Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

It all seemed to be leading somewhere, when Eckart suddenly stopped and began to examine his glass; like the bottle at its side, it was now empty. With practiced ease, he looked to his audience and said, “But the glass is empty. And when the glass is empty, the wise man knows to quiet his mind.”

Hoffner was not familiar with this particular aphorism, nor was he prepared for the response. Without a word, the group calmly began to get up. Whatever Hoffner thought had gone unsaid was evidently not as pressing to the men now gathering up their coats. One of the younger ones-a student, judging by his clothes-rushed over with a few questions, but Eckart made quick work of him. It was clear, though, that Eckart was still very much aware of Hoffner. When the boy had moved off and the table was again empty, Eckart turned to him. It was only then that Eckart seemed to notice Lina. He leaned to one side so as to get a better view and said, “And another friend, I see.” Lina produced a pleasant smile.

Hoffner said, “I hope we haven’t been the cause of an early evening?”

Now Eckart smiled. “There areno early evenings, mein Herr.” He waved them over. “Come, sit with me.” Hoffner and Lina joined him. “I’m drinking schnapps,” he added. Instantly, Hoffner turned around to call over a waiter. Hoffner ordered a bottle.

Eckart said, “You sit patiently. You listen and wait. So what is it that interests you, Herr. .”

Hoffner resurrected the name from earlier this evening. “You speak with great passion, mein Herr.”

“And passion is enough for you?”

“When there’s something behind it, yes.”

Eckart liked the answer. “And what do you imagine lies behind it?”

Hoffner had several choices. He could follow the Freikorpstrail, although he doubted more than a handful of recruits were finding inspiration in the retelling of childhood fairy tales; the pamphlets, of course, were the most telling feature-where there were pamphlets, there was organization; and where there was organization, there was money-but it was too large a risk to venture into something he knew nothing about, which left him with Eckart’s enigmatic stopping point. Hoffner said, “I thought I was about to find out.”

The response seemed to surprise Eckart. The pleasant grin became a look of focused appraisal. “Did you?” he said. Hoffner thought the conversation might be heading for a quick close, when the bottle arrived and the waiter began to spill out three glasses. Without hesitation, Eckart downed his and held it out for a refill. The waiter obliged and then set the bottle on the table. Eckart slowly poured out his third as Hoffner pulled out a few coins to pay. This time Eckart let his glass sit. He waited for the man to step off before saying, “The German people lie behind everything, mein Herr.Sadly a German people now struggling to find themselves.”

Hoffner heard the first tinge of political disenchantment; he took a sip of his schnapps and nodded. “I lost a son in the war,” he said, opting for what had been working so well tonight. “The Frulein a husband. I don’t imagine this is the Germany he thought he was giving his life for. It’s not the Germany I knew.”

Eckart understood. “It’s still there, mein Herr.It simply needs some guidance.” Hoffner now expected the full weight of the Freikorpscredo to come spilling forth; what came out was therefore far more startling.

According to Eckart, the stories of nobility and strength were not meant to be followed in the abstract: they were meant to be fully realized in the “rituals of rebirth and order.” With a few more well-chosen-though equally impenetrable-phrases, Eckart began to show himself for what he was: no ideologue, he was a self-proclaimed mystic. His gift was an understanding of the “core animus” of the German people, a spirit that separated them from all others and thus granted them a greater sense of nobility. He called it the “Thulian Ideal”-a gift from the lost island civilization of Thule-all of it in the pamphlets if one knew how to read between the lines. Hoffner nodded with each subsequent glass that Eckart tossed back. There were other Thulians, he was told, with access to other discrete bits of knowledge, all of whom recognized that the war and the revolution had ripped the soul from the German people, and who now saw it as their duty to rekindle that spirit and order.

Hoffner might have dismissed it all as the harmless, if slightly loonier, cousin of those societies he had so eagerly avoided at university-the image of a naked Eckart running through the Black Forest was disturbing to be sure-were it not for the fact that he had notsimply happened upon Eckart and his devotees. The line that had led him from Rosa to Wouters to Oster, and now to this, was too firmly drawn: six women brutally-and perhaps ritualistically-murdered; the dying Urlicher willing to take his own life at Sint-Walburga; Hoffner himself still having trouble breathing from his beating; and the Cavalry Guard thugs Pabst and Vogel hardly the messengers of some imagined Teutonic mythos. There was a reality to this that had led him to a Munich wine cellar. What was more frightening was that it clearly led beyond it.

Hoffner now needed a better sense of that reality. “And to achieve that order, mein Herr?”

Eckart nodded as if he had been anticipating the question. “Remove the cancer from the body,” he said. “Purge it of the disease.” The politician had returned.

Hoffner stated the obvious. “The socialists,” he said.

Eckart looked momentarily confused. “The Jews, mein Herr.The elimination of the Jews, of course.”

Hoffner stifled his reaction. It had been said with such certainty. With no other choice, Hoffner nodded. “Of course.”

They begged off at just after midnight. By then, Eckart had been slurring his words and had long since drifted from talk of nobility and strength to his favorite topics of racial superiority and purity-“Every great conflict has been a war between the races, mein Herr;that’s the truth that the barking swine Jew doesn’t want you to know”-a fitting capper to the evening. He had even explained to Lina why her husband’s death had been at the behest of the Jews: “A war for the profiteers to destroy a generation of German youth; your Helmut’s blood is on their hands, Frulein.”

Lina and Hoffner were both stone-cold sober when they stepped out into the night. They walked in silence as Hoffner wondered how much of this had been new to her. He, of course, had heard his fair share of Jew-bating over the years, especially in the south, but this was something different even for him, something more fully conceived, and without so much as a trace of restraint. A good anti-Semite usually had the sense to show a little subtlety in his jabs. Eckart’s demonization was completely unabashed.

Lina was the first to speak: “So, any more charming drinking partners tonight, or are we through playing?”

Hoffner was glad for her cynicism. She was still so young, and men like Eckart relied on that vulnerability. At least here, Lina was showing none. “Not what I was expecting,” he said, matching her tone. “Two cafes tomorrow, then, to make up for it.”

The streets were deserted as they walked, Munich after midnight no better than a provincial town, taller buildings, wider streets, but everyone safely tucked away in their fine Bavarian beds. No wonder Eckart felt so at home here. At the hotel, Hoffner had to ring twice before the concierge came to open the door. The man looked slightly put out. His guests were usually in their rooms by eleven.

Upstairs, she was undressed and in bed before Hoffner had managed his way out of his pants. Not that she was in any great hurry for him; a bed this size was simply new to her: Lina wanted to take as much time in it as she could. She made an effort to reach over and help, but Hoffner seemed to work through his pain better alone.

When they were finally lying naked side by side, she propped herself up on an elbow and said, “You know, you’re really quite good at what you do.”

He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and smiled at her apparent surprise. “Thank you.” He had a sudden taste for a cigarette, but the pack was in his jacket across the room: too much of an effort to get up for it now.

“You know what I mean,” she said. She took hold of his hand and began to thumb across his open palm. “It was good fun to watch.” He stared down at her as she used her nail to pick at a bit of dead skin that was on one of his fingers. “I don’t imagine Hans is nearly that clever.”

Hoffner had not been expecting Fichte to make an appearance tonight, but here he was, casually tossed onto the bed with them. She seemed easy enough with it; Hoffner was happy to follow suit. “He might surprise you,” he said. He could only guess at what the boys on the fourth floor had in mind for young Fichte.

She was busy with his finger as she shook her head. “Not Hans.” She brushed away a few flakes of skin and looked up at him. “You think it’s strange that I’m talking about him.” It was a statement, not a question.

Hoffner did his best with a shrug. “Something we have in common.”

Lina drove a nail into the thick part of his hand and said with a rough smile, “Ass. Yes, lying naked in a bed, and that’s what we have in common.”

Hoffner tried to pull his hand away, but she was too quick. She brought it up to her mouth and kissed the bruised skin and he felt her tongue dabbing at his palm. “You were the one to bring him into the room with us,” he said.

“He’ll be all right in a few days. Boys like Hans always are.” For some reason she had needed to tell him this. “So. . what’s this pact I’ve heard so much about?”

The question caught Hoffner completely off guard. “The what?” he said.

“The pact,” she repeated. “Hans told me. He said he heard about it when he was in Belgium.” She stopped, her expression momentarily less animated. She had reminded herself of Fichte’s recent cruelties. Evidently her own recovery would take a bit longer than the one she had imagined for him.

“Oh, the pact,” Hoffner cut in quickly. Not that he was all that keen to bring it up, but better that than to allow Fichte’s stupidity any greater sway over her. With a careless shrug he said, “Not really that interesting.”

He watched as she gazed up at him; without warning, she was on her knees, leaning over his face, her thumbnail hovering menacingly above his cheek. “Really?” she said with an impish grin. “Not that interesting?”

Hoffner lay there calmly. “Not really.”

Lina’s eyes flashed and, in one fluid movement, she was on him, pressing her hands down onto his shoulders and tightening her thighs around his chest.

All of this would have been quite wonderful, and the prelude to some really exquisite bed time, had Hoffner’s ribs not forced him to shout out in intense pain. Lina at once realized what she had done and frantically pulled herself off him. Her knee grazed his abdomen and Hoffner let go with a second, stifled groan.

She was lying perfectly still at his side when he finally managed to say, “We’ll try it this way. You promise not to move and I’ll tell you about the pact. Fair enough?”

Lina began to nod; she stopped herself and, barely opening her mouth, said, “Fine.”

Hoffner kept his eyes on the ceiling as the throbbing in his chest receded to a dull ache.

It had been a long time since he had sought out these memories, three blind-drunk Germans sprawled out under a half-moon on the most perfect Tyrolean hillside he had ever known. He let himself recall the grass under his neck, the taste of the olive trees on his tongue, the sound of Knig’s laughter as it had echoed into the vast nothingness of the valley below. Mueller had been whole then, dancing in the darkness on two good legs, a bottle in each flawless hand, spilling more booze than he could drink. It was life as Hoffner had never known it-before or since-full and vibrant and unbearably real.

“We were in the Tyrol,” he said as he continued to gaze up. “A palazzo in the hills. Knig, Mueller, me. I forget the name. August of ’15. I don’t remember how we worked it. They flew in, picked me up. Something like that. Anyway, they were on leave, and we found ourselves on this hillside, two, three in the morning. . ” He turned to her. “You’re sure you’re interested in this?”

“Yes,” she pressed. “I’m sure.”

“Fine,” he conceded. He adjusted his pillow. “So there we are, two, three in the morning, soused to the gills, and Victor-Knig-starts in on how much he loves life, how much he understands it now that he’s flying over battlefields and seeing bodies and waste and on and on. Until he says that he won’t be coming back. That he knowshe won’t be coming back, because he’s been given this extraordinary gift to appreciate it all. And Mueller and I just sit there, and listen, and wait until he’s finished, and tell him he’s an idiot.” Hoffner lost himself for a moment. “Of course, he wasn’t,” he said quietly. Refocusing, he turned to her. “So I say I’m not going to ruin the few days we have together talking about that sort of nonsense. And he says, ‘If you’re so sure it’s nonsense, then make it worth my while.’” Even now Hoffner could hear the arrogance in Knig’s voice. “So I did. If he came home, he came home, nothing else. If he didn’t, then I promised to be faithful to my wife. That was it. The agreement. The pact.” Hoffner remembered the letter he had received, the typewritten t’s that had jumped too high on the line, the word “death” with a little hitch just before the end. He was gazing up at the ceiling again and said, “He was shot down two months later. Mueller and I got very drunk.”

Lina lay quiet. She waited until he turned to her before saying, “I thought it was something else. I wouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

He tried a smile. “No reason to be.”

“Do you regret not keeping it?”

“Not keeping what?”

“Your promise.”

“Ah.” Hoffner nodded slowly to himself. “My promise.” He lay with the word a moment longer. “But I did,” he said. It was now Lina’s turn to look confused. “At least up until a few weeks ago.”

Lina brought herself up on an elbow and gazed down at him. He had never seen this look before. There was a caring and a concern that was almost too much to take in. At once, he regretted having told her. She said, “You never told me that.”

He kept it light. “Not exactly something you bring up, is it?”

“That’s over three years.”

“Yes.”

“And that was it? You’d spent long enough keeping your word?”

He knew what she wanted him to say-that it had been because of her that he had betrayed Knig-but that would have been no more true than the other. He said vaguely, “I don’t think it works that way.”

“Works what way?”

“The way that makes it more than it is.” He meant it not to be unkind but to protect, even though he knew it was too late. He could see now how this would all fall apart; it would only be a matter of time. They had been safe as long as questions of intent had remained hidden; his story made that impossible: too much meaning, and they would crumble under the weight; too little, and she would feel a different kind of betrayal. For her, the breaking of the pact had hinged on a choice-imagined or not-which even now Hoffner had to admit might not have been so disengaged, or so consciously made, after all.

For several moments she hovered above him, searching for something more. When it was clear that there was nothing more, she lay back. “You were close with him,” she said. “With Knig.”

“Yes.”

“And he knew your wife.” Again, she was stating, not asking.

Hoffner felt the pull of his cigarettes from across the room. “I suppose. Does it matter?”

“He wanted to help her.”

Whether days or weeks from now, he thought, he would always look to this moment as their last. “Do you know where I put my cigarettes?” he said.

“Why did he want to help her?”

Lina was digging with no care for the consequences, and that left him no room to hide. “He didn’t,” he said. He struggled to get himself upright, then brought his legs over the side and sat with his back to her. “He thought he was helping me, which showed how little he understood.” Hoffner got up and moved across to the pile of clothes. “Did I put them in my jacket?”

He was fumbling through his pants when she said, “And what didn’t he understand?”

The sting, of course, was in her feigned indifference, but it was hardly fair feeling the least irritation when it had been his own stupidity that had put them here. The past was kept in strongboxes for a reason; he had removed the lid and had been forced to peer in for himself. How could he blame her for making him rummage through to the bottom?

He located the pack and lit one up. “Victor saw things differently at the end,” he said. “That’s all. I never floated over battlefields and so never gained the same appreciation.”

Lina spoke with an honesty that went beyond her years: “That seems unkind.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” He suddenly recalled the name. “Terranova. Palazzo Terranova. Victor found it all very meaningful.” She looked confused. “New ground,” he explained. “‘Terranova’ means ‘new ground.’”

“You resent him for it.”

She had never challenged him like this: endings, he imagined-even at their inception-granted a kind of invincibility. “For what?” he said.

“For seeing things in a way you couldn’t.”

Hoffner shook his head. “He was creating his own version of nobility, the great sacrifice, and he wanted me to do the same thing.”

“So being faithful to your wife was a sacrifice?”

It sounded so hollow, coming from her. At least Victor had done what he had in the name of something vital, a life rediscovered, a gift repaid. But it was a vicious circle: that kind of redemption was only for those who could embrace vitality. Hoffner had survived on an imitation kind, his own fueled by infidelity, which only made his choice to make good on the promise an even greater hypocrisy. He had let himself be fooled-just once-into seeing it for more than it was: some meaningless argument with Martha when he had revealed his self-denial and had staked his claim to nobility, but she had been no more unforgiving than Lina. “What sacrifice?” Martha had said with justified bitterness: his sudden rage, her body sent crashing to the floor. Hoffner now realized that it was the shame of that moment that he had grown tired of; and it was that fatigue, and nothing more, that had led him to Lina.

He took a pull on his cigarette and said, “It’s difficult to sacrifice something you never had.”

She had watched the sadness in his face, but she showed him no pity. “And you think getting into bed with me makes any difference?”

He looked over at her and he knew: I won’t even be a memory to her one day. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

There was something comforting in the truth, even for her. He lay back down and she placed her arm across his chest. Later they made love and they fell asleep and Hoffner dreamed of Rosa.

SHATTERED GLASS

A group of children was playing in the short grass as mothers and nannies looked on from the safety of benches. Hoffner and Lina had settled themselves farther off, under a grove of trees where an enterprising vendor with a coffee cart had set up a few tables and chairs alongside the gravel path. Not yet ten o’clock, and they had already made a full morning of it at the shops and markets, which had been up and running since seven. The Gardens were a welcome relief.

“How did you know about this spot?” Lina asked as she poured another healthy dose of cream into her cup. Hoffner had never seen a whiter cup of coffee. From her expression, it was still too bitter.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he said. He had made the telephone call this morning and had been told where to find it. “The concierge,” Hoffner lied. He checked his watch and took a last sip of coffee before getting up. “I need to find the toilet,” he said. “Have a sweet or something while I’m gone.” He placed a few coins on the table and headed out through the trees.

Three minutes later he came across his old friend Peter Barens, sitting on a secluded bench. Hoffner drew up and said, “You give excellent directions, Peter.” He sat.

“It’s good to see you, too, Nikolai.”

They had known each other since university, two young law students with an eye to criminology. Barens had made chief inspector almost eight years ago; there was talk of a directorship in his future. Barens said, “I was sorry to hear about Knig.” Hoffner stared out at the park and nodded. “And now a chief inspector,” Barens continued. “I imagine even you can’t cock up that promotion.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Barens pulled a thin file from his case. “So why the interest in this?” He handed it to Hoffner.

Hoffner opened the file and found ten to twelve pages on the Thule Society, very complete, very organized: Barens really was an excellent detective. “Best not to say,” said Hoffner.

“Naturally.” He let Hoffner flip through to the next page before saying, “Odd how I get a telephone call asking me if I have anything on a man named Eckart, or anything having to do with-what did you call it? – the ‘Thulian Ideal,’ when we’ve been keeping an eye on these people for the past few months.” Hoffner nodded distractedly as he continued to scan the pages. “There’s a lot of money there, Nikolai. Your friend Eckart has more than he knows what to do with, as do most of the names on that list.”

Hoffner continued to read. “And what are they using it for?”

“Besides pamphlets and bad beer. . They’ve started two organizations. The Workers Political Circle and the German Workers Party. They also recently bought a rag called The Observer.Interesting blend of German folklore and race-baiting. They’re going after the workers and the nationalists. Not usually Kripo business to monitor the political fringes, but these fellows throw around too much weight not to.”

“And they still consider themselves a secret society?”

“In theory. I’m sure that’s what they’d like to think. Tough to maintain the image, though, when you go around recruiting as aggressively as they do.”

Hoffner came to what he had been looking for: the name Joachim Manstein appeared halfway down the third page. There was a small paragraph on him, but Hoffner knew he would need more time with it. He closed the file and said, “What about ties to the Freikorps?”

“You really have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

“I always did.”

For the first time, Barens smiled. “They both hate the communists, but the Thulians save their real venom for the Jews. We’ve had a few minor incidents, street vandalism, a few punch-ups. Eisner’s presence hasn’t made it any easier, but it’s all pretty local stuff, which makes me wonder why a Berlin Oberkommissar,recent hero of the Republic, has come all the way down to Munich to ask about a group of crackpots he should never have heard of.”

Hoffner placed the file inside his coat and said, “You’re a good friend, Peter.”

Barens became more serious. “I’m a good bull, Nikolai. If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me. Are they moving beyond pamphlets and bad beer?”

Hoffner waited and then stood. “I should go,” he said. “Give my best to Clara and the girls.”

Barens remained seated. There was clearly more he wanted to hear. Nonetheless he said, “I’ll pass that along.” Hoffner turned to go, when Barens added, “And mine to the little chippy by the coffee cart.” Barens waited for Hoffner to turn around before saying, “Some things never change, do they, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been impressive, and always in the right way. It was why Hoffner had known to trust him. “I suppose they don’t,” he said.

Barens stood. “These men aren’t far from doing more than simply tossing a store or beating up a few students. I lost a man on this, Nikolai. Why do you think I could get my hands on the material so quickly?”

It was now clear why Barens had agreed to meet, and why he had brought the file: he was as eager for information as Hoffner was. “Lost a man? How?”

Barens had no intention of explaining. “If you do know something, and you’re not telling me, I’ll be very disappointed.” He paused. “And you’ll have been very foolish. What do you have, Nikolai?”

Barens had always been known as “the old man,” even as a nineteen-year-old at university. It had made him both insufferable and endearing. Hoffner said, “Her name is Lina. And she’s the last.”

Hoffner could see the frustration in his friend’s eyes: favors usually implied a little more give and take. Barens, however, was too good at what he did to let it linger. “I doubt that,” he said.

Hoffner grinned. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there?” He bobbed his head in thanks and said, “Take care of yourself, Peter.”

Barens took hold of Hoffner’s arm and, like an older brother, said, “Know what you’re getting yourself into, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded. He waited for Barens to release his arm and then headed off.

Lina had settled on a large cup of chocolate for lunch; it was all she had wanted. Hoffner had taken advantage of the beef again, this time with a plate of onions and a few potatoes. More daring, he and Lina were throwing provincial caution to the wind and talking to each other-light fare, nothing from last night-when they heard the first sirens. The klaxons grew louder and curiosity gave way to concern as the sound of shouting began to come from the street. Everyone in the place stopped eating as the waiter stepped over to the door and peered out through the glass. His expression turned to confusion. “There are soldiers in the street,” he said to the matre d’.

The man stepped over to verify; his reaction was no more promising: the taste of revolution was still fresh in everyone’s throat. At the sound of more sirens, Hoffner got up. He told Lina to wait, then made his way to the door. Against all protestations from the matre d’, Hoffner stepped out into the street.

It was almost completely empty. The soldiers were positioned in front of a large domed building at the far end of the street, rifles across their chests, waiting. The few pedestrians who remained on the street were doing all they could to find shelter inside. Hoffner managed to flag one down. “Madame,” he said as he tried to keep up with her. “Excuse me, but which is that building up there?”

The woman continued to move quickly as she looked at him: she spoke as if to a halfwit. “That building, mein Herr? That’s the Landtag.” She shook her head in disbelief and hurried off. Hoffner stopped: they’re cordoning off Parliament, he thought. Why? He quickly made his way back to the restaurant and over to the matre d’. The man was relieved to see him back.

Hoffner said, “I need to use your telephone, mein Herr.” Hoffner pulled out his badge: it might have said Berlin, but the word “Kriminalpolizei”was enough to stir the man to action. Hoffner nodded calmly over to Lina as he waited for the operator to connect the call.

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “Chief Inspector Barens, please.” Hoffner gave his credentials. “I’m aware of that, Frulein. This isof vital importance. Just connect me with the Chief Inspector.” Hoffner waited through the static until Barens finally came on the line. Hoffner said, “I’m standing a hundred meters from the Landtag building, Peter. What just happened?”

Hoffner could hear the mayhem in the background. “Hold on,” said Barens. There was a round of shouting before Barens came back to the line. “Nikolai, what are you doing near the Landtag?”

It was a meaningless question. Hoffner asked again, “Why are soldiers surrounding the building, Peter?”

There was a pause on the line before Barens said, “Someone’s shot Eisner. Half an hour ago. Eisner’s dead.”

Hoffner tried to stem his reaction. “Who?” he said.

“We don’t know yet. A student. That’s all we have.”

Hoffner asked the more dangerous question: “More than bad beer and pamphlets?”

There was another pause before Barens answered, “I don’t know, but I need you to tell me that you knew nothing about this, not even the possibility of this.”

“Of course,” said Hoffner with more conviction than perhaps was warranted. “What about Ebert?”

“So far, nothing. We’re waiting for a wire to confirm. It might already be here. I don’t know. Look, Nikolai, get yourself back to Berlin. We’ll probably be shutting down the main station in the next hour or so, and if you stay here, you won’t be of any use. Trust me. Safe trip.”

The line went dead and Hoffner handed the receiver back to the matre d’. Twenty minutes later, Hoffner and Lina were getting their bags from the hotel; forty minutes after that, they were on the last train heading north: Hoffner’s badge had seen to that, as well. It would mean that they would have to get out and wait somewhere along the way for the train out of Frankfurt, but at least they would be back in Berlin by tonight. Hoffner now had seven hours to acquaint himself with the men of the Thule Society and Joachim Manstein.

Notes on meetings, December 4, 1918, through January 18, 1919, Thule Society, as recorded byKriminal-Bezirkssekretr Stefan Meier: December 4:Our first meeting outside the beer hall. We meet at the house of Anton Drexler, a locksmith in the employ of the railroad shops. Drexler is a small, sickly man who talks for over an hour about the “mongrelization” of the German people and the corruption of the socialist regime. He refers to members of the government as “the Jew Eisner and the Jew Scheidemann.” There are nine of us. I believe we are only one of several cells of “Initiates” meeting throughout the city tonight. Unlike Eckart, Drexler is a poor speaker. We are instructed to bring documented proof of our Aryan ancestry to the next meeting. December 9:Again we meet at the house of Drexler. Only four of us are permitted to remain once our papers are examined. Two other members of the Society are present but we are not told their names. One of them is a doctor. He takes a sample of blood from each of us. We are then given copies of two books written by Guido von List ( The Invincibleand The Secret of Runes), magazines published by Jorg Lanz von Liebenfels ( Pranaand Ostara), a directory of pan-German and anti-Semitic groups by Philipp Stauff ( The German Defense Book), and the manifesto of the Armanist Religious Revival from the organization known as The Walvater Teutonic Order of the Holy Grail, written by Hermann Pohl. An excerpt from Liebenfel’s OstaraI, #69, makes clear the general thinking behind all of these writings: “The holy grail is an electrical symbol pertaining to the panpsychic powers of the pure-blooded Aryan race. The quest of the Templars for the grail was a metaphor for the strict eugenic practices of the Templar Knights designed to breed god-men.” December 13, 18, 24, 29:We meet at the house of the journalist Karl Harrer (founder of the Workers Political Circle and chairman of the German Workers Party [see below]). He is no better a speaker than Drexler and, over the four nights, takes us through the history of the Society (see below), the rituals of Rebirth and Order (see below), the Covenant of the pan-Germanic people (see below), and the hierarchy of the races (see below). We are each required to recite long passages from The Invincibleand to exhibit physical stamina and strength by withstanding long periods of heavy objects being placed on our chests. January 5:We are taken to a house on the outskirts of the city, where we are given our first initiation rites. This includes full disrobement, the cutting of two Runic symbols into the underside of the left upper arm, and the laying on of hands by a man we are instructed to call Tarnhari. We are told that he is the reincarnation of the god-chieftain of the Wlsungen tribe of prehistoric Germany. We are now required to recite from memory passages from The Invincibleand to pledge a vow to our racial purity. January 9, 14, 15:The rituals continue at the house of Rudolf Freiherr von Seboottendorf, where we are joined by seven other Initiates from around the city. Seboottendorf is a mystic trained in the art of Sufi meditation. Over the three nights, he leads us in sance-like rituals meant to contact the Ancients from the lost island civilization of Thule. Seboottendorf is the only one of us to make contact. January 18:We are brought to the lodge on Seitz Strasse and introduced to the members of the Thule Society. There are, by rough estimation, seventy men present. I am able to learn twenty or so of the names (see below).