."
"Please realize that, in this Armenian destiny, certain historical forces, too vast for us to control, may be working themselves out."
"I only realize that Enver and Talaat have taken advantage, with devilish cunning, of the best possible moment at which to cast themselves for the role of historical forces."
The privy councillor smiled rather mincingly, as though it were his turn now, to display a sample of his religious views. "Doesn't Nietzsche say: 'What totters, ought it not to be thrust down?' "
But Nietzsche was not the man to disconcert such a child of God as Johannes Lepsius. Rather annoyed at the generalities in which the conversation kept petering out, he answered shortly: "Which of us knows whether he's falling, or pushing down?"
The privy councillor, back at his desk again, took another brief glance at the map on the wall. "The Armenians are going under because of their geographical position. It's the fate of the weak, of the hated minority."
"Every man and e
very nation at one time or another becomes 'the weak.' That's why nobody should tolerate persecution, let alone extermination, as a precedent."
"Have you never, Herr Lepsius, asked yourself whether national minorities may not cause unnecessary trouble -- whether it may not be better that they should vanish?"
Lepsius took off his glasses and polished them hard. His eyes peered and blinked wearily. Their myopic look seemed to give his whole body something courageous.
"Herr Geheimrat, are not we Germans in a minority?"
"What do you mean by that? I don't understand you."
"In the midst of a Europe united against us, we're a damnably imperilled minority. It only needs one bad breakthrough. And we've not chosen our geography so brilliantly either."
The privy councillor's face had ceased to be kindly, it looked sharp and pale. A whiff of dusty midday heat beat in through the window.
"Quite right, Herr Pastor. And therefore it's the duty of every German to be concerned for the fate of his own people, and to think of the rivers of blood which, what you prefer to call the German minority, is shedding. That is the only standpoint from which a German can view the Armenian question."
"We Christians depend on the grace of God and our obedience to the Gospels. I tell you quite frankly, Herr Geheimrat, that I reject any other standpoint. For weeks now I've been seeing more clearly every day that power will have to be taken out of the hands of the children of this world, the politicians, if ever communion in the Lord, the Corpus Christi, is to become a reality in our poor little world."
"Render unto Caesar -- "
"But what is Caesar's -- apart from a worn-out penny piece? Christ was too wise to tell us that. No! No! the peoples are the slaves of their racial differences. And their flatterers, who want to live off them, intensify such things and stimulate their vanity. As though there were any special merit in being born a dog or a cat, a turnip or a potato. Jesus Christ, Who gives us the eternal example of the divine man, only put on hunian form in order to conquer it. So that on earth only the true sons of God should rule, from the very fact that they have conquered their race, their earthly conditioning. That is my political creed, Herr Geheimrat."
The Prussian aristocrat's face showed not the slightest suggestion of irony. "You talk like a confirmed Catholic, Herr Pastor."
"More Catholic than any Catholic -- since the Church of my trust does not share her power with any lay authority."
The privy councillor screwed in his monocle again; this conveyed the suggestion that the time for debate had come to an end. "But till we can re-establish the Holy Inquisition, we poor children of this world have got to take the responsibility."
Johannes Lepsius, who perhaps had gone a little too far, drew back into his shell. His voice sounded calm, almost offhand: "Let me still be quite frank with you, Herr Geheimrat. Till a few days ago I was hopeful, and I still believed that Herr Bethmann-Hollweg would support me in this fight with more drastic measures than he has, so far. You have let me see quite finally that our government's hands are tied in its dealings with Turkey, and that we must confine ourselves to the usual interviews and démarches. But no reasons of state tie mine. And now the Armenian question in Germany rests solely on me. I'm not inclined to make concessions and give in. I, in conjunction with my friends, intend to enlighten our own people. Since only when men know the truth will it be possible to establish our work of Christian assistance on a broad basis. I therefore request that my hands may not be tied in these activities."
The privy councillor had been deep in the study of his wristwatch; he glanced up from it, pleased. "One frankness is worth another, Herr Pastor. You mustn't therefore misunderstand me if I tell you that for some time now, we've been keeping an eye on you. Your stay in Constantinople was the subject of a great many complaints. I repeat, you have no idea how complex the situation is. I'm sorry. I have the greatest respect for your humane activities. And yet, in the political sense, such activities are -- well, not desirable. I would advise you, my dear Herr Lepsius, to keep them within very definite bounds, and make them as unobtrusive as possible."
The pastor's reply came more like a growl than a solemnity: "A call has come to me. No power on earth can prevent my following that voice."
"Oh, you mustn't say that, Herr Doctor Lepsius." The startled privy councillor's face looked almost flurried in its kindliness. "A few powers of this world are already doing their very best to prevent you effectively."
The pastor patted the whole left side of his coat before he stood up. "I'm extremely grateful, Herr Geheimrat, for all your frankness and your advice."
The tall, slim councillor faced Herr Lepsius, in a kind of self-satisfied embarrassment which sat him perfectly. "I'm so glad we've managed to come to such a quick understanding, Herr Pastor. You're looking as though you need a rest. Wouldn't it be better for you to slack off a bit -- just go on living from day to day. Don't you live in Potsdam?"
Johannes Lepsius regretted having taken up so much official time. But the privy councillor showed him out with a positively ingratiating smile.
"My dear Herr Pastor! It's a long time since I've spent such an interesting hour."
Down in the stuffy, midday Wilhelmstrasse, Johannes Lepsius stood and asked himself whether, as his Lord instructed him, he had been as meek as a dove, as wise as a serpent. He was instantly forced to the admission that both dove and serpent had failed to come off. But luckily he had been sufficiently prudent to obtain, some time ago, all the necessary passports, identification descriptions, travelling permits, and permissions to export currency. That was why, a few minutes ago, he had tapped the left side of his coat so carefully, to assure himself of these sacred objects. He turned sharply round. Suppose even now a detective were tracking him! His mind was made up. The express for Basel left at 8:40. He had still more than three hours in which to telephone Potsdam for his luggage and make all his other arrangements for setting out. Even tomorrow the frontiers might be closed to him. But he must get back to Istanbul! That was his place, even though he had still no clear idea what to do there. In Germany, in any case, his work would go forward without him. The organization had been built up, the office opened, patrons, friends, collaborators, won over. His place was not in far-off safety, but on the very coasts of the sea of blood.
The scurry and din of the Potsdamer Platz deafened him. The short-sighted Lepsius waited a long time for his chance to get across it safely. The thunder, rattle, clatter, and grating of cars, motorbuses, trains, surged round his ears, like a single tone. Like the bells of some great barbaric cathedral. A little rhyme came up in his mind; he had taken it down many years ago on the deck of a little dancing steamer, as it bore him across to the rocky island of Patmos-Patino, the holy apocalyptic isle of St. John. Its refrain sang in him:
A and O A and O Ring the bells of Patino.
And that little rhyme seemed to link two such different places as Patmos and Potsdamer Platz.
The life of a shy night animal in Istanbul.
Johannes Lepsius knew himself spied upon and tracked. Usually, therefore, he left the Hotel Tokatlyan only at night. On the day after his arrival he had paid his duty call at the German Embassy. Instead of the Minister, Embassy secretary, or press attaché, a very minor official indeed had received him, with the plain, unvarnished inquiry what object brought him back to Constantinople. Lepsius answered that he was there without a definite object, merely to rest in this city of which he was extremely fond. That he had no definite object was true enough. The pastor had still no clear idea of what he could manage to undertake. He was out of favor with the Turks, and now even with the Germans. That splendid naval commander attached to the Embassy, for instance, who had been so helpful in getting him the interview with Enver, met him now with the cut direct in the Grande Rue de Péra. God alone could say what dirty lies weren't being told about him everywhere. Often a cold shudder ran down his spine at the thought that he was alone in the Turkish capital, that his country's Emb
assy had not only ceased to afford support, but was almost hostile. Should Ittihad be inspired with the notion of getting him neatly out of the way, not much diplomatic fuss would be likely to be made over his corpse. At fainthearted moments he thought of going back to Germany. He was only wasting his time. This was already the third week in August. Suffocating heat struck up from the Bosporus. "What am I after here?" he kept asking himself. And so compared himself to an unskilled burglar, trying to pick the lock of an iron door with his bare hand, without even a jimmy, or skeleton key, and obliged moreover to work under the eyes of the police. But so much was clear. The lock of that door into the interior would have to be picked, for there ever to be a chance of real help. Funds sent by official channels melted away, with nothing to show for them.
