Heidegger's Glasses_ A Novel Part 12

He drove and shoveled and drove and shoveled until he came to the junction that led to the main road. It was miraculously plowed at this stage in the war-a long, dark arrow pointing to Goebbels and the Offices of the Reich. He got out of the jeep to look at the sky. Orion and his hunting dogs were glittering due south, the Great Bear had pine branches nestling in his paws, and Lepus, the Hare, was arcing over the forest. Everything was in order.

For a moment he thought about disappearing-like the other officers who left without a trace: The admiral who had helped Wilhelm Canaris rescue Jews vanished in Denmark. The SS officer who gave his uniform to the nightwalkers hid in a barn near Dresden. A former a.s.sistant to Himmler was somewhere in Suss.e.x. These officers were scattered like stars. The SS hunted them tenaciously. The Resistance protected them in return for their uniforms, ident.i.ty papers, and information. They lived for days seeing no one, afraid of being caught-like any other fugitive. Images of such a life burst before his eyes like grenades. But he knew if he disappeared he couldn't save Elie. Or the Compound.

He got back in his jeep and drove slowly on the smooth, wide road. Near dawn he stopped at an inn where he used to drink-over ten years ago, when he'd been reading for law in Berlin. The innkeeper didn't recognize him and apologized for the ersatz coffee. Then he made jovial conversation about the war while his wife stood behind him smiling. Lodenstein left without bothering to salute.

By the time he got to Berlin snow was falling. It dusted streets like sugar on cakes no one could make since the war turned, including-he thought bitterly-Elfriede Heidegger and her bundkuchen. He remembered once loving this city and his exuberance on the wide, open streets. He remembered nights in beer halls where people talked about books that had no doubt been burned. Now the Gestapo was everywhere.

Yet houses were intact, and winter vegetable gardens looked prosperous-not like the bombed-out city of Hamburg, where another SS officer hid, or the town where Elie had rescued the children. The only evidence of war was a line outside a butcher shop, snaking around a corner. A beet-faced man in a white ap.r.o.n opened the door and shouted: We don't open until ten. And no sausages today!

The crowd scattered, and Lodenstein ignored the butcher when he saluted the swastika on his jeep. He wanted to leave this city as soon as possible, yet he drove slowly. Everything was gone for him here-even the Brandenburg Gate. He'd once loved its Doric columns-part of Athens floating in the north. Now it was hung with n.a.z.i banners and led straight to the Offices of the Reich.

Lodenstein drove past the Kaiserhof Hotel-a huge, stone music box dripping with banners and flags. Before Hitler came into power, he'd occupied a whole floor, and anyone who mattered-diplomats, officers, mistresses, wives-still stayed there. The front of the building was clotted with SS, as well as civilians who wanted to bask in its facade. Lodenstein recognized a diplomat.

As though it had a will of its own, the jeep drove the length of the Kaiserhof until it reached the Reich Offices: a grey monolith that extended for two city blocks and reminded Lodenstein of a stalag. He would rather have found Goebbels through a small side door, but his jeep was forced to drive into the Honor Courtyard.

The courtyard was the main entrance to the Offices and designed to broadcast immensity. As soon as Lodenstein drove in, his view was focused on the main building. It was gargantuan, with steep steps, flanked by two identical statues of muscular men in black marble. One carried a torch to represent the Party and the other a sword to represent the Army. Two other buildings surrounded this building. All three had Greek columns.

While Lodenstein waited for someone to park his jeep, he watched officers walk up and down the steps. They looked as if they'd been ratcheted with screws and would fall apart if anything came undone. They often had expressions of awe because they'd just left, or were about to enter, the Great Mosaic Hall-a one-hundred-fifty-foot crimson corridor with a gold-rimmed skylight and mosaics of Greek battles. Lodenstein had never liked this hall. It made him feel drenched in red.

The officer at the desk didn't recognize him and asked him to empty his pockets. He was glad he'd left his duffel bag in the jeep and sorry he'd taken Elie's rose. He was led through more crimson halls and left in Goebbels's antechamber.

Elfriede Heidegger must have waited here to meet Goebbels as well. Lodenstein imagined the overstuffed chairs and polished wood tables would have pleased her. There was a huge photograph of Goebbels and Hitler shaking hands, another of Hitler kissing a child. He leafed through some propaganda pamphlets-all about Germany's victory.

After nearly an hour, he heard boots tapping on the marble. General-Major Mueller stood in front of him, looking prosperous.

My good man, he said, shaking his hand. How nice to see you in these winter months.

I thought you were going to the front, said Lodenstein.

Not a chance, said Mueller. There were more important projects. And Goebbels is always in the marketplace. Can I tempt you with lunch until he gets back?

Lodenstein didn't want to spend a minute with Mueller, but he knew the offer wasn't a choice. They went through more crimson corridors to the dining hall where tables were set with white cloths and crystal goblets.

Amazing news about the war, Mueller said after they'd ordered rabbit stew. Last week everyone celebrated in the l.u.s.tgarten. What a fest! Even in ice! He wiped his moustache and lowered his voice.

You're lucky you got switched to the SS, he said, because Wilhelm Canaris is about to be put under house arrest. Maybe even sent to Auschwitz, so he can see who he's trying to save before he's hung.

I'm sure he's a double agent, said Lodenstein.

It's a pity you were ever in the Abwehr, said Mueller.

Thank G.o.d I was only there for a couple of years, said Lodenstein.

They finished their coffee-real coffee-and walked down winding stairs to a room with a hunter-green sofa and white walls.

It's quieter here, said Mueller. Better than all that bustling. And here's Goebbels's latest pamphlet. I'll get you when he comes back.

Mueller shut the door, and Lodenstein noticed a distinct quiet, as though the room were wrapped in swaddling. He touched the walls and discovered they were brick. The door was cold, metal, and locked. He opened the pamphlet, and the list of everything he'd surrendered at the door fell out. This made him sure he was in a cell, and Goebbels had ordered his arrest as soon as he arrived. The Reich would never jail an officer without giving him a list of his possessions.

Dear Leonie,I have no paper so I'm writing this letter on a wall.I must write quickly.I love you,Niklaus Lodenstein listened more closely and heard clattering keys. This must mean other people were in this underground jail. He'd heard about such cases-officers in disfavor, thrown into cells and forgotten until they turned into bodies so bereft of food and water no bacteria was left to make them rot. The bodies were completely clean. They were folded a few times over like paper and thrown away.

Now he could see the cell was only thinly disguised as a waiting room. The sofa was a narrow bench. The brick walls were painted white. There was an overhead light and a cement floor-clean except for one dark drop he didn't want to look at too closely. Now and then the rattling keys grew louder. Sometimes they sounded like knives. Sometimes they sounded like sleigh bells. Now and then an oblong-shaped slat in the door opened, he saw a pair of eyes surveying the room, and the slat shut as quickly as a guillotine: someone checking to see he hadn't done himself in.

Lodenstein did fifty push-ups, avoiding the spot on the floor. He lay on the bench and played three games of solitaire in his head. He read the list of everything he'd surrendered and made up theories about why they hadn't taken his belt or shoelaces. He read and reread the list until it began to float in front of him.

One map, one deck of cards, three cigarettes, one box of matches, one piece of white velvet.

His mouth was dry, and the room was cold. He started to shiver. He thought of how, during his training, the Abwehr had glossed over torture: they were a rarified group that ciphered codes. He wondered what he'd be able to endure. If he'd break quickly. If it would hurt. If they'd use Elie as a hostage.

His hands were in fists. He forced himself to unclench them. But he clenched them again when he realized it had been a while since he heard keys. Suppose he was the only person here? In that case he'd been singled out for inquisition, torture, and hanging. He played more solitaire in his head but couldn't keep the different games straight. Royal Parade merged with Citadel. Citadel merged with Above and Below. Stonewall turned into Flea. The cards unfurled, the white bricks undulated, and the cracks between them a.s.sumed infinite depth. Inside the cracks, like jewels in crevices, Lodenstein began to see letters of the alphabet. He didn't read them but looked at the floating list, which told the story of a man with a deck of cards, three cigarettes, a box of matches, and a velvet rose. This man set out for Berlin in mountains of snow, drove to a huge grey building, and was thrown into a cell.

At some point the list detached from the paper, and the letters flew into the bricks. The room a.s.sumed a dreamlike radiance. And Lodenstein flew up to the ceiling. He could see the entire room-including a man who looked just like him, lying on the hunter-green bench.

The man he saw knew a secret: namely that writing to the dead wasn't the Thule Society's idea but a clairvoyant's. The clairvoyant was the extraordinary Erik Ha.n.u.ssen, who was also a mind reader and hypnotist. He had predicted Hitler's rise to power and taught him to mesmerize crowds just by raising his hand. But he'd also disguised the fact that he was Jewish, lent too many officers money, and knew about their affairs. And when he predicted the Reichstag fire days before it happened, it was clear he knew the Reich wanted an excuse to erect the very building where Lodenstein was jailed now. In the winter of 1933 Ha.n.u.ssen was shot and left in a field.

Through a series of accidents (or was it the prescience of Lodenstein's father, who was still in the Abwehr?) Lodenstein, who was reading for law in Berlin, had a seat in the audience when Erik Ha.n.u.ssen revealed his secret key to the Reich's world domination. The year was late 1932, months before Ha.n.u.ssen was shot. The place was Ha.n.u.ssen's black and gold Palace of the Occult in Berlin, a ghoulish cabaret attended by members of the n.a.z.i Party every night. The cabaret had a crooner, a chorus line, a strongman who lifted stones-and Ha.n.u.ssen, who appeared at the end of every show in a tuxedo. He called women in furs and diamonds to the stage, put them in trances, branded their hands with burning coins and was triumphant when they didn't feel pain. Once he told a Party member to send fire trucks to his house because of a faulty electrical system. The trucks arrived and saved the house from burning.

In addition to the cabaret, the Palace had a gold and black marble room for seances. It was in this room that the meeting about Ha.n.u.ssen's secret key was held.

Lodenstein sat in the back, surrounded by smoke and members of the n.a.z.i party, and looked at the stage where Ha.n.u.ssen held seances. It had a round marble dais with a round marble table where black triangles pointed to an empty center. This was where Ha.n.u.ssen focused his mind so he could travel to realms other people couldn't see. His travels had served him well: a judge once pardoned him from a swindling case because he knew where a criminal was hiding.

More n.a.z.i Party members crowded the hall. When Himmler and Goebbels arrived, everyone stood. The lights went out, and Ha.n.u.ssen appeared in a tuxedo. There was a moment of silence when he looked at the audience with eyes that seemed to know everything they hid in their pockets, as well as their souls. Then he unveiled a picture of an enormous globe filled with cracks. The cracks oozed letters and envelopes.

Unsightly, he'd said. But real. real.

Ha.n.u.ssen then explained that the letters stood for all the unanswered correspondence in the world, and the dead who'd written them were still waiting for answers. Every unanswered letter, he said, was like a brick in a building without mortar. They left perilous seams and created dangerous gaps in history. To ensure that the mortar was firm, all letters written by the dead must be answered down to the very last query from a haberdasher.

And why was this situation urgent? Because the dead would be upset unless they got answers. Indeed, they were already agitated in their pale green cities, able to penetrate this very room, demanding answers to their letters. Ha.n.u.ssen himself had to turn many away. And if the Reich wanted absolute power, they should answer all possible letters to fill in these seams. Then Germany would seal the globe and gain world domination.

While Ha.n.u.ssen talked, Lodenstein had a distinct sense of the world falling out of itself. The stolid officer to his left asked him for a piece of paper and drew a duplicate of Ha.n.u.ssen's globe-as though he could stuff every crack with letters. Other people took out paper and wrote down names of the dead who might be waiting for answers. The amphitheater was filled with scratching pens and rustling paper. Lodenstein's legs began to twitch-a sure sign that he wanted to leave. But he realized someone might report him; so he took out paper and looked as though he was trying to remember the dead in their pale green cities. When Ha.n.u.ssen turned on the light, the room was full of questions.

If the dead don't have an address, how can we send them letters?

The letters don't have to be mailed, said Ha.n.u.ssen. It's enough to store them in boxes. The dead will know when they've been answered.

Where can we find the letters?

Everywhere. In attics, old ships, offices, museums.

But it's impossible to find all of them.

An astrologer will tell you when you've found enough.

Can we confiscate these letters?

When the time is right.

The last question came from a short, heavy man in front of the amphitheater, sitting between Himmler and Goebbels. He held two gla.s.ses of water, and every few minutes one or the other snapped his fingers, and the heavy man handed him a gla.s.s. At one point he stood up, and Goebbels jerked his sleeve-but it was too late. Ha.n.u.ssen had noticed him.

Can we answer all the letters in German? he asked.

Only if they're written in German, said Ha.n.u.ssen. The dead can read, but they cannot translate. Never forget this. Like Answers Like Like Answers Like should be your motto. And answer faithfully. should be your motto. And answer faithfully.

There was loud applause. Every member of the Reich, including Himmler, Goebbels, and the short, squat man went to the dais to greet Ha.n.u.ssen. Lodenstein had watched, fascinated by the folds in the heavy man's face. Later, when he met Stumpf, he recognized him as the same person.

Dear Marek,Letters are being pa.s.sed all the time and prisoners have managed to bribe pens from guards. Even in this unspeakable place people write to each other constantly. G.o.d willing, I'm going to see you soon.Love always,Urajsz Before Lodenstein came to the Compound, the SS officer who evaporated in Denmark told him the idea of answering letters from the dead had been the object of conversation for days after the meeting at the Palace of the Occult. But when Ha.n.u.ssen was shot, anyone who mentioned his name or referred to his ideas was shot too. It was mere luck that no one made a connection between Ha.n.u.ssen's vision and the Thule Society's obsession with answering letters written by the dead. Maybe Hitler had forgotten. But Lodenstein doubted Goebbels had: Goebbels remembered everything. And Goebbels condoned Stumpf's post, knowing Stumpf was driven to answer the dead and didn't care about keeping records. Stumpf's appointment must have been Goebbels's concession to the Thule Society, in spite of his disdain for the occult. And the motto Like Answers Like Like Answers Like had come from him. had come from him.

Now the man on the hunter-green bench retrieved every detail of Ha.n.u.ssen's speech at the black and gold Palace of the Occult. He retrieved them from the jewel-like letters between the bricks, which he could now read. After he'd read everything, the walls stopped undulating, and Lodenstein came down from the ceiling and slid inside the man who looked just like him. He put his hands in his pockets and realized the letters of the alphabet weren't in the wall but on a piece of paper. He stood up and felt his legs, his arms, the cramped enclosure. And when the little hatch opened again, he cleared his sandpaper throat and shouted the name Ha.n.u.sSEN! in a hoa.r.s.e voice-so loudly the face stepped back, and he heard keys drop to the floor.

Ha.n.u.sSEN! he rasped again. Tell Joseph Goebbels that Lodenstein remembers Ha.n.u.ssen.

The hatch closed, the sound of the keys grew fainter, and Lodenstein was alone. He wondered whether he'd be shot for mentioning Ha.n.u.ssen, or grilled about the meeting at the Palace of the Occult. By the time the keys jangled again he was trembling, but the officer bowed and gestured toward the winding steps that led to the Mosaic Hall, and once more he was enveloped in crimson marble. He heard an accordion in the officers' cabaret. It must be evening.

The officer led him back to the antechamber and opened an enormous door. Goebbels sat behind a desk, still propped up by books to look taller. He was exactly the way Lodenstein remembered him-a thin face with dark, heavy-lidded eyes-circles Elie once called bizarre, almost romantic eyes bizarre, almost romantic eyes. The desk was piled with pamphlets, two copies of Mein Kampf Mein Kampf, a tin of biscuits, a bottle of wine, a pitcher of water, and fluted gla.s.ses.

Goebbels waved away any mention of Ha.n.u.ssen and listened to Lodenstein talk about Stumpf's visit to Heidegger. After he finished, Goebbels speculated whether he should kill Heidegger as well as Stumpf and every single Scribe, since who really cared about records concerning people who died? But what if, he continued, Heidegger was exonerated after the war and no one could find him? Then his murder might be discovered, and the Compound of Scribes would be brought to light.

While he talked, he drank water from one of the fluted gla.s.ses. After his third gla.s.s, he lit a cigarette.

I should have Stumpf hung, he said.

When the right times comes, thought Lodenstein.

Heidegger, too, said Goebbels. I have no idea why that woman bothers with him.

Lodenstein supposed he meant Elfriede Heidegger but didn't ask. He folded his hands, which felt like dry wood, and waited while Goebbels looked to the left, to the right, at a fresco of Hercules on the ceiling, and at his desk. He shuffled papers and picked up a photograph of his wife and five children-a perfect family and a perfect wife. He drank more water and pushed a gla.s.s toward Lodenstein, who lunged for it. It hurt to swallow.

Goebbels watched him drink with a look of contempt. Then he said: People have visited Auschwitz before. And Heidegger won't talk because of his wife. He's a ludicrous country b.u.mpkin, and I'm sure she knows it.

Lodenstein stared at the gla.s.s.

Never mind, said Goebbels, who'd once hugged Frau Heidegger at a meeting for housewives and had been delighted to see her again when she'd come to his office.

He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, stared at Lodenstein, and looked away. Then he slapped a hand on his phone, called Auschwitz, and asked if the Jew named Asher Englehardt was still alive. Ten minutes pa.s.sed while someone looked up his number.

These are strict orders, Goebbels said into the phone. Have him make gla.s.ses for the officers. And give him enough food and a place to rest during the day. What do I mean? I mean he's a lens grinder, and the officers' clinic has made a mess of that. Better for them to have new gla.s.ses than pick through piles of Jew-gla.s.ses. And be careful of his son. Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!

He hung up and looked at Lodenstein for the first time.

You can take Heidegger to Auschwitz, he said. And deal with the consequences. But you'll have to stay here-no getting a room at the Kaiserhof or messing around. And you'll go to Auschwitz with Heidegger in the dark-I mean true dark-on a night when there isn't a moon.

Lodenstein pointed out that every month there was only one night with no moon, and a trip to Auschwitz took two days.

Don't split hairs with me, said Goebbels. And not a word about Ha.n.u.ssen.

Then he crawled to the top of his desk and looked down at Lodenstein. His eyes became slits, and if pupils could manipulate the world, they would have flattened everything in the room, including Lodenstein.

Blackmailer! he said. Naval sc.u.mbag! Pervert! a.s.shole head of a hovel!

His voice rose to emphasize his point, creating a circle of dramatic air. Lodenstein let him go on. He had no choice. He also hoped that if Goebbels spit out his venom, he'd never take revenge, and the Compound would remain a strange, safe haven in the middle of a failing war.

When Goebbels finished, he crawled back to his chair, sat on his pile of books, and rang a buzzer.

This is Oberst Lodenstein, he said when an officer appeared. Give him the best food, the best wine and-he winked-the best women.

Lodenstein gave the n.a.z.i salute and followed the officer down the crimson hall to the cabaret, amazed that his legs were holding him up. A woman in a tight black bodice was playing the accordion, and an officer was singing "Lorelei" into her ample bosom. Lodenstein sat near the door and ate venison and potatoes. He left the cabaret, went to his room, and threw up.

Soon he was in bed-vast, unfamiliar, much larger than the bed he shared with Elie. He fell into half-sleep and woke when he heard rustling outside his door. He was afraid Goebbels had sent a woman. But when he opened the door, he found an envelope filled with everything he'd surrendered, including the white rose, which still smelled of Elie's perfume. He slept with it for almost two weeks. Then Heidegger arrived on a moonless night, and they set off by train for Auschwitz.

Dear Gretchen,I need to see you.Don't worry. No one can find out. Friends will keep us safe. I look for you by the gates. I look for you by rocks. I need to talk to you, see your face, feel your arms, kiss you. Come quickly.Love,Paul Asher Englehardt, a terse man with shrewd blue eyes, had been surprised to be pulled from a job lugging rocks in the snow.

Over here! said a guard, grabbing him by the shoulder.

n.o.body stopped working because they would get shot, as Asher was certainly about to be. He put down the stone, thinking at least he wouldn't be lifting something that weighed almost as much as he did, and stepped from the line. An Unteroffizier was standing next to the guard, and an Unteroffizier often meant a hanging-worse than a swift bullet near the red brick wall of the jail. Hangings happened in the evening when the whole camp a.s.sembled for roll call. Daniel would watch him die.

The Unteroffizier motioned Asher to his Kubelwagen and drove along the unpaved road. He was so pleasant Asher a.s.sumed he wanted to put him at ease since panic made it hard to cooperate with a noose. They drove to the camp through the side entrance, rather than the main gate where Asher saw Arbeit Macht Frei Arbeit Macht Frei every morning when he left for work. Instead of going to the jail, they went to a small room in the officers' quarters where another officer brought soup, huge slices of rye bread, and beer. It was the first table set with food Asher had seen in over four months. every morning when he left for work. Instead of going to the jail, they went to a small room in the officers' quarters where another officer brought soup, huge slices of rye bread, and beer. It was the first table set with food Asher had seen in over four months.

Eat slowly, said the Unteroffizier. It takes time to adjust if you haven't eaten for a while.

Asher hesitated. It occurred to him that he might be part of one of the ghoulish experiments the camp gossiped about- performed by Mengele, the doctor who greeted transports and decided who would live or die. He performed experiments, the prisoners said, on people with or without disease. And perhaps this one, Asher thought, would be about the rate of digestion of starving people after a full meal. There would be one needle to knock him out and another in the heart: Not bad. But did he want Reich food in him when he died?

The Unteroffizier pulled up his chair and offered Asher a cigarette, which he took without thinking. The Unteroffizier lit one for each of them and said: Cigarettes. The common bond around here.

Asher laughed, then wondered if he shouldn't have. People got killed for thinking the wrong things were funny.

Listen, said the Unteroffizier. Things at the clinic are a mess. We need you to make gla.s.ses.

Asher didn't ask what kind of mess he meant, and the officer didn't explain because there was a blast of motorcycles from a battalion that was revved up to drown out screams when people were ga.s.sed. The officer left the room for over ten minutes. When the motorcycles stopped he came back.

No one's getting the right gla.s.ses, he said. And it's chaotic to sort through the heaps.

Asher understood that heaps referred to the piles of gla.s.ses that belonged to people who'd died in the gas chambers.

So we really need you, the officer concluded.

Asher didn't believe him. But knowing there had just been a ga.s.sing filled him with a conviction he sometimes had when he knew there had been an atrocity-namely that he was lucky to be alive, even special. This made him decide to eat while he still could. The soup was thick. The rye bread was fresh. The beer tasted like manna. The Unteroffizier looked relieved and said he'd be back in a few minutes.

And now it's going to happen, Asher thought. A couple of needles. Maybe from Mengele himself.

But Mengele didn't appear. The Unteroffizier came back with real shoes, thick socks, a warm sweater, and a woolen cap and gloves. Then they walked to the officers' clinic, past the winter quarters for the angora rabbits. Many camps had rabbits tended by the prisoners to prove to the Red Cross that there were pleasant pastimes. The Unteroffizier tried to hurry him past Mengele's quarters, but not before Asher saw two twins strapped to gurneys.

Dear Petra,Do you remember how the four of us used to laugh on the playground and say that twins were special? Well, we were right! Everybody is good to Sylvia and me. And they'll be good to you and Miep.Love,Ania The room in the officers' clinic was like Asher's shop in Freiburg shrunk to a fourth of its size. In this miniature version of his old room, he saw an optometrist's chair, an illuminated eye chart with gothic letters, and tools for grinding lenses. A man with a green armband was cleaning instruments and said he would be his a.s.sistant, since he knew how to weld frames.

Asher still wondered if this were a prelude to death, but after two days, he didn't care because life was a little more bearable. After morning roll call, a guard walked him through the snow to the warm quiet halls of the officers' clinic. Every time Asher opened the door he thought he might find Mengele and instruments of torture. But he always found an optometrist's room-calm, quiet, efficient. The officers who came for gla.s.ses answered questions politely-so politely Asher almost forgot he was a prisoner.

He was pulled from heavy labor in mid-February: a few mornings later he looked from the window of his workroom to a snowfall that covered everything in a bridal-veil of white-even the rune-like, barbed-wire fences and the corpses that hung from them like sheets. By noon there was a shooting, and a red stain bloomed in the snow. The stain faded to pink, and by dusk it was a rust-colored blotch.

A few days later there was another snowfall, veiling the camp in white all over again. It occurred to Asher-not without irony-that as long as there was snow, whatever happened in Auschwitz was reversible. He liked looking from the paned window of his workroom. The snow reminded him of winter childhoods when he played with his sister, who'd been smart enough to move to America. It had been a time when the woods were safe for children, and they believed in snow maidens who came to life and wolves that could grant wishes. He and his sister had lain in the snow, waved their hands, and left imprints that looked like angels.