The Spinoza Problem (23 page)

Alfred, busily taking notes, looked up to say, “Your vocal cords sounded hale and hearty tonight.”

“Yes, I thought so. It’s strange, but those who knew me before the injury say that the chlorine gas seemed to have made my voice stronger. Trust me, I shall not fail to use it against the French and British criminals.”

“You’re an excellent speaker, Herr Hitler,” said Eckart, “and I think you’ll become invaluable to our party. Tell me: have you had any professional training in public speaking?”

“Only briefly, in the army. On the basis of a few impromptu speeches to other soldiers I was given a couple of hours’ training and assigned to lecture returning German prisoners of war on the major dangers to Germany: Communism, the Jews, and pacifism. My army record contains a report from my commanding officer calling me a ‘born orator.’ I believe that. I have a gift, and I intend to use it in the service of our party.”

Eckart continued asking questions about Hitler’s education and reading. Alfred was surprised to hear he had been a painter and sympathized with his outrage at Jews controlling the Viennese Art Academy and denying him entry to the painting school. They agreed to sketch together sometime. At the end of the evening, as the guests were preparing to leave, Eckart asked Alfred to remain a bit longer to discuss some work issues. When they were alone, Eckart poured some brandy for the two of them, ignoring Alfred’s refusal, and said, “Well, Alfred, he’s arrived. I believe tonight we’ve seen the future of Germany. He’s coarse and rough-hewn—many deficits, I know. But there is power, much power! And all the right sentiments. Do you not agree?”

Alfred was hesitant. “I see what you see. But when I think about elections, I envision large segments of Germany who might not agree. Can they embrace a man who has not spent a single day at university?”

“One vote per man. The great majority, like Hitler, have had their schooling on the streets.”

Alfred ventured yet further: “Yet I believe the greatness of Germany emanates from our great souls—Goethe, Kant, Hegel, Schiller, Leibniz. Don’t you agree?”

“That is precisely why I’ve asked you to stay. He needs . . . what shall I say? Polishing. Completion. He’s a reader but a highly selective one, and we need to fill in the gaps. That, Rosenberg, will be our job—yours and mine. But we must be deft and subtle. I sense great pride in him, and the herculean task lying before us is to educate him without his knowing it.”

Alfred walked home with a heaviness to his step. The future had grown clearer. A new drama was opening upon the stage, and though he was now certain he would be a cast member, his assigned role was not the one he had dreamed of.

T
he exterior of the Talmud Torah Synagogue, the major synagogue of the Sephardic Jews, resembled the exterior of any other house on the Houtgracht, a large and busy boulevard where many of Amsterdam’s Sephardic Jews lived. But with its lavish Moorish furnishings, the synagogue’s interior belonged to another world. Against the side wall—the wall closest to Jerusalem—stood an elaborately carved Holy Ark containing the Sifrei Torah hidden behind a dark red velvet, embroidered curtain. In front of the Ark a wooden bimah served as a platform on which the rabbi, the cantor, the reader of the day, and other dignitaries stood. All windows were covered with heavy drapes embroidered with birds and vines, preventing any passerby from seeing the synagogue interior.

The synagogue served as a Jewish community center, Hebrew school, and house of prayer for simple morning services, lengthier Sabbath ceremonies, and the festive celebrations of the High Holidays.

Not many people regularly attended the short, weekday prayer services; often there were only ten men—the required minyan—and if ten were not present, then an urgent street search was launched for additional men. Women, of course, could not be part of the minyan. On the morning of Thursday, July 27, 1656, however, there were not ten quiet pious worshippers but nearly three hundred clamoring congregation members occupying every seat and every inch of standing room. Present were not only regular, weekday worshippers and Sabbath Jews but even the rarely seen “High Holiday Jews.”

The reason for the hubbub and momentous turnout? The frenzy was fueled by the same thrill, the same horror and dark fascination that, through
the ages, had inflamed crowds rushing to witness crucifixions, hangings, beheadings, and autos-da-fé. Throughout the Jewish community of Amsterdam word had spread swiftly that Baruch Spinoza was to be excommunicated.

Cherems
were commonplace in Amsterdam’s seventeenth-century Jewish community. A
cherem
was issued every several months, and every adult Jew had witnessed many. But the enormous crowd of July 27 anticipated no ordinary
cherem
. The Spinoza family was well-known to every Amsterdam Jew. Baruch’s father and his uncle, Abraham, often had served on the
mahamad
, the governing board of the synagogue, and both men lay buried in the cemetery’s most hallowed ground. Yet it is the fall from grace of the most highly placed that has always most excited crowds: the dark side of admiration is envy combined with disgruntlement at one’s own ordinariness.

Of ancient lineage,
cherems
were first described in the second century BCE, in the Mishnah, the earliest written compilation of oral rabbinical traditions. A systematic compendium of offenses warranting
cherem
was compiled in the fifteenth century by Rabbi Joseph Caro in his influential book
The Prepared Table
(
Shulchan Arukh
), which was widely printed and well-known to seventeenth-century Amsterdam Jews. Rabbi Caro listed a large number of offenses warranting
cherem
, including gambling, behaving lewdly, failing to pay one’s taxes, publicly insulting fellow community members, marrying without parental consent, committing bigamy or adultery, disobeying a decision of the
mahamad
, disrespecting a rabbi, engaging in theological discussion with Gentiles, denying the validity of oral rabbinic law, and questioning the immortality of the soul or the divine nature of the Torah.

It was not only the
who
and the
why
of the impending
cherem
that incited curiosity among the crowd at Talmud Torah Synagogue: rumors presaged extreme severity. Most
cherems
were mild, public rebukes, resulting in a fine or being shunned for days or weeks. In more serious cases involving blasphemy, the sentence typically was longer—in one case, eleven years. Yet reinstatement always was possible if the individual was willing to repent and to accept some prescribed penalty—generally, a large fine or, as in the case of the infamous Uriel da Costa, public lashing. But in the days leading to July 27, 1656, rumors had circulated about a
cherem
of unprecedented severity.

According to custom for
cherem
, the synagogue interior was lit only by candles of black wax, seven resting on a large, hanging chandelier and twelve in surrounding wall niches. Rabbi Mortera and his assistant, Rabbi Aboab,
who had returned from thirteen years in Brazil, stood side by side on the bimah in front of the Holy Ark, flanked by the six members of the parnassim. Waiting solemnly until the congregation grew quiet, Rabbi Mortera held aloft a Hebrew document and, without greeting or opening statement, read the Hebrew proclamation in his booming voice. Most of the congregation listened in silence. The few who understood spoken Hebrew whispered in Portuguese to their neighbors, who in turn passed the information along the rows. By the time Rabbi Mortera had finished reading, the congregation’s mood had grown sober, almost grim.

Rabbi Mortera took two steps back as Rabbi Aboab stepped forward and began to translate the Hebrew
cherem
, word for word, into Portuguese.

“Abominable heresies”? “Evil acts”? “Monstrous deeds”? Murmuring arose from the congregation. Astonished members searched one another’s faces. Many had known Baruch Spinoza for his entire life. Most admired him, and none knew of any involvement with wickedness, monstrous deeds, or abominable heresies. Rabbi Aboab continued:

From the men’s section of the congregation, Gabriel searched the women’s area for Rebekah, trying to gauge her reaction to this violent cursing of their brother. Gabriel had witnessed
cherems
before but never one with such vehemence. And it immediately got worse. Rabbi Aboab continued:

As Rabbi Aboab retreated, Rabbi Mortera stepped forward and glared at the congregation, as if to make eye contact with every member, then slowly, laying emphasis upon each syllable, he pronounced the shunning:

Rabbi Mortera nodded to Rabbi Aboab. Without a word, the men locked arms and descended in unison from the bimah. Then, followed by the six members of the parnassim, they strode down the aisle and out of the synagogue. The congregation broke into raucous clamor. Not even the eldest of members could recall a
cherem
so harsh. There had been no mention of repentance or reinstatement. Everyone in the congregation appeared to understand the implications of the rabbi’s words. This
cherem
was forever.

A
s the weeks passed Alfred changed his opinion about his assigned role. No longer onerous, it was now a glorious opportunity, the perfect role for him to exert vast influence upon the fate of the Fatherland. The party was still small, but Alfred knew it was the party of the future.

Hitler lived in a small apartment near the office and almost daily visited Eckart, who mentored his protégé by sharpening his anti-Semitism, extending his political vision, and introducing him to prominent right-wing Germans. Three years later Hitler would dedicate the second volume of
Mein Kampf
to Dietrich Eckart, “that man who devoted his life to awakening our people in his writings, his thoughts, his deeds.” Alfred, too, often saw Hitler, always in the late afternoon or evening, because Hitler kept late hours and slept till noon. They talked and walked and visited galleries and museums.

There were two Hitlers. One was Hitler the ferocious orator, who electrified and mesmerized every crowd he addressed. Alfred had never seen anything like it, and Anton Drexler and Dietrich Eckart were ecstatic to have finally found the man to lead their party into the future. Alfred attended many of the talks, and they were legion. With limitless energy Hitler spoke wherever he could find an audience, on corners of busy boulevards, on crowded trams, and, mainly, in beer halls. His fame as a speaker quickly spread, and his audiences grew—at times to over a thousand. Moreover, to make the party more inclusive Hitler suggested changing the name from the German Workers Party to the National Socialist German Workers Party (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or NSDAP).

Occasionally Alfred also gave speeches to party members that Hitler generally attended and always applauded. “The thoughts were
wunderbar
,” Hitler would say. “But more fire, more fire.”

And then there was the other Hitler—the amiable Hitler, the relaxed, courteous Hitler who listened to Alfred’s musings on history, on aesthetics, on German literature. “We think alike,” Hitler often exclaimed, oblivious of the fact that it was Alfred who planted many of the seeds now sprouting in his mind.

One day Hitler visited him in his new office at the
Völkischer Beobachter
(the People’s Observer) to hand him an article on alcoholism he wished to publish. Earlier that year, the Nazi Party had purchased the Thule Society newspaper,
Münchener Beobachter
, promptly rechristened it, and turned it over to Dietrich Eckart, who closed his old newspaper and moved his entire staff to the new one. Hitler waited as Alfred read over the article and was surprised when Alfred opened his desk drawer and pulled out a draft of an article he, by sheer chance, was writing on alcoholism.