The Discovery of Heaven

by Harry Mulisch

  Anyway, I've got something here that fits: Through his total physical discipline, Hitler was able to penetrate people's minds with the equally total chaos of his thinking. And his physical discipline continued in his monstrous parades and processions, all of which he directed himself and which were no more than reproductions of his body. He was actually a movement artist, a dancer, a ballet master of death. The choreography of those great fascist dances of death derives less from Prussian militarism than from expressionism, from the theater of Piscator, from the ballet of Mary Wigman, the teacher of Leni Riefenstahl, who immortalized the gruesome fascination of his Nuremberg rallies in her equally gruesome, fascinating film Triumph of the Will. It was the marriage of classicism and expressionism, Apollo and Dionysus: the realized tragedy, in Nietzsche's sense. Never, for as long as mankind has existed, has the beautiful form been so misused and put in the service of evil. Hitler himself was the real 'degenerate artist.' And the effect of all those creations was ultimately not aesthetic but erotic, like that of Hitler himself. What he had to say, his political aims, all those scandalous things, were no more important than the remaining 1 percent of his power. But the fact that it all happened, that it was all carried out by people who weren't basically any worse than any other people, the fact that 6 million Jews died, and 50 million others, including 8 million of those who had cheered him and paraded in front of him—that was because of that physical 99 percent. That was the enormous extra something he had; it was his unique body that made his power absolute. That's why it's impossible for him ever to be portrayed by an actor; even if only his back is shown in a film, it's completely wrong. Perhaps that's the best proof of my argument. But behind his Golden Wall even this envoy of Providence sat slumped with a cake and coffee in a flower-patterned armchair and spent the evening and half the night talking endlessly, as we know from the memoirs of his architect, Albert Speer. And he should know, because everyone was in love with Hitler; but Hitler was in love with Speer—probably even more than with Eva Braun. The German people thought that this Übermensch with his triumphant will was working tirelessly for the good of the nation, but he did almost nothing; he slept a good part of the day and, to the frustration of his ministers and generals, hesitated endlessly before making a decision. But in the meantime! Speer tells us that in the second half of the 1930s the bohemian's mood was starting to darken; during receptions at his country estate in the Alps he began to cut himself off and stared out across the mountains from a corner of the terrace, which made Speer think: As long as it doesn't mean war. Just imagine! One individual's mood darkens and it may mean war! And dammit, there was a war. How in heaven's name is it possible? Because of his body, Edgar, because of the accident of his body and nothing else. It was a natural phenomenon. All the powerful are natural phenomena and in that sense 'supermen'—but that 'super' resides in their spirit, not in their flesh. It has nothing to do with beauty. You can just as well be small and have a pot belly, like Napoleon, or be a semi-invalid like Kennedy, or have a face like Dorus; but it has to be there, that indescribable physical odor, they all had it and have it to a greater or lesser extent: Stalin more than Trotsky, Reagan more than Carter, and on and on in all countries and ages, all those Dark Ladies of power. People want to touch them, feel their flesh. Isn't it horrible? It's the same as with cult leaders and all other seducers. And it's even more horrible that there's no other way, and that it has to be like that. Because, listen: Dominance is indispensable because it is the axis of life itself. Power is exerted in every cell: by the DNA molecule in the nucleus. It contains the genetic material that calls the tune. From the first living cell, via animal communities to today's states, power has retained its physical quality, because only then is it possible: the condition of physicality is power and the condition of power is physicality. That's why for a long time power was hereditary. The first capitano of a dynasty himself had the physical presence of power of somebody like Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Churchill, Fidel Castro, or Napoleon; that was why it was sufficient to be flesh of his flesh. (In our case it runs in the family, too, for that matter.) In Holland the portrait of the queen hangs in the offices of all ministers and mayors, but you and I know who hangs in the queen's study: William of Orange. Come to that, those founders of lines are called 'born' leaders in many languages. For centuries, wars were dynastic wars, like with the Mafia, concerned with the interests of princely families, and hence with physicality—-just as republican wars originated in the physicality of new rulers. Where the royal families disappeared, continuity was ensured only by the civil service, which originated from the court and has existed without interruption since Babylon and ancient Egypt. Civil servants are eternal—they survive pharaohs, kings, and presidents—but it's no good without a leader. Civil servants without a leader are clothes without an emperor. That might well be the fate of a unified Europe. More important than the competence of a leader is the fact that he is there. With an incompetent leader things go badly, but without a leader everything sinks into abstract arbitrariness, from which a new leader irrevocably emerges—because despite the optimism of the anarchists, that is the fundamental DNA principle. Anyway, that principle governs not only life but everything that exists. The first living cell is preceded by the first atom, which also has a nucleus, with quarks and nuclear forces. The solar system also has a nucleus: the bright sun dominates the dull planets with magnetic attraction. There's no arguing with that, Edgar. But if the same thing therefore applies to inanimate as to animate matter, I suddenly realize, to everything in short, should we perhaps see the Big Bang as the 'nucleus' of the universe? I discussed that with Max in the past. I'm talking about Max again—I'll tell you another time who that was. Another seducer in any case. And now this: Everywhere the 'Führer principle' prevails: there has to be power, even in democratic societies, and that power can only be physical. In religion that's been known for a long time, and the first to formulate it was John: 'The Word is made flesh.' Do you know what Jesus Christ said: 'Take, eat, this is my body.' Hoc est enim corpus meum. If you eat it, then you're eating God and you're saved: that superleadership goes much further than Hitler's, but the principle is the same. Think of sacred relics, which are worshiped by the believers, the faithful. A hollow tooth of St. Peter's in a golden shrine! A toenail of St. Paul's! Body, body, body! But power can only be power by the grace of a Golden Wall. In order to consolidate his power, the representative of the naked Christ finally had to withdraw in full regalia as pope behind the Golden Wall of the Vatican. And that's where the problem begins. For the first time in the history of mankind, the Golden Wall is beginning to give way. Once, at the dawn of history, it was erected by the powerless with the material of their own adoration, awe, and fear; now it's beginning to show ominous cracks, like a medieval castle, through which everyone can peer inside. In your time you were still 'His Excellency the Prime Minister, Professor H.J.A. Quist,' now you would be 'Henk to everyone—which you weren't even for us, only for Mother. Because they can see that the chambers of the castle are as big a mess as everywhere else, the powerless rapidly lose their veneration for their own veneration, the awe at their own awe, and fear of their own fear, which at the same time undermines the authority of the powerful and makes the power of their physicality descend toward the ridiculous. In so doing, the powerless blow all the built-in fuses. What the hell does it matter to us anyway? Why shouldn't we smash that public telephone over there to pieces? Yeah, why not? What a laugh. Any police anywhere? No, nowhere. Not even in ourselves. Right, so we'll wreck it. A joke. Why do we think it's such a joke? Just because. Why has that suddenly happened, after all those eons? Perhaps it's something to do with technology—I don't know; at any rate, technology is the only thing that is suddenly developing just as fast. I don't understand the connection, and I'm confused by the fact that the telephone is also part of technology; but if that's the case, then the future looks grim. If it goes on like this, the whole social contract will crumble and the whole of society w
ill gradually be smashed to pieces. Then everything will start to sink into anarchy without a nucleus, which contradicts the nuclear principle of being. Moreover, virtually no one in the West believes in a God of vengeance anymore, and it won't last very long in the East, either, and in twenty-five years' time not even a dog will believe in Allah, when they all have a fridge and a car over there. How can we avoid an invasion of fascist tyrants, who will lodge in the empty nuclei like cancer viruses? I've written down the answer here, Edgar. I scarcely dare read it aloud, and it's just as well that my father will never see it. As a boy—in a time that was still yours—it once happened that my ball rolled onto the grass in the park. Because walking on the grass was forbidden, I waited for a good five minutes until a certain moment when there was no one else to be seen; only then did I dare to step over the low fence, with my heart pounding, to take the few steps across the grass and to jump back again as soon as I could. That inhibition, that pounding heart, that's what it's about. Did I feel unfree? Not at all. It was simply forbidden to walk on the grass. At the moment I don't feel unfree, either, because I'm not allowed to kill anyone. That's simply not allowed. How do you prevent everyone killing everyone else without a pounding heart one day? How can we get that heart pounding again? Only by forcing respect. I say 'respect'—not fear as a result of some dictatorial regime or other, but respect for respect's sake: a new Golden Wall for the sake of the Golden Wall. This can only be done by means of the authoritarian rule of an enlightened despot—with the emphasis on 'enlightened.' Someone whom everybody knows, who puts the interests of his fellow citizens first, therefore making him the complete democrat. Someone like Pericles, in short. But how can you institutionalize that? How do you know in advance that the despot is indeed enlightened? Even Plato wrestled with that problem, but within twenty-five years it must be possible to select him by means of DNA analysis—and that brings us to the way in which in Tibet the new Dalai Lama is tracked down among the babies in the villages. The question is simply: how do we get through those last twenty-five years without accidents? I have a presentiment of changes without end, followed by dreadful disasters. That democratic institutions will not have to function for long, a century perhaps; afterward, based on the Ten Commandments, everyone can be incarnated genetically as a reasonable human being and the government will consist of a computer network, with a mongoloid or a stone as dominus mundi. Once the king is ruler by the grace of God, then technology will personify divine omnipotence. By that time no telephone booth will be vandalized and no one will walk on the grass anymore—not even if a ball is there. Probably, no one will even play with a ball. Isn't that awful? It's just as well that my son will never see this. Yes, Edgar, I had a son too. Quinten was his name. Shame you'll never meet him. I'll tell you about him too. But first of all my letter. It isn't completely clear yet, but how about simply beginning with: Most Honored Father!' "

  Wings flapping, Edgar jumped onto his shoulder.

  "Cras. Cras."

  52

  Italian Journey

  On May 11, 1985, as a pope was flying to the Netherlands for the first time, beneath him on the ground Quinten was traveling south by train. Under the ground, actually, through Alpine tunnels, beyond which Italy suddenly unfolded: blue and green and descending, like at Groot Rechteren when he emerged from of the chilly cellar into the warm sun on the forecourt. Sophia had taken him to the station, hugged him with a stony face, but as soon as he had said goodbye she had disappeared from his thoughts. On the way he had not read or slept, but simply looked out the window the whole time, at all those countless towns and villages in Germany and Switzerland where his father might be.

  However, while he was looking for his connection in Milan in the throng on the platforms, even that had receded and gradually an exciting feeling of freedom took possession of him, which became more and more intense when near Mestre he traveled out to sea along a railway embankment and saw Venice on the water in the distance; a vague blue phantom, as though on the horizon the sky had been lifted up a little and a glimpse of another world came through the crack. Was it a mirage? Was that where the Citadel was?

  Emerging from the station with his blue-gray nylon backpack, he stopped. On the wide stairs of the terrace and on the square in front of the station hundreds of young people were sitting in the sun. On the other side was a white church. Between, it looked as though the water of the Grand Canal was being stirred by giant, invisible white bird's feathers: everything was moving, it was as though the light itself were undulating and waving and glittering in the sun—gondolas, vaporetti, water taxis, swaying and crying everywhere, everything foaming like a breaking wave in the surf. At the same time he had the impression that when he stood there, more eyes were focused on him than had ever happened at home. He went to a simple hotel nearby, in the out-of-the-way working-class district of Cannaregio, where few tourists went. On the arch above the entrance were Hebrew letters, most of which could no longer be deciphered. His window gave onto a small courtyard with flues and flaking plaster. The bed took up virtually the whole room, and the shower was in the corridor, but he didn't need any more room: he had the city for that.