The Hebrews as God’s “chosen people”? “Nonsense,” said Spinoza. An informed and honest reading of Mosaic law, Spinoza insisted, revealed that God favored the Jews only by selecting for them a thin strip of territory where they could live in peace.
And scripture the “word of God”? Spinoza’s powerful prose scattered that idea to the winds as he claimed that the Bible contains only spiritual truth—namely, the practice of justice and charity—not terrestrial truths. All those who find terrestrial laws and truths in the Bible are mistaken or self-interested, Spinoza insisted.
The preface ended with a warning, “I ask the multitude not to read my book,” and went on to explain that the “superstitious, unlearned populace, who hold that reason is nothing but a handmaid to theology, will gain nothing from this work. Indeed their faith may be disturbingly unsettled.”
Stunned by these words, Alfred could not help marveling at Spinoza’s audacity. The short, biographical introduction stated that though the book was published anonymously in 1670 (when Spinoza was thirty-eight) the identity of the author was widely known. To state these words in 1670 took courage: 1670 was only two generations after Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy and only a single generation after Galileo’s trial by the Vatican. The introduction noted that the book was quickly banned by the state, by the Catholic Church, by the Jews, and soon after, by the Calvinists. All that spoke well for it.
There could be no denying the extraordinary intelligence of the author. Now, finally, finally, he understood why the great Goethe and all the other Germans he loved so much—Schelling, Schiller, Hegel, Lessing, Nietzsche—revered this man. How could they not admire a mind like this? But, of course, they lived in another century and knew nothing about the new science of race, nothing of the dangers of poisoned blood—they simply admired this mutation, this extraordinary blossom emerging from slime. Alfred looked at the title page: “Benedictus Spinoza”—hmm, Benedictus, a name
with the greatest possible distance from a Semitic name. The biographical sketch noted that he was excommunicated by the Jews in his twenties and never again had contact with a Jew. So he was not truly a Jew. He was a mutation—the Jews recognized he was not a Jew, and, in taking this name, he must have realized it too.
Dietrich appeared by eleven and spent much of the day teaching Alfred how to be a more effective editor. Soon he was given the responsibility of editing most of the work submitted to the paper. Within weeks, Alfred’s red pencil moved lightning fast as he skillfully elevated the style and intensity of others’ work. Alfred felt blessed; not only did he have a superb teacher, but he was Dietrich’s only “child.” However, soon that was to change. A littermate for Alfred was on his way—a littermate who would take up all the room.
The change was set into motion several weeks later, in September 1919, when Anton Drexler, the man who had welcomed Alfred to the Thule Society, appeared at the office in an excited state. Dietrich was about to close his door for a private talk when Drexler, with Dietrich’s approval, beckoned Alfred to enter.
“Alfred, let me orient you,” Drexler said. “You know, I am sure, that not long after your first meeting at the Thule Society, several of us started a new political party—the German Workers Party? I recall you attended one of the first meetings, a small one. But now we’re ready to expand. Dietrich and I want to invite you to attend our next meeting and write a lead article on the party. We’re one among a legion of parties and need to make ourselves more prominent.”
Alfred, after glancing at Eckart, whose sharp nod suggested that the invitation was more than an invitation, replied, “I shall make it a point of attending the very next meeting.”
Drexler seemed satisfied. He closed the door and gestured to Alfred to take a seat. “So, Dietrich, I think we’ve found the one you’ve been waiting for. Let me tell you what’s happened. You remember, of course, that when we decided to turn the party from a Thule members’ debating society into an active political party with open meetings, we had to apply to the army for permission? And we were notified that military observers would periodically attend our meetings?”
“I remember and fully approve of that regulation. It’s necessary to keep the Communists in line.”
“Well,” Drexler continued, “at a meeting last week with about twenty-five or thirty attendees, this rather coarse-looking, poorly dressed man arrived late and sat in the last row. Carl, our bodyguard and bouncer, whispered to me that he’s an army observer in civilian clothes and has been seen at other political meetings, and at theaters and clubs, looking for dangerous agitators.”
“So this observer—his name is Hitler, a corporal in the army, but to be discharged in a few months—remained entirely silent as he listened to the main speaker giving a dull talk on the elimination of capitalism. But then, in the ensuing discussion period, things got lively. Someone in the audience made a long statement favoring that stupid plan that’s floating around for Bavaria to break away from Germany and merge with Austria into a South German state. Well, instantaneously, this Hitler got enraged, bolted to his feet, strode to the front of the room, and delivered a blistering attack on that idea or any proposal that deliberately weakened Germany. He continued for a few minutes excoriating enemies of Germany—those allied with the Versailles criminals who are trying to murder our country, fragment us, deprive of our glorious destiny—and so on.
“It was a wild tantrum, and he looked like a madman on the brink of losing all control. The audience was stirring uneasily, and I was about to ask Carl to remove him—I hesitated only because, well, he’s from the army. But just then, as though he knew what I was thinking, he took hold of himself, regained restraint, and delivered a stunning fifteen-minute, far-ranging, impromptu speech. Nothing original in the content. His views—anti-Jews, pro-military, anti-Communist—parallel our own. But his delivery was astounding. After a few minutes, everyone, and I mean everyone, was transfixed, their attention riveted to his blazing blue eyes and to his every word. This man has a gift. I knew it instantaneously, and after the meeting I ran after him and gave him my pamphlet,
My Political Awakening.
I also handed him my card and invited him to contact me to learn more about the party.”
“And?” Eckart asked.
“Well, he visited me last night. We talked at length about the aims and goals of the party, and he is now member number 555 and will address the party at the next meeting.”
“Five hundred fifty-five?” interjected Alfred. “Amazing! You’re grown that large already?”
“Between us, and only between us, Alfred, it’s 55,” Drexler whispered. “For publication we want you to add a digit and make it 555. We’ll be taken more seriously if we’re thought to be larger.”
A few nights later, Eckart and Alfred went together to hear Corporal Hitler speak. Afterward, they were to dine at Eckart’s home. Hitler strode confidently to the front of the audience of forty and with no introduction launched quickly into an impassioned warning of the danger posed to Germany by the Jews. “I have come,” he spat out, “to warn you about the Jews and to urge a new kind of anti-Semitism. I urge an anti-Semitism based on fact, not emotions. Emotional anti-Semitism leads only to ineffective pogroms. That is not the solution. We need more, far more, than that. We need a rational anti-Semitism. Rationality leads us to only one absolutely unshakeable conclusion: the elimination of Jews from Germany altogether.”
Then he issued another warning. “The revolution that swept the crowned head of Germany from power must not open the door for Judeo-Bolshevism.”
Alfred was startled by Hitler’s term “Judeo-Bolshevism.” He had been using that exact phrase for some time, and here this corporal was thinking in the same way—using the same words. That was both bad and good. Bad because he felt proprietary about the term, but good because he realized he had a forceful ally.
“Let me tell you more about the Jewish danger,” Hitler continued. “Let me tell you more about rational anti-Semitism. It’s not because of the Jews’ religion. Their religion is no worse than the others—they’re all part of the same great religious swindle. And it’s not because of their history or abominable parasitic culture—though their sins against Germany through the centuries are legion. No, these things are not the reason. The real issue is their race, their tainted blood that is every day, every hour, every minute, weakening and threatening Germany.
“The tainted blood can never become pure. Let me tell you about the Jews that choose baptism, the converted Christian Jews. They are the worst kind. They pose the greatest danger. They will insidiously infect and destroy our great country, just as they have destroyed every great civilization.”
Alfred jerked his head at this statement. He’s right, he’s right, he thought. This Hitler reminded him of what he knew. The blood cannot be changed.
Once a Jew, always a Jew. Alfred needed to rethink his whole approach to the Spinoza problem.
“And now, today”—Hitler continued and began to pound on his chest with each point—“you must realize you cannot turn a blind eye to this problem. Nor can small steps solve this problem—this problem of whether our nation can ever recover its health. The Jewish germ must be eradicated. Don’t be misled into thinking you can fight a disease without killing the carrier, without destroying the bacillus. Do not think you can fight racial tuberculosis without taking care to rid the nation of the carrier of that racial tuberculosis.”
Hitler made each point with a voice that grew more and more shrill, each sentence at a higher pitch, until it seemed certain his voice would crack into slivers—but it never did. When he ended by screaming, “
This Jewish contamination will not subside, this poisoning of the nation will not end until the carrier himself, the Jew, has been banished from our midst
,” the entire audience leapt to its feet, applauding wildly.
Dinner that evening at Eckart’s home was intimate—only four were present: Alfred, Drexler, Eckart, and Hitler. But this was a different Hitler—not the chest-pounding, angry Hitler but a polite, gracious Hitler.
Eckart’s wife, Rosa, a refined woman, escorted them into the parlor but after a few minutes discreetly retired, leaving the four men to their private conversation. Eckart, with an affable flourish, brought up one of his best wines from his cellar, but his exuberance was dashed to find that Hitler was a teetotaler and Alfred a one-glass man. He was dashed even more to learn that Hitler was a vegetarian and would not partake of the steaming roasted goose that the housekeeper proudly carried into the dining room. After the housekeeper quickly prepared some scrambled eggs and potato for Hitler, the four ate and talked for over three hours.
“So, Herr Hitler, tell us about your current assignment and your future in the army,” Eckart prompted.
“There is not much future for the army since the Versailles Treaty—may it be cursed forever—has set a limit of one hundred thousand soldiers and no limits at all for our enemies. This shrinkage means I’ll be mustered out in about six months. Currently I have few duties aside from observing meetings of the most threatening of our fifty political parties now operating in Munich.”
“And why is the German Workers Party considered threatening?” asked Eckart.
“Because of your word ‘workers.’ That arouses suspicions of Communist influence. But, Herr Eckart, I assure you that after my report, the army shall offer you nothing but support. It is a dangerous situation for us all. The Bolsheviks were responsible for the Russian surrender in the war, and now they are dedicated to infiltrating Germany and turning us into a Bolshevist state.”
“You and I spoke yesterday,” said Drexler, “about the recent wave of assassinations of leftist leaders. Would you mind repeating to Herr Eckart and Herr Rosenberg how you think the army and the police should respond?”
“I believe there are far too few assassinations, and if it were left to me, I’d supply more bullets to the assassins.”
Eckart and Drexler both smiled broadly at that answer, and Eckart inquired, “And your view of our party thus far?”
“I like what I see. I agree entirely with the party platform, and after thinking the matter through, I have no misgivings whatsoever about casting my lot with your party.”
“And our small size?” asked Drexler. “Alfred, our journalist here, was a trifle startled to learn that our first five hundred soldiers were of the mythic variety.”
“Ah, as a journalist,” Hitler turned to Alfred, “I hope you will come to agree that the truth is whatever the public believes. To speak frankly, Herr Drexler, our small size is, for me, an advantage, not a disadvantage. I have my military pay, few demands from my commanding officer, and for the next six months I plan to work unceasingly for the party and hope soon to put my imprint upon it.”
“May I take the liberty of asking for more information about your army service, Herr Hitler?” Eckart asked. “What particularly interests me is your rank. You have so much obvious leadership potential. You should be of high rank, and yet you are a corporal?”
“You must pose that question to my superior officers. I suspect they would say I was potentially a great leader but that I too strongly resisted being a follower. But what is more pertinent are the facts.” He turned to Alfred to make sure that he was taking notes. “I was awarded two Iron Crosses for bravery. Check that with the army, Herr Rosenberg. A good journalist needs to check the facts, even though there are times he may not choose to
use them. And I was wounded twice in front-line action. The first time was shrapnel wounds to my leg. But rather than enjoy a long convalescence, I insisted on returning immediately to my regiment. The second was a gift from our British friends—mustard gas. Several of us were blinded temporarily and survived only because one was merely half-blinded. He led us, each holding on to the next in a chain of hands, from the front to medical care. I was treated at Pasewalk Hospital and discharged about a year ago, with some damage to my vocal chords.”