I know he must have some respect for me. He offered me one important post after another: diplomatic assignments in London, then in Norway, then head of the ideological education of the NSDAP and the German labor front, and all related organizations. Important positions. But why do I only find out about my appointments by mail? Why not call me into his office, shake my hand, sit down and talk? Am I so repulsive?
Yes, there’s no doubt: Hitler is the problem. More than anything in the world I want his attention. More than anything, I dread his vexation. I run the most influential newspaper in Germany; I am in charge of the spiritual and philosophical education of all Nazis. But am I writing the necessary articles? Giving the necessary lectures? Planning curricula? Overseeing the education of all young Germans? No, Reichsleiter Rosenberg is too busy brooding about why he hasn’t received a loving smile or nod or, God forbid, a lunch invitation from Adolf Hitler!
I disgust myself. This has got to stop!
Alfred arose and walked to the desk in his room. Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted his “No” folder. (He had two folders, a “Yes” folder containing positive reviews, fan letters, and newspaper articles and a ‘No’ folder, holding all contrary opinions.) The “Yes” folder was well-worn. Several times a week Alfred perused complimentary reviews and fan letters that served as a daily tonic—like taking his morning vitamins. But now the tonic was losing potency. Now all “Yes” comments barely penetrated, a millimeter at most, and rapidly evaporated. The “No” folder, on the other hand, was unknown territory—a cavern rarely visited. Today! Today would be the turning point! He would confront his demons. As Alfred reached into
the unvisited folder, he imagined the surprised letters and articles scurrying for cover. A smile appeared on his lips, the first in many weeks, as he appreciated his droll sense of humor. He extracted an item randomly—it was time to overcome this foolishness. A brave man forces himself to read hurtful things every day until they no longer hurt. He looked at it—a letter from Hitler dated August 24, 1931:
My dear Herr Rosenberg: I am just reading in the
Völkischer Beobachter
, edition 235/236, page 1, an article entitled “Does Wirth Intend to Come Over?” The tendency of the article is to prevent a crumbling away from the present form of government. I myself am traveling all over Germany to achieve exactly the opposite. May I therefore ask that my own paper not stab me in the back with tactically unwise articles?
With German Greetings,
Adolf Hitler
A wave of despair enveloped him. The letter was five years old but still potent, still hurtful. Paper cuts inflicted by Hitler never healed. Alfred shook his head vigorously to clear his head. Think about this man named Hitler, he told himself. He is, after all, only a man. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts flow.
I introduced Hitler to the breadth and depth of German culture. I showed him the immensity of the Jewish scourge. I polished his ideas of race and blood. He and I walked the same streets, sat in the same cafés, talked incessantly, worked together on
Beobachter
articles, once even sketched together. But no longer. Now I can only watch him in astonishment, like a hen gazing up at a hawk. I was witness to his gathering together the scattered party members when he left prison, to his entering parliamentary elections, to his building a propaganda machine the likes of which the world had never before seen—a machine that invented direct mail and campaigned continuously, even when there were no elections. I saw him shrug off poor returns of less than 5 percent the first few years and keep improving until 1930, when his party became the second largest in Germany with 18 percent of the vote. And in 1932 I ran huge headlines announcing that the Nazis had become
the largest party, with 38 percent of the vote. Some say it was Goebbels who was the mastermind, but I know it was Hitler. Hitler was behind everything. I covered every step of the way for the
Beobachter
. I saw him fly from city to city making appearances all over the county on the same day and persuading the populace that he was an
Übermensch
, capable of being everywhere at once. I admired his fearlessness as he deliberately scheduled meetings in the midst of dangerous Communist-controlled neighborhoods and commanded his storm troopers to battle the Bolshevists on the streets. I saw him reject my advice and run against Hindenburg in 1932. He gathered only 37 percent of the votes, but he showed me he was right to run: he knew no one could have defeated Hindenberg, but the election made him a household name. A few months later he agreed to a coalition Hitler/Papen government and then soon became chancellor. I followed every single political step, and I still don’t know how he did it.
And the Reichstag fire. I remember how he showed up wild-eyed at my office at 5 am, yelling “Where is everyone?” and demanded huge coverage of the Communists burning down the Reichstag. I still don’t think the Communists had anything to do with the fire, but no matter—in a stroke of genius he used the fire to ban the Communist Party and assume absolute one-man power. He never won a majority vote, never more than 38 percent, and there he was—an absolute ruler! How did he do it? I still don’t know!
Alfred’s reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door and the entry of Dr. Gebbardt, followed by Friedrich Pfister. “I have a surprise for you, Reichsleiter Rosenberg. I bring an old friend who may prove useful in treating your condition. I’ll leave the two of you to discuss this alone.”
Alfred glared at Friedrich for a long while before saying, “You betrayed me. You broke your vow to me about secrecy. How else could he have known that you and I—”
Friedrich wheeled about instantly and, without a word or glance at Alfred, strode out of the room.
Panicky, Alfred flopped back on the bed, closed his eyes, and tried to slow his rapid breathing.
A few minutes later Friedrich returned with Dr. Gebbardt, who said, “Dr. Pfister has asked me to tell you how I selected him. Do you not remember, Reichsleiter Rosenberg, our conversation three or four weeks ago, in
which I asked you whether you had ever bared yourself completely to anyone? Your exact words were, ‘a friend from Estonia, now living here, Dr. Friedrich Pfister.’”
Alfred shook his head slowly. “I vaguely remember our discussion but do not recall using his name.”
“You did indeed. How else could I have known it? Or known he was in Germany? Last week, when your depression deepened and you would not speak to me, I decided to try to locate your friend, thinking that a visit from him might be salubrious. When I learned he was in the Wehrmacht, I asked the Führer to order his transfer to the Hohenlychen Clinic.”
“Would you mind,” asked Friedrich, “telling Reichsleiter Rosenberg about my response?”
“Only that you once knew him growing up in Estonia.”
“And . . .” prodded Friedrich.
“There was nothing more . . . except that you regretted leaving the many patients who depended on you but that nothing took precedence over following the Führer’s orders.”
“May I have a brief private conversation with Reichsleiter Rosenberg before you leave the ward this morning?”
“Of course. I’ll wait for you at the nurses’ station.”
When the door closed, Friedrich said, “Other questions, Reichsleiter Rosenberg?”
“Alfred, please, Friedrich. I am Alfred. Call me Alfred.”
“All right. Other questions, Alfred? He’s waiting.”
“You’re to be my doctor? I assure you that under the old conditions I would welcome it. But, now, how can I possibly speak to you? You’re in the Wehrmacht and under orders to report to him.”
“Yes, I understand your dilemma. I would feel the same way if I were in your position.” Friedrich sat down on the chair next to the bed and thought for a few moments; then he rose and left the room, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and soon returned with Dr. Gebbardt.
“Sir,” he addressed Dr. Gebbardt, “my orders are to attend to Reichsleiter Rosenberg, and, of course, I shall follow those orders to the best of my ability. But there is an impediment. He and I are old acquaintances, and we’ve long shared intimate concerns with one another. If I’m to be helpful to him, then it is essential he and I have complete privacy. I must be able to promise
him absolute confidentiality. I know that daily notes in the medical chart are mandatory, and I ask that I be permitted to enter notes describing only his medical condition.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Pfister, but I can understand the necessity for privacy in this instance. It is not standard procedure, but nothing takes precedence over Reichsleiter Rosenberg’s recovery and return to his important work. I agree to your request.” He saluted both men and departed.
“Does this reassure you, Alfred?”
Alfred nodded. “I am reassured.”
“And are there no other questions?”
“I am satisfied. Despite the fractious end of our last encounter I continue to have a strange trust in you. I say ‘strange’ because in truth I trust practically no one. And I need your help. Last year I was hospitalized here for three months in a similar state—a deep black hole. I could not climb out. I felt finished. I could not sleep. I was exhausted yet couldn’t sit still, couldn’t rest.”
“Your condition—we call it ‘agitated depression’—almost always resolves in about three to six months. I can help you shorten that.”
“I will be eternally grateful. Everything—my whole life—is in jeopardy.”
“Let’s go to work. You know my approach and probably won’t be surprised to hear me say that our first chore is to clear away all obstacles to our working together. I, like you, have concerns. Let me gather my thoughts.”
Friedrich closed his eyes for a few moments and began. “It’s best if I clear the air and just say what comes to mind. I have troubling doubts about our working together. We’re too different. My propensity is to understand, to uncover the hidden roots of difficulties—that’s the basic belief of the psychoanalytic method. Full knowledge removes conflicts and promotes healing. Yet, with you, I worry that I cannot take that path. Last time, when I attempted to explore the sources of your difficulties, you grew angry and defensive and charged out of my office. So I worry if I, or at least that approach, can be useful to you.”
Alfred stood up and paced about his room.
“Am I unsettling you by my frankness?”
“No, it’s just my nerves. I can’t sit for too long. I appreciate your candor. No one else speaks so forthrightly to me. You’re my one friend, Friedrich.”
Friedrich tried to digest those words. He was moved despite himself. And he was furious at having been transferred with no advance notice to
the Hohenlychen Clinic. His sudden transfer meant abandoning a large number of patients in the midst of their treatment without being able to provide a definite date of return. Nor did he relish seeing Alfred Rosenberg again. Six years ago, he watched Alfred Rosenberg’s back as he stormed out of his office muttering sinister threats about the Jewish roots of his profession, and was relieved to have seen the last of him. Moreover, he had tried to read
The Myth of the Twentieth Century
. But like everyone else he found it incomprehensible. It was one of those best sellers everyone bought but no one read. What little he read alarmed him.
Alfred may be suffering, he plaintively says I’m his only friend, but he is a dangerous man—dangerous for Germany, for everyone.
The thoughts in the
Mythus
and
Mein Kampf
were parallel—he remembered Alfred saying Hitler had stolen his ideas. Both books sickened him—so vile, so base. And so menacing that he had begun to consider emigration and had already written to Carl Jung and Eugen Bleuler to enquire about a post at the Zurich hospital where he had trained. But then came the accursed conscription letter congratulating him on his appointment as an Oberleutnant in the Wehrmacht. He should have acted earlier. He had been warned by his analyst, Hans Meyer, who several years ago read
Mein Kampf
over a weekend, foresaw the cataclysm to come, and began advising every single one of his Jewish patients to leave the country immediately. He himself had emigrated to London within a month.
So what to do? Friedrich had put aside the naïve thought that he could help Alfred become a better person—that seemed a piece of youthful foolishness. For the sake of his own career (and the welfare of his wife and his two young sons), there was only one viable option: follow orders, and do his best to get Alfred out of the hospital as quickly as possible and get himself back to his family and patients at his Berlin posting. He had to bury his contempt for his patient and act professionally. His first step was to construct a clear frame for therapy.
“I’m touched by your comment about our friendship,” he said. “But your statement that I am your only friend concerns me. Everyone needs friends and confidants. We should try to address your isolation: there is no doubt it plays a major role in your illness. As for our work together, let me share some other concerns. These are more difficult to express, but it’s essential that I do so. I, too, have privacy issues. As you know, it’s now a
criminal offense to question any party positions. One’s very speech is monitored, and no doubt the monitoring will be even more intensive as time goes by. It’s always been so in authoritarian regimes. I, like the majority of Germans, don’t agree with all the tenets of the NSDAP. You, of course, know well that Hitler never received a majority vote. Last time we met—it has been many years—six, I think—you stormed out of my office in, if you’ll permit me to say, an angry, out-of-control state. In that state I could not feel confident in your respecting my privacy. And that will result in my feeling constricted and less effective in my work with you. I’m being wordy here, but I think you get my point: confidentiality must go both ways. You have my personal and professional oath that what you say here remains here. I need the same assurance.”