The Spinoza Problem (34 page)

“Are you a good smuggler?”

“Just a novice, but I have an idea. I’ve mentioned to you that I’ve tutored him on Spinoza. Well, in Part 4 of the
Ethics
—the section on overcoming the bondage of passion—there is a phrase that caught my attention. Spinoza says that reason is no match for passion and what we must do is to turn reason into a passion.”

“Hmm, interesting. How do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t have a precise method in mind. But I know that I must fertilize his curiosity about himself. Doesn’t everyone have an intense interest in himself? Doesn’t everyone want to know everything about himself? I know I do. I shall strive to inflame Alfred’s self-curiosity.”

“Interesting way of framing therapy, Dr. Pfister. An original way. Let’s hope he’ll cooperate, and I’ll do what I can to be helpful in supervision. But I wonder if there’s not a flaw in your argument.”

“Which is?”

“Overgeneralization. Therapists are different. We’re odd ducks. Most other people don’t share our passionate curiosity about the mind. So far, I hear that his goal is vastly different from yours: what he wants is to make himself more lovable to his fellow Nazis. So keep in mind the danger that therapy just might make things worse for all of us! Let me be more concrete. If you succeed in helping Rosenberg change in a way that would make Hitler love him more, then you’ll have only made him more efficiently evil.”

“I understand. My task is to help him embrace another, quite opposite goal—to understand and diminish his desperate and irrational need for Hitler’s love.”

Dr. Abraham smiled at his young student. “Precisely. I love your enthusiasm, Friedrich. Who knows? Maybe you can do this. Let’s search for some professional meetings in Munich you might attend and have additional sessions with him there.”

Despite his work pressures, Alfred followed through on his plan to pay a visit to Houston Stewart Chamberlain and easily persuaded Hitler to join him. Hitler, too, had been set afire by Chamberlain’s
Foundations of the Nineteenth Century
and would claim, to the end of his life, that Chamberlain (along with Dietrich Eckart and Richard Wagner) were his primary intellectual mentors.

Chamberlain lived in Bayreuth, in Wahnfried, Wagner’s massive old home, with his wife, Eva (Wagner’s daughter), and Cosima, Wagner’s eighty-six-year-old widow. The hundred-and-fifty-mile drive to Bayreuth was most pleasant for Alfred. It was his first trip in Hitler’s gleaming new Mercedes and an opportunity to enjoy Hitler’s sole attention for several hours.

A servant greeted them and led them upstairs, where Chamberlain sat in a wheelchair, his legs neatly covered by a blue and green tartan blanket, and stared out of the large window overlooking the Wagner inner courtyard. Ailing from some mysterious nervous disorder that left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak clearly, Chamberlain looked far older than his seventy years: his skin was blotchy, his eyes vacant, half of his face distorted by spasm. Fixing his eyes on Hitler’s face, Chamberlain nodded from time to time and appeared to comprehend Hitler’s words. He never glanced at Rosenberg. Hitler leaned forward, his mouth close to Chamberlain’s ear, and said, “I treasure your words in your great book,
Foundations of the Nineteenth Century
: ‘The Germanic race is engaged in a mortal struggle with the Jews that is to be fought not only with cannon but with every weapon of human life and society.’” Chamberlain nodded, and Hitler continued, “Herr Chamberlain, I promise that I am the man who will wage that war for you,” and went on at great length to describe his twenty-five-point program and his absolute unshakeable determination to have a Jew-free Europe. Chamberlain nodded vigorously and from time to time croaked, “Yes, yes.”

Later, when Hitler left the room for a private audience with Cosima Wagner, Rosenberg was left alone with Chamberlain and told him that at the age of sixteen he, like Hitler, had been enthralled by
Foundations of the Nineteenth Century
and that he, too, owed an enduring debt to Chamberlain. Then, leaning closer to Chamberlain’s ear, as Hitler had done, he confided, “I’m starting to write a book that I hope will continue your work for the
next century.” Perhaps Chamberlain smiled—his face was so distorted that it was hard to tell. Alfred continued, “Your ideas and your words shall be everywhere in my pages. I am just beginning. It will be a five-year project—there is so much to be done. I have, however, just written a passage for the ending: ‘The sacred hours of the Germans will reappear when the symbol of awakening—the flag with the swastika sign of resurgent life—has become the sole prevailing creed of the Reich.’” Chamberlain grunted. Perhaps he said, “Yes, yes.”

Alfred sat back in his chair and looked about. Hitler was still nowhere to be seen. Alfred again bent over to Chamberlain’s ear, “Dear teacher, I need your help with something. It’s the Spinoza problem. Tell me how this Jew from Amsterdam could have written works so greatly revered by the greatest of German thinkers, including the immortal Goethe. How could this be possible?” Chamberlain moved his head in agitated fashion and uttered some garbled sounds of which Rosenberg could only distinguish, “
Ja, Ja
.” Shortly afterward he slumped into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

O
n their drive home, the two men spoke little of Chamberlain, for Alfred had another agenda: to persuade Hitler that the time had come for the party to act. Alfred reminded Hitler of the basic facts. “Chaos envelops Germany,” Alfred said. “Inflation is veering out of control. Four months ago, a dollar was worth 75,000 deutschmarks, while yesterday a dollar was worth 150 million marks. Yesterday my corner grocer was charging 90 million deutschmarks for a pound of potatoes. And I know for a fact that, shortly, the treasury printing presses will be rolling out 1-trillion-mark notes.”

Hitler nodded wearily. He had heard all this from Alfred several times.

“And look at all the coups cropping up all over,” Alfred continued. “The Communist putsch in Saxony, the Reichswehr reserve putsch in East Prussia, the Kapp coup in Berlin, the Rhenish separatists’ coup. But it’s Munich and all of Bavaria that’s the real powder keg ready to explode. Munich is crammed with a host of right-wing parties opposing the government in Berlin, but, of these, we are by far the strongest, the most powerful, and the best organized. It is our time! I’ve stirred up the populace with article after article in our newspaper, readying them for a major action by the party.”

Hitler still appeared uncertain. Alfred pressed him, “Your time has come. You must act now, or you will lose your moment.”

When the car arrived at the office building of the
Völkischer Beobachter
, Hitler merely said, “Much to think about, Rosenberg.”

A few days later Hitler visited Alfred at his office and with a big smile waved a letter he had just received from Houston Stewart Chamberlain and read parts of it aloud:

“He must have recovered his speech and dictated it—a magnificent letter,” said Alfred as he strained to conceal his envy. Then he quickly added, “And well deserved, Herr Hitler.”

“Now, let me give you some real news,” Hitler said. “Erich Ludendorff has joined forces with us!”

“Well done! Well done!” replied Alfred. Ludendorff was, to put it mildly, eccentric, but he was still universally respected as the world war field marshal.

“He agrees with my idea of a putsch,” Hitler continued. “He agrees that we should combine forces with other right-wing groups, even the monarchist groups and the Bavarian separatists, and storm into the evening meeting on November 8, kidnap several Bavarian government officials, and force them at gunpoint to accept me as their leader. The following day we will all march through the center of the city to the war ministry and, with the help of the hostages and the reputation of Field Marshal Ludendorff, win over the German army. And then we will emulate Mussolini’s march to Rome by marching on to Red Berlin and bring down the German democratic government.”

“Excellent! We’re on our way.” Alfred was so joyful that he barely minded Hitler overlooking that Alfred had suggested this very plan to him. He was used to having Hitler appropriate his ideas without crediting him.

But everything went wrong. The putsch was a complete fiasco. On the evening of November 8, Hitler and Alfred went together to the meeting of the coalition of right-wing parties. These parties had never before conferred together, and the meeting grew so unruly that at one point Hitler had to jump on a table and fire his pistol at the ceiling to establish order. The Nazis then kidnapped the delegates of the Bavarian government to hold as hostages. However, thinking they had come over to the Nazi view, the kidnappers failed to guard them properly, and the hostages escaped into the night. Nonetheless, Hitler acceded to Ludendorff’s insistence that they proceed with their mass march in the morning, with the hope of creating an uprising among the citizens. Ludendorff was certain that neither the army nor the police would dare to fire upon him. Rosenberg rushed back to the office and prepared the VB’s headlines calling for general revolt. Early in the morning of November 9, 1923, a column of two thousand men, many of them armed, including Hitler and Rosenberg, began their march to the center of Munich. In the front row were Hitler; Field Marshal Ludendorff,
resplendent in his full military uniform with his world war pickle helmet; Hermann Göring, the popular world war ace wearing all his many war decorations; and Scheubner-Richter, who walked arm in arm with his close friend Hitler. Rosenberg was in the second row directly behind Hitler. Rudolf Hess marched behind Rosenberg, as did Putzi Hanfstaengl (the donor who had enabled the VB to become a daily paper). A few rows back, Heinrich Himmler marched, carrying the Nazi Party flag.

As they reached an open square, a barricade of troops awaited them. Hitler yelled to the troops to surrender. Instead they opened fire, and a three-minute firefight ensued during which the marchers immediately disbanded. Sixteen Nazis and three troops were killed. Field Marshal Ludendorff marched straight ahead unflinchingly to the barricade, pushed the rifles aside, and was greeted politely by an officer who apologized for the necessity of taking him into protective custody. Göring was wounded twice in the groin but crawled to safety and was taken to a kindly Jewish physician who gave him excellent treatment, after which he was quickly driven out of the country. Scheubner-Richter, who had locked arms with Hitler, was instantly killed and dragged Hitler to the ground, dislocating his shoulder. A bodyguard, Ulrich Graf, fell on Hitler and took several bullets, saving Hitler’s life.

Though the man standing next to Alfred was killed, Alfred was unharmed and crawled to the sidewalk away from the carnage and scampered into the crowd. He did not dare go home or to the office—the government immediately closed the VB indefinitely and posted guards before the newspaper offices. Ultimately Alfred persuaded an elderly woman to allow him to hide in her house during the next few days, while at night he wandered through Munich trying to learn the fate of his comrades. Hitler, in great pain, had crawled a few feet, was pulled into a waiting car, and, accompanied by a party physician, was driven to the home of Putzi Hanfstaengl, where his shoulder was treated and he was hidden in the attic. Just before he was arrested, he scribbled a note addressed to Alfred and asked Frau Hanfstaengl to deliver it. She found Alfred the following day and handed him the note, which he immediately ripped open and to his great surprise read: