The Death and Life of Zebulon Finch, Volume 2 Read online

  “The mystagogue you speak of was the clairvoyant Guido Karl Anton List, the bearded old godfather of völkisch mysticism. When List was but a child, his family visited the catacombs of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, and there the lad was compelled to kneel before an altar and swear to build a temple to the Norse gods. This he did, though that temple came in the shape of a book, his 1914 classic of symbology, a response to the long occupation of our fatherland by Roman Catholics.”

  At the word “Catholics,” von Lüth drew a cross within the circle.

  “List’s reading of ancient runes traced the origins of the Germanic people to a cult called Armanen, the very flesh of the god Wōden, whom you might know as Wôdan or Uuôden or Odin. This is not to be taken lightly, Herr Finch. What sort of people do you think are birthed from gods?”

  “A lucky people,” said I. “Too lucky, I think.”

  “I might agree, except for the irrefutability of List’s predictions! He reported that the Armanen cult would return—and today we have our National Socialist Party. He reported that there would be a ‘Strong One from Above’ who would mend our divided people—and today we have der Führer. He reported that 1932 would be the year during which our unconscious desire to reunify would coalesce—and, if we can forgive List one year in error, Hitler became Chancellor in 1933. So again we see the pattern of life’s cycles. And when those patterns break, they break in places not at all random.”

  Von Lüth thumbed away four bits of the chalk circle.

  “If I follow,” said I, “what you suggest is that Hitler is no mere man. He is the embodiment of the German will.”

  “What a pleasure to hear such insight spoken in the American accent! Now, pay close attention. In the 1890s, Jörg Lanz began collecting the beliefs of List and others into an arena of study known as Ariosophy, the proper, and long overdue, study of the Aryan race. I will bother you not with the process, only the findings: that Germans are embodied with what, in English, I can only call ‘goodness.’ ”

  I rolled my eyes within dry sockets.

  “I can think of a country or two that might disagree.”

  “The term is insufficient,” confessed he, “for the quality of goodness does not bring Aryans much good. Instead, it burdens us with a most dreadful responsibility. It becomes our duty to become dentists and extract from our land the rot of the Untermensch—the subhuman.”

  “Subhumans—I take it that these are the Jews?”

  “Lanz’s monograph on the subject is quite convincing. It is titled Theozoologie oder die Kunde von den Sodoms-Äfflingen und dem Götter-Elektron. Ah, but to translate? Let us just say that “Sodoms- Äfflingen” means “sodomite apelings.” That conveys the essence, ja? I shall read you a passage! I have a copy right here. Where is it now?”

  But this seminal masterwork was not to be found in weeds, grass, brook, or tree. Kicking mud from his shoes, von Lüth shrugged.

  “I cannot find it,” said he.

  “Perhaps this is symbolic?”

  “You have such wonderful oomph! To condense: Our shared racial memory recalls the historic evils of the Jew. Jörg Lanz wrote that every German is anti-Semite by blood, and I, Udo Christof von Lüth, say that all a German wants is for that blood to be stirred! This is der Führer’s purpose, to bring mankind back into harmony with nature. Which circles us back to here, to this roof, among this beautiful greenery. You too, Herr Finch, are Germanic, and thus you too have a purpose on this Earth, a reason to keep existing. What was confusion is hereby straightened into order.”

  At “straightened,” von Lüth did just that to the four arms of his symbol.

  He cracked the chalk against the board.

  “The swastika—the National Socialist Party did not invent it out of air! I curate at the Ahnenerbe a collection of relics engraved with this potent symbol. Macedonian battle helmets over two thousand years old. Chinese paintings from the Han Dynasty. A mammoth tusk that we date at 10,000 BC. The swastika, according to Madame Blavatsky, is the sign of Agnine, god of sun, of fire, of creation itself, as well as the sign of the Aryan. The mind spins, does it not? How deep go mankind’s ancient rivalries, all of which must end with the same circular—and, yes, bloody—results?”

  My chin bobbed above the choppy waters of von Lüth’s obsession.

  “I don’t know. I am lost.”

  “To the contrary, you are found! You are the swastika, Herr Finch! Like it, you exist out of time. What makes you certain that you were born when you say? Is it not possible that, in some manner, you have always existed? That you are a guide, as was Blavatsky, List, and Lanz, here to lead us through the valleys of death and into the hills of glory?”

  His sumptuous words handled my misbegotten ego with satin gloves. I sank into fantasy, picturing myself as a series of characters careening across history. I was Judas Iscariot, jingling my purse after giving old Jesus a killer’s kiss. I was Caligula, limp from sensational whoring, bloody to the elbows from the maidens I’d tossed to the lions. I was Vlad the Impaler, leering at tens of thousands of men on spits. I was John Wesley Hardin, stabbing school chums, shooting loud snorers, staining the desert dust red.

  I ripped free from the trance.

  “Do you mean to bring me to Hitler or not?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “It is my duty as a German.”

  “We need not wait, then, until you are named Minister of the Occult?”

  Von Lüth flapped a hand.

  “It is, how do you say in English—a semantic matter? Der Führer opens new offices like ordinary men open canned meats. My title, I promise you, is imminent. Next week, next month? There is a rush?”

  “I am impatient. It is a flaw.”

  He paused, hefted the mjölnir into both hands, and considered its weight, which was, I assure you, lethal.

  “Eagerness of this sort might make a German doubt the authenticity of your defection,” said he. “You do not, after all, seem to have a defector’s political leanings.”

  The revolver in my chest woke as if from nightmare, thrashing and feverish and wanting out of bed. Had this rooftop discourse been a test I’d failed? I cut glances at the stones at my feet. Were any sharp enough to cut through my abdomen so that I might have a chance against this hammer-swinging hulk?

  Von Lüth relaxed against his boulder like a beached beluga.

  “Your purpose in coming to Berlin may be what you say it is. It may not. In truth, it is immaterial. You have a new purpose now, alongside me, and I know that you will appreciate it.” He aimed the mjölnir eastward. “Right now our Führer is in Eastern Prussia, presiding over victory. This will mean a period of waiting. But do not show me your long face, my eager Aryan! I will make a personal request to Himmler, who will, I am certain, arrange our meeting with Hitler. This is acceptable, ja?”

  Himmler? Heinrich Luitpold Himmler? Second-most-powerful figure in the Third Reich? Rigby’s hair, what was left of it, would erupt into flame at such a proposition. I tightened my dead muscles into marionette tensity and pulled the string that made me nod, as if this were merely the next page in an OSS script that I’d practiced for months.

  I, the living swastika, would wait for the next turn of the circle.

  VI.

  THE ENSUING WEEKS IN NAZI Germany were oddly pleasant. When not at the Ahnenerbe, von Lüth held court upon the roof, interspersing occult orations with animated meditations upon the enigma of Zebulon Finch. He begged to hear of my every stumble and clamber, and never desisted with inquiries. I capitulated, though at a controlled pace, for Hitler dawdled at the Eastern Front and—I shall admit the truth—I enjoyed our exchanges. Von Lüth was no probing Leather; there were no experiments, no notes. He was no dispassionate Rigby, either; he would listen, spellbound like a child, and when my words moved him beyond response, he would pounce like a bear and embrace me harder than I’d ever been embraced, and I would let him, and, Dearest Reader, I would like it.

  Von Lüth came to know more about Ze
bulon Finch than anyone else alive, and the knowledge only magnified his interest. Perhaps, then, I should not have been surprised the day he returned from the post office waving an opened envelope. He pushed aside a gift basket of candy and pressed the letter upon the counter so that I might share in his joy. I could not read it, but it was typed, signed, and stamped upon Party letterhead, and within the garble I found my full name.

  “Have you made me a Nazi?” asked I.

  Von Lüth’s slap upon my back drove me into the counter.

  “Were only my powers so great! Nein, but this document will afford you some of the benefits. This is an Ahnenpass. It attests to your racial heritage. Keep it with you. Do not lose it. Should there be trouble, should you be bothered by the Gestapo, these papers indicate that you are under the supervision of Udo Christof von Lüth and should be returned unharmed to this address.”

  “Returned? Am I being sent away?”

  I winced at my pitch of panic. Von Lüth clucked his tongue as if I were a nestling anxious about kindergarten.

  “Tomorrow I deliver a lecture in Kassel. It is part of my work for the Ahnenerbe. This will be soon followed by a lecture tour of Cologne, Ansbach, and Munich.”

  “All right. So long as we do not miss Hitler’s return.”

  “Herr Finch, my unwavering faithful! You misconstrue. I have decided that you will remain in Berlin while I am gone. What brought me to this decision were the words of the great poet-astrologer Giordano Bruno: ‘O Jove, let the Germans realize their own strength, and they shall not be men, but gods.’ If you are to understand your belonging in our race of man-gods, you must understand Berlin.”

  “You want me to . . . wander about? Is that wise?”

  “It is wisdom itself! You must see for yourself how our peasant class personifies the principle of Führerprinzip—one nation working for one leader for one purpose. You must feel it in your German blood. Ach, you have no blood. Then in your German bones! Do not worry; your Ahnenpass makes you quite safe. As additional precaution, I have asked Kuppisch to act as escort. He will not intrude. You, like every other Aryan, must work alone to resolve your Drang nach Osten—your Eastward Urge.”

  His theory was supported by evidence. Was not my trajectory eastward: L.A. to D.C., D.C. to London, London to Berlin? I shook off the notion like a light rain; I’d come to appreciate von Lüth’s attentions, yes, but I was no Nazi. I was an assassin, I had to remember that, and my weeks sequestered indoors had made it impossible for Rigby’s field agent to contact me. If I could give the slip to the bulldog Kuppisch, surely the spy would sidle next to me and give me my Geschenk, and we could get on with it.

  It was, of course, 1943. My flesh had marbled and my carriage had become undeniably atrophied; the days when I could have passed as ordinary were behind me. I displayed my long-suffering right hand: Mr. Avery’s fish hook, the dent from the Little Miracle Electric Mexican Stuttering Ring, Chernoff’s blistered taxidermy, the bump from Sandy’s embedded tooth. Von Lüth was not fazed; his gentle, understanding smile soothed me.

  “We will find you gloves. A high-collared coat. A billed cap. Do not worry, Herr Finch. Few of we Berliners look as good as we once did.”

  Von Lüth’s train to Kassel left early, so ’twas daybreak when he midwived my overdue birth from the building’s belly. Though I was well costumed, von Lüth did not miss that I walked on coltish legs. He took me by both shoulders and squeezed. Despite his fervor for the rustic lifestyle, he sported another dazzling ensemble, a peach suit complimented by a greatcoat with black fur lapels and a gold swastika brooch.

  “It is with proud anticipation that I await your report upon your German brethren.” He winked. “Just promise to avoid the whorehouses. Sicherheitsdienst has all the rooms bugged!”

  He fired off a sieg heil gutsy enough to, despite the warmongering overtone, instill me with confidence. He volte-faced, put two pinkies into his mouth, and whistled. Half a block away, Kuppisch smacked doggie lips and saluted. Without further farewell, the peach-colored titan tramped down a hedgerow path, whirling his mjölnir.

  I do not think that five minutes was too much time to let settle the reality of being alone in Nazi Germany. But pots and silverware clattered from windows; Berlin was awakening and I could not hold a single block of sidewalk indefinitely. Before me was a street. To hell with it—I took it. I heard the bulldog follow from a half block back, though the crack of his jackboots made it seem as if he bit at my heels.

  People exited homes holding lunch pails or pulling carts of sellable goods. I scrutinized each passing pair of lips for Geschenk, so it was by accident that I began to concur with von Lüth’s valuation: Germans were remarkable beings. The humble folk among whom I roved exchanged guten Morgens as if it were a fine day in a fine year, and when they glanced at the sky, it was not for fear of seeing a swarm of RAF fighters but rather to judge the potential for rain.

  This attitude of quiet resolve persisted when I entered bomb zones. Destruction there was surgical. To the left, a gabled three-family home of red clay roofing and green shutters. To the right, a whitewashed plaster colonial with brickwork chimneys. Between them, a scraggled spire of demolished brick rising from twenty feet of kibbled concrete. Such ruin had, however, sprouted a cottage industry for von Lüth’s adulated poor. Men pushed wheelbarrows of brick, and lines of women passed buckets of water while their children tunneled through exciting new playgrounds of rubble.

  Berlin’s grid would have been perplexing during peacetime. Now, debris made nonsense of navigation, and as I threaded about in hopes of losing Kuppisch, I became lost. I passed one S-Bahn train station after another, but lacked the courage to confront ticket-takers. Around midday I came upon a band of fifty men clearing a thirty-foot blast crater. Its former life as a train depot was evidenced by the thick iron rail that twisted into the air like a middle finger to Allied bombers. Buildings on either side had sloughed their streetside layers of brick in the same way that Bridey, wizardess of wardrobe, used to let her nightgown slide down her shoulders.

  This delectable, if misplaced, image brought me to a standstill alongside a lamp post sweatered in homemade flyers searching for loved ones lost since the last bombing, or the bombing before that. The lack of replies was obvious by the condition of the leaflets: charred, discolored, and so whipped by wind that they soon would be but faint recollections. I leaned against the post; it was like touching the eyelids of the dead and shutting them.

  Kuppisch, always Kuppisch, pawed the pavement, hounding me forward. I was drained of any belief that I’d find my Geschenk when I entered the neighborhood of Mitte. Despite shop signs proclaiming, in German and English, JEWS AND DOGS NOT ALLOWED, the district teemed with both. No, Reader, I have no sixth sense for detecting religious penchant; Jews were evident by the star-shaped patches sewn to their coats. Distantly I recalled Rigby jabbering about the Star Decree of 1941, part of the Nürnberg Laws, about which he’d also jabbered. Decrees? Laws? Such tedium! I’d paid them little mind.

  I cannot say I regret the inattention.

  Ignorance wears so much more lightly upon the soul.

  Some Jews obscured their patches with shrewd foldings of arms or totings of groceries. The indignant did the opposite, though at their own peril—the stars might as well have been targets. Old men who doddered got bopped by Gestapo batons, and women who lingered before non-Jewish establishments fielded lewd commentary. Even toddlers were hurried along with rifle butts, the same treatment extended to tomcats.

  The worst bullies were adolescent lads dressed, despite the chill, in flapless caps, black shorts, high gray socks, brown shirts, black neckerchiefs, and ornamental daggers. They were a band of Hitlerjugend, or Hitler Youth—quite literally a band, their slight backs strapped with snare drums, their wiry arms supporting woodwinds and brass, while a pipsqueak major with a cowlick and buckteeth swung about a tasseled baton. On the major’s shoulder, as it happened, lounged a monkey wearing a red vest and fez. At this point,
nothing surprised me.

  The shoe heels of this ornery orchestra crunched through the broken window glass of a Jewish delicatessen as they nabbed cakes and shoved them into chortling mouths. In the meantime, the monkey executed splendid Russian squat-kicks. Passersby laughed at the monkey but did not admonish the children, not when the boys lifted the skirts of passing Jewesses with trombone slides and drum sticks, not when they dropped cake on the curb and spat at a bearded old Jew to pick it up.

  Von Lüth’s hypothesis that I belonged in Deutschland made sense. Elders here encouraged the young in enterprises of vandalism, theft, and debasement, and I’d performed comparable acts under the Black Hand, and in the 1920s South had witnessed, and had done nothing to stop, the ritual abuse of Negroes, up to and including the lynching of John Quincy and Mother Mash. I reached into my pocket and pet my Ahnenpass. I was grateful, so grateful, for my Aryan features.

  The tension in Mitte had a suffocating odor—sharp blood and hot urine—but I dawdled there, loath to ask Kuppisch to lead me back. The Hitler Youth, however, satiated with Jew-cake, began to march, farting and thwacking their instruments with renewed gusto. Their path appeared deliberate, so I did what weakling lemmings have done since time untold and followed.

  More boys joined the cavalcade as dusk fell, and soon it was an inharmonious philharmonic that I trailed toward a city center suffused with orange light. It was, I came to find, a towering bonfire. One block away, close enough to feel the fire’s heat, our parade of high-stepping Hitlerjugend intersected with another, the luckiest members of which toted seven-foot standards—Nazi banners adorned with silver swastikas and golden eagles. At night, by fire, the symbology took on a slithering animation, the eagles mincing forth as if appraising carrion, the swastikas turning, one into the other, like the gears of a grinder.

  Our crowd wove with others, became one people, one Party, one Germany.

  One had to wonder if von Lüth had planned it.