The Spinoza Problem (20 page)

Alfred eagerly moved his chair next to Eckart.

“Here’s your first lesson in journalism,” Eckart continued. “The writer’s job is to communicate. Alas, many of your sentences are unaware of that simple dictum and instead attempt to obfuscate or to convey that the author knows far more than he chooses to say. To the guillotine with every one of those sentences. Look here and here and here.” Dietrich Eckart’s red pencil started its work in a blur, and Alfred Rosenberg’s apprenticeship began.

Alfred’s revised piece was published as part of a series, “Jewry Within Us and Without,” and he soon wrote several other eyewitness accounts of Bolshevist mayhem, each one showing gradual stylistic improvement. Within weeks, he was on the regular payroll as Eckart’s assistant, and within months Eckart was so satisfied that he asked Alfred to write the introduction to his book,
Russia’s Gravedigger
, which described in lurid detail how Jews had undermined the Russian tsarist regime.

These were Alfred’s halcyon days, and to the end of his life he would glow with pleasure when he recalled working side by side with Eckart and accompanying him by taxi when they distributed Eckart’s fiery pamphlet,
To All Workingmen
, all over Munich. Alfred, finally, had a home, a father, a purpose.

With Eckart’s encouragement, he completed his historical research on the Jews and within a year published his first book,
The Trace of the Jew Through Changing Times.
It contained the seeds of what would become the major motifs of Nazi anti-Semitism: the Jew as the source of destructive materialism, anarchy, and Communism, the dangers of Jewish Freemasonry, the malignant dreams of Jewish philosophers from Ezra and Ezekiel to Marx and Trotsky, and, most of all, the threat to higher civilization posed by contamination with Jewish blood.

Under Eckart’s tutelage, Alfred grew more aware that the German working man, oppressed by Jewish financial pressures, was yoked and trussed even further by Christian ideology. Eckart grew to rely on Alfred for the historical context not only for anti-Semitism but, by tracing the development of Jesuitism from the Judaism of the Talmud, for powerful anti-Christian sentiments as well.

Eckart took his young protégé to radical political rallies, introduced him to influential political figures, and soon sponsored Alfred for membership in the Thule Society and accompanied him to his first meeting of this august secret society.

At the Thule meeting, Eckart, after introducing Alfred to several members, left him on his own as he conferred privately with several colleagues. Alfred looked about him. This was a new world—not a beer hall but rather a meeting room in the magnificent Munich Four Seasons Hotel. Never before had he been in such a room. He tested the thick pile of the red carpet under his scuffed shoes and looked upward to an ornate ceiling depicting fleecy clouds and fleshy cherubs. There was no beer in sight, so he walked to the central table and helped himself to a glass of sweet German wine. Looking about at the other members, perhaps one hundred fifty, all obviously affluent, well-dressed, and overfed men, Alfred grew self-conscious about his clothes, each item purchased at a secondhand shop.

Aware that he was obviously the poorest and shabbiest man in the room, he tried his best to blend in with the Thule fellows and even tried to claim some distinction, referring to himself, whenever possible, as a philosopher-writer. When standing alone he busied himself practicing a new facial expression that combined a tiny curl of his lips with a minuscule nod and closing of his eyelids, by which he hoped to convey, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean—I am not only in the know, but I know even more than
you think.” Later in the evening, he checked out the expression in the mirror in the men’s room and was pleased. It soon would become his trademark smirk.

“Hello! You’re Dietrich Eckart’s guest?” asked an intense-looking man with a long face, mustache, and black-rimmed glasses. “I’m Anton Drexler, part of the welcoming committee.”

“Yes, Rosenberg, Alfred Rosenberg. I’m a writer and philosopher for
Auf gut Deutsch
, and yes, I’m Dietrich Eckart’s guest.”

“He has told me good things about you. It’s your first visit, and you must have questions. What can I tell you about our organization?”

“Many things. First, I’m interested in the name, ‘Thule.’”

“To answer that I should start by telling you that our original name was ‘Study Group for German Antiquity.’ Thule, many believe, was a land mass, now vanished, thought to be in the vicinity of Iceland or Greenland and to be the original home of the Aryan race.”

“Thule . . . I know my Aryan history well from Houston Stewart Chamberlain, and I remember nothing about Thule.”

“Ah, Chamberlain is a historian and one of our finest, but this is pre-Chamberlain and prehistory. The realm of myth. Our organization wishes to pay reverence to our noble ancestors whom we know only through oral history.”

“So, then, all these impressive men are meeting here tonight because of their interest in myth, in ancient history? I’m not questioning it—in fact I think it admirable to see such calmness and scholarly devotion in a time so volatile that Germany may blast apart at any minute.”

“The meeting has not yet begun, Herr Rosenberg. You’ll see soon enough why the Thule Society holds your writings in
Auf gut Deutsche
in high regard. Yes, yes, we are keenly interested in ancient history. But even more interested in our postwar history, a history in the making that our children and grandchildren will one day read about.”

Alfred was exhilarated by the public addresses. Speaker after speaker warned about the grave danger facing Germany from Bolshevists and Jews. Each speaker emphasized the pressing need for action. Toward the end of the evening, Eckart, tipsy from an uninterrupted stream of German wine, put his arm on Alfred’s shoulder and exclaimed, “An exciting time, eh, Rosenberg! And it’s going to get more exciting. Writing the news, changing attitudes,
steering public opinion—all noble endeavors. Who can deny it? Yet making the news, yes,
making
the news—therein lies the true glory! And you’ll be with us, Alfred. You’ll see, you’ll see. Trust me, I know what’s coming.”

Something momentous was in the air. Alfred sensed it keenly, and, too agitated to sleep, he continued pacing the streets of Munich for an hour after parting from Eckart. Recalling his new friend Friedrich Pfister’s advice for the relief of tension, he inhaled deeply and quickly through his nostrils, held his breath for a few seconds, and then exhaled slowly from his mouth. After only a few cycles he felt better and also surprised at the effectiveness of such a simple maneuver. No doubt about it—Friedrich was a bit of a wizard. He had not liked the turn their conversation had taken about a possible Jewish strain in his grandmother’s family but nonetheless felt positive toward Friedrich. He wanted their paths to cross again. He would make it happen.

Upon returning home he found a note on the floor dropped in through the mail slot; it read, “The Munich Public Library will hold
Theological-Political Treatise
by Spinoza for you for one week at the checkout desk.” Alfred read it again several times. How oddly comforting was this little frail library notice that had found its way through the roiling, dangerous streets of Munich to his tiny apartment.

B
ento wandered through the streets of Vlooyenburg, the section of Amsterdam where most of the Sephardic Jews lived, viewing everything with poignancy. He stared at each image for a long time, as if to imbue it with permanence, so it might be called back again in the future, even though the voice of reason murmured that all will evaporate and life must be lived in the present.

Upon Bento’s return to the shop, Gabriel, eyes full of alarm, dropped his broom and rushed over to him. “Bento, where have you been? All this time you’ve been talking to the rabbi?”

“We had a long, unfriendly talk, and since then I’ve been walking all over the city trying to settle myself. I’ll tell you everything that happened, but I want to tell both you and Rebekah together.”

“She won’t come, Bento. And now it’s more than just her anger at you—now it’s her husband’s anger. Ever since Samuel finished his rabbinical studies last year, he has taken a stronger and stronger stance. Now he forbids Rebekah to see you at all.”

“She’ll come if you tell her how serious it is.” Bento clasped Gabriel’s shoulders with both hands and looked into his eyes. “I know she will. Invoke the memory of our blessed family. Remind her we’re the only ones still alive. She’ll come if you tell her this will be the last talk we will ever have.”

Gabriel was visibly alarmed. “What’s happened? You’re frightening me, Bento.”

“Please, Gabriel. I cannot describe this twice—it’s too hard. Please, get Rebekah here. You can find a way to do it. It is my last request to you.”

Gabriel ripped off his apron, flung it on the back counter, and raced out of the shop. He returned in twenty minutes with a sullen Rebekah in tow. Unable to refuse Gabriel’s plea—after all, she had raised Bento during the three years between the death of their mother, Hana, and their father’s remarriage to Esther—Rebekah dripped with anger as she entered the shop. She greeted Bento with a frosty nod and splayed palms. “Well?”

Bento, who had already tacked a note on the door in both Portuguese and Dutch stating that the shop would reopen shortly, replied, “Let’s go home, where we can talk privately.”

Once home, Bento closed the front door and motioned to Gabriel and Rebekah to sit while he stood and paced about. “Much as I want this to be a private matter, I know it is not. Gabriel has made it clear how my affairs affect the whole family. I’m afraid that what I’m going to say will shock you. It is hard, but I must tell you everything. I want no one, absolutely no one in the community, to know more than you about what is going to happen.”

Bento stopped. He had the full attention of his brother and sister, sitting still as granite. Bento took a deep breath. “I’ll come right to the point. This morning Rabbi Mortera told me that the parnassim has met and that a
cherem
is imminent. I will be excommunicated tomorrow.”

“A
cherem
?” exclaimed Gabriel and Rebekah simultaneously. Both were ashen-faced.

“There’s no way to stop it?” asked Rebekah. “Rabbi Mortera will not stand up for you? Our father was his best friend!”

“I just spoke to Rabbi Mortera for an hour, and he told me it was not in his hands—the parnassim is elected by the community and holds all the power. He has no choice but to do as they bid. But then he also said he agreed with their decision.”

Bento hesitated. “I must hold nothing back.” Looking into the eyes of his sister and brother, he acknowledged, “He
did
say there might be a chance. He said that if I were to reverse all my views, if I were to publicly recant and proclaim that I would from this point forth embrace Maimonides’ thirteen articles of faith, then he would petition the parnassim with all his strength to reconsider the
cherem
. In fact—and I’m not certain he wishes this to be known because he whispered it to me—he offered me a lifetime pension from synagogue funds if I vowed to devote my life to the respectful, and silent, study of Torah and Talmud.”

“And?” Rebekah looked straight into Bento’s eyes.

“And . . .” Bento looked at the floor. “I declined. For me, freedom is beyond price.”

“You fool! Think what you are doing.” Rebekah’s voice was shrill. “My God, Brother, what is wrong with you? Have you lost your senses?” She leaned forward as though she meant to bolt from the room.

“Rebekah—” Bento strained to keep his voice calm. “This is the last time, the very last time, we shall be with one another. The
cherem
means absolute exile. It will forbid you to speak to me or contact me in any way ever again. Ever again. Think of how you, how all three of us, will feel if our last meeting is bitter and devoid of love.”

Gabriel, too agitated to remain seated, also stood and paced about. “Bento, why do you keep saying ‘last’? Last time we will see you, last request, last meeting? How long is the
cherem
? When will it end? I’ve heard of one-day
cherems
or one-week
cherems
.”

Bento swallowed and looked into the eyes of his brother and sister. “This will be a different type of
cherem
. I know about
cherems
, and if they do it properly, this
cherem
will have no end. It will be for a lifetime, and it will be irreversible.”

“Go back to the rabbi,” said Rebekah. “Take his offer, Bento, please. We all make mistakes when we are young. Rejoin us. Honor God. Be the Jew you are. Be your father’s son. Rabbi Mortera will pay you for life. You can read, study, do anything you want, think anything you want. Just keep it to yourself. Take his offer, Bento. Don’t you see that for the sake of our father he is paying you not to commit suicide?”

“Please,” Gabriel clasped Bento’s hand, “take his offer. Make a new start.”

“He would be paying me to do something I cannot do. I intend to pursue truth and to devote my life to knowing God, whereas the rabbi’s offer demands I live dishonestly and thus dishonor God. I shall never do that. I shall follow no power on earth other than my own conscience.”

Rebekah began to sob. She put her hands behind her head and rocked as she said, “I don’t understand you, don’t understand, don’t understand.”

Bento went to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away, then raised her head and turned to Gabriel. “You were too young, but I remember, as if it were yesterday, our blessed father bragging that Rabbi Mortera called Bento the best student he’d ever seen.”

She looked at Bento, tears cascading down her face. “The cleverest and the deepest, he said. How our father beamed when he heard you might be the next great scholar, perhaps the next Gersonides. That you would write the great seventeenth-century Torah commentary! The rabbi believed in you. He said that your mind retained everything and that none of the synagogue elders could stand up to you in debate. And yet now,
despite
this,
despite
your God-given gifts, look at what you’ve done. How could you throw everything away?” Rebekah took the handkerchief Gabriel held out.