The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "And you, Frantichek?" Fraulein Louise asked the Czech who had been an architect in Brunn. He was her compatriot and the only one she addressed by his first name. To the other she said simply Du.

  "It really is stupid," said Frantichek, "that little boys always have to be so wild. The way they run around... you can tell them a hundred times to be careful. But no. It's stupid. It really is."

  "Is that all you have to say?" said Fraulein Louise, not trying to hide her disappointment.

  "What do you mean? Oh. I see. Of course I'd do exactly what you decide to do*" said the Czech.

  "And I'm for Louise, too," said the slender, frail young man from the labor camp.

  "You, too?" Fr&ulein Louise was overjoyed. Naturally, she thought, my favorite.

  "Yes, me too," said the frail young man. "Because in the course of my studies I found out that it won't get any better in this world until the philosophers are ready to act."

  "And that's our opinion, too," said the Norwegian cook.

  "So listen to me!" Fr&ulein Louise was terribly excited again. "There's something else I must tell you."

  And the moor was filled with the sounds of life and death.

  "You know," said Fraulein Louise to her dead, who were listening attentively, "that my mother died when I was very young. She was only thirty-six years old. I was her only child, and when she died I was in despair. But you know all that, don't you?"

  The dead nodded.

  "My father was a glass blower, a quiet man. The people in Reichenberg always used to say that he knew a lot of secrets. He and I loved my mother very much. When my father saw my despair, he spoke to me: 'Don't cry anymore, Louise. Don't be sad. Mother died too young. She didn't have time to experience or do anything that it would have been her fate to experience and do. But when a person dies before his time, his soul can return to this world and fulfill what was left unfulfilled.' Is that true?"

  The dead stared at each other. They looked embarrassed.

  "I'm asking you—is that true?" Fraulein Louise repeated.

  The dead were silent for a long time. At last the philosophy student spoke. He said, "Yes, it is true."

  The American said, "If they want to, the souls of those who died young can enter into the body of a living person."

  "That's what my father said," cried Fraulein Louise. "Souls can enter the bodies of the living. And they can determine what the living person does from then on. How he thinks, how he acts."

  "Louise's father wanted to console her, naturally," said the Jehovah's Witness.

  "Naturally," said Fraulein Louise. "But he said a lot more. He said that Mother had only gone from us seemingly. And because she would certainly want it, her soul would return to us. Into us. And when we did good, when we did what was just, and when an inner voice guided us, then we would know: This was Mother's xoice speaking to us. That's what my father said, and now you're telling me he was right."

  She looked at her friends; they looked at her and were silent.

  "All of you here," said Fraulein Louise, "died before your

  time. None of you were able to fulfill what you were meant to do. Therefore, all of you—all of you can return. If you wish to."

  "We don't have to return," said the Pole.

  "No," said the Russian. "But Little Mother is right. Our souls can enter into the souls of the living when we believe we can lead a poor earthly creature into a better life."

  Fraulein Louise folded her hands. "Believe me," she implored. "I beg of you! I am too weak and too old to see this thing through alone. I need help. Your help. There is no other. The living have hardened their hearts. All they still know is hatred and lies. The rich and the powerful, the politicians and the generals with their medals—none of them will help me. All they do is lay wreaths on graves and shake hands and embrace and kiss little children, and are liars! Every one of them! I don't care about them and they don't care about my children. They don't know the meaning of innocence! Because they don't believe in your world! Are you listening to me?"

  "To every word, Louise," said the American.

  "I've changed my mind," said the Ukrainian peasant. "I agree with the cook and the professor now, and the others who think as Louise does."

  "You mean you believe we should really take part in this earthly event?" the Frenchman asked hesitantly.

  "Yes, yes! Of course! And help me! And stand by me!" cried Fraulein Louise.

  The men were silent again. A few mumbled unintelligibly.

  "Louise must know that if we do it, it is dangerous," said the Frenchman. "For us and for her and for everyone concerned."

  "Dangerous? If you are with me?"

  "Yes. Dangerous if we are with Louise in her world," said the Frenchman. "Because our world is different, and Louise will never be able to understand us completely. No earthling can. It is really dangerous."

  "But why?" cried Fraulein Louise.

  "Because now we are without desire and at the same time friends. In Louise's world—what will we be like there? Will we still be friends?"

  "Certainly," said the Norwegian. "All of us have learned to recognize what is good and what is evil."

  "Just the same—" insisted the Frenchman.

  "Return, please, I beg of you," Fr&ulein Louise implored.

  "Return to this earth. You will only do good. I know. I am sure. You have been purified. You can't do anything evil anymore. Will you return? Will you?"

  The men drew close together. Fraulein Louise stood apart from them. She couldn't understand what they were whispering, and she watched the moon lay a silver bridge over the moor, like a span between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead.

  "So what have you decided?" she asked.

  "We shall try to help you, Louise," said the American.

  "But I say again—it is dangerous," said the Frenchman.

  "Oh, do be quiet!" said the Norwegian cook.

  "I wanted to say it once more," said the Frenchman, his mouth twisted in an ironic smile.

  Fraulein Louise was terribly excited. "If you're going to help me, will you recognize each other?"

  "No," said the Russian. "Because we only met in death."

  "And how will you look in life?"

  "We don't know yet. We can turn up in all sorts of shapes. It will depend on whom we choose as the guardian of our souls," said the student.

  The Jehovah's Witness said, "And we shall exist only as long as Louise believes we exist. Once she ceases to believe, we cease to exist."

  "I believe in you," cried Fraulein Louise. "You will come with me. I won't be alone when I go to Hamburg. So much will happen soon, won't it? Tomorrow, perhaps."

  "Tomorrow, yes," said the Dutchman.

  "In how many hours?" asked Fraulein Louise.

  "Is that important?" asked the Russian. "It's always tomorrow. Little Mother should know that. Today was once tomorrow."

  "I thank you! I thank you! Oh, I'm so happy!" cried Fraulein Louise, weeping tears of joy. She hurried over to her student and embraced him, and he felt rough and hard in her arms, like the bark of a tree.

  Layout

  The penis is hard, we have an erection; the member is about to fulfill its function. (To be continued.)

  I wrote the words hastily, then took paper, carbon, and copy out of the typewriter. That was that. Eighteen pages. Sixty spaces between the vertical lines on the paper, three pages equal to a column of text. I had been told to hand in six columns, and I had managed to finish on the dot. I nearly always did. A simple question of routine. After all, I'd been in the business since 1954, the last three years as author of a series entitled: "Sex: Everything There Is to Know About It." This was the sixteenth article. Before I was through there'd be twenty-five, possibly thirty, depending on the management, their names be praised, every one of them! The articles that had preceded this one had appeared under the titles: "Do You Know How to Love?" "The Estrogen Miracle," "How to Love a Trois" (not what you're thinking, but advice
to a couple who already have a child), "Why Girls Love Girls," "The Golden Pill," "Make Me Happy!" etc., etc. Never had a topic been so successful since the founding of the Bundesrepublik and a free democratic press. Right now it was the success story in the business. The other papers had, of course, started doing something similar right away, but so far without the same success. This was because—no false modesty, please!—they didn't have a Curt Corell. Page fifteen... page fourteen... page thirteen... That was my pseudonym; that was I—Walter Roland.

  As already mentioned, I was fully aware that beyond our profession, quite a few people knew that Walter Roland and Curt Corell were one and the same person—not many, though. Millions were still thinking of the inspiring articles I had written once as Walter Roland, and had no idea that I was the same man who had been dishing this hogwash out to them for the last three and a half years. Once I had said there was no story on earth I couldn't write, but when the damned thing threatened to become such a riproaring success, I got cold feet and decided on a

  pseudonym. There were, after all, limits to what Walter Roland was willing to produce. In the meantime, Curt Corell had become far more famous than Walter Roland in his heyday. For the last three and a half years, the latter hadn't written a thing!

  What I am writing now does not fit chronologically into the course of already described events—a fact you may have noticed—but I can't help it. A story like this one can't be told in any other way. Events have to be described where they can give the reader the greatest insight possible into the relationship of things. Because everything that happened was mercilessly logical.

  And it's high time I explained the situation in which I found myself when we kidnapped Irina Indigo from the Neurode Youth Camp.

  What I am about to describe happened a day before we took off for Neurode—actually almost two days before, because we left late at night—and what I am going to relate now took place in the early morning of the previous day. Only such a short time separated me from my old world!

  Two and a half years ago the circulation of Blitz wasn't anything to brag about. It was sinking fast. The advertising department at once became hysterical—understandably. All advertising prices—which, by the way, were astronomically high—were dependent on copies sold. When that number dropped, the price of advertising had to be lowered; and the advertisements, according to a computerized imperative, had to constitute approximately half the content. Every six months there was a reconciliation of copies sold and advertising prices. The most important clients—those who bought two pages or whole pages in color—reserved their space months in advance. Therefore, when the circulation sank below a certain level, the price of advertising was affected, and there was a sackcloth and ashes mood in the editorial offices. Because now two questions arose: If the circulation figure sank further, the publisher was duty-bound to inform all advertisers immediately. If the loss reached five percent, they could ask for their money back or take credit for it. That was problem number one. Problem number two: If the number of copies sold somehow did not continue to sink, but recovered, the publisher couldn't ask for a penny more in advertising revenue until the next expiration date. That's the way it was three and a half years ago. The decline stopped briefly

  a hairline away from the ghastly low-water mark, then continued to sink and sink and sink. And the day for the issuing of the new rates was coming nearer and nearer. Then the miraculous happened. I had a brainstorm! The idea for a series on sex education and information. I wrote the first few articles, and behold! The circulation jumped. Up. And how!

  "That's done it!" cried publisher Thomas Herf ord, tears in his eyes when he heard that Blitz had sold ninety thousand copies more after the fourth article by Curt Corell; and that was why the first series, which had saved the day, had to be followed by a second, and a third, and a fourth, ad nauseam. Nonstop! The genius of Curt Corell had made a princely prisoner of him.

  Week after week, fifty-two times a year, I had to produce this repulsive material, which had become by far the most popular series in years. I had access to a whole library on the subject. Photographers and graphic artists waited eagerly for my orders, money was no object.

  Facts, suggestive photos, explanations, instructions, consolation and scientific affirmation for desperate teenagers, married couples, loving couples, big and small, old and young; for the impotent, the fetishists, lesbians, hermaphrodites, homosexuals—everything was human, everything had to be understood, but first one must know about it: In short, How to Lead a Fulfilled Love Life. All this I kneaded weekly into a perfect dough without omitting even the most insignificant ingredient and always with nothing but the most serious intentions—that goes without saying—and from this dough I proceeded to bake my miraculous cake. For icing I threw in graphic illustrations, always in the best of taste, when photographs didn't suffice. According to the research department, the illustrations were especially popular. In "Make Me Happy" there was a four-color picture, a whole page, with legend—A, B, C, a, b, c, 1,2,3,1, II, III, and so on, all the way up to 27 and XXVII, a work of art that looked like a cross between a generalissimo's map and a painting by Dali. The penis red, the vagina blue, and the various other organs pertinent to the theme in yellow and violet—the whole thing peppered with dots, fine lines and arrows, and with the tide in bright red: "How Does the Sperm Reach the Egg?" A prestigious newsmagazine thereupon baptized Blitz as the "Shit and Fuck Weekly." "They're envious," said Thomas Herford, shrugging it off; and a house letter

  promptly recommended that all editors, authors, and employees read that great book: Envy: A Social Theory, by Helmuth Schoeck.

  The circulation of Blitz continued to rise and began to move perilously close to the two giants among the illustrated magazines. Herford's delight became mixed, as evidenced by what he said to his closest associates one day. I was invited to join in these conferences. "Of course I want a large circulation and highest advertising revenue possible, but I also want a circulation that doesn't get out of hand. Don't let's get too big. That would cost me millions a year and I'd soon be broke."

  There was a price ceiling on advertising. One couldn't go legally beyond it; however, this might be justified by circulation. The advertising revenue covered costs only up to a point, but not if the editions became very large and one ended up with a magazine that was thick and expensive and couldn't charge more for the advertising! Then one operated at a loss. Millions in one year, according to Herford, and he was right. The order therefore was: Be as successful as possible but not quite as successful as possible.

  Ah, me... pitifully, relentlessly, the life of the millionaire is threatened—

  8:20 a.m. November 1968. A Monday. A beautiful autumn morning. Pale blue sky, pallid sunshine, ground fog over the city streets. I felt hot, as usual.

  Sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a Gauloise between my lips, I was sitting at my desk, my hair still wet from the shower. My office was on the seventh floor of an ultramodern, eleven-story, steel-glass-concrete high-rise building on Frankfurt's Kaiser-strasse. The windows looked out on a courtyard, a blessing, because they were building a subway on Kaiserstrasse.

  The editorial offices were on the seventh floor, photography on the floor below. A monster aquarium, this publishing house. Nearly all the walls were of glass. I could look through office

  after office, almost the length of the entire floor. Not a soul there yet—only the cleaning woman and me, working at my desk.

  I was surrounded by empty bottles of Coke, overflowing ashtrays, books and papers that provided me with copy—the Kinsey Report, the Masters Report, good old Magnus Hirschf eld, medical journals, the Lexicon of Erotica, slips of paper with notes, only a few. I didn't need money. By now I had "the right approach" to the crap, as fast as I could write. I took a pencil with very soft lead and started correcting.

  Erotic zones: necking, petting—OK. Clitoris—just a minute. A carat here, and in the margin, in parentheses, "tickler." I've margined hundreds
of ticklers, but every tickler is a goodie.

  One couldn't remind oneself often enough how important it was that a series like this should make as scientific an impression as possible, because of the public prosecutor and the censor board, to say nothing of the voluntary censorship of the illustrated weekly itself. And then the readers wanted it so much. So... insert!

  Where was the damned book anyway? Ah, there it was! "And since the touch of the tickler results in a powerful reaction on the part of the female, the famous Hollander van Swieten, personal physician of the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa, advised her, when she consulted him because she was concerned with her lack of fertility..." No. First in Latin, just as it stood there, because this type of fucking, dear reader, is serious business. So: "Praetero cenveo, vulvam Sacratissimae Majestatis ante coitum diutius esse titillandam" Translated: "Moreover, I am of the opinion that the clitoris of your Most Holy Majesty should be titillated for quite some time before coitus."

  I wrote as clearly as I could, printing the words, so that the typesetters couldn't complain again that they couldn't read my handwriting. "And the result of this good advice? The Empress gave birth to sixteen children!"

  Things like that went over well.

  I was grinning again. I'd just thought of a joke in a Frankfurt cabaret recently. A man was sitting upright on a double bed asking the girl lying beside him, "Have you read Corell this week?" Whereupon the girl, startled, stammered, "But of course! Why? Did I do something wrong?"

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is fame! My deadliest enemy, editor-in-chief Gert Lester, could tell me a dozen times a week that I was slipping, the fink! I was Curt Corell, business as usual!

  I drank some Coke, wiped my mouth with the back of my mind, and went on correcting. Labia majora. Labia rriinora. The love mound. Masturbation, not mastorbation. Typing too fast. The soft pencil careted words that were to be inserted, indicated new paragraphs, underlines for italics, asterisks where there was to be a space. The crap read just finel

  Four hours earlier, at 4:30 a.m., I had awakened and looked at my wristwatch. I could wake up whenever I liked—all I had to do was decide the hour—and today I had to get up so early because I was so damned close to my deadline. I should have handed in the article for the issue on Friday. But I'd been sick on Friday. Nobody's business but mine; the only one I'd told about it was Hem. On the phone.