“Alright, I’ll watch myself,” she said with no suggestion of tears. “Are we going to that smokehouse or not?”
She walked past Mock and made her way towards a temporary counter on which a fishmonger in a rubber apron and sailor’s hat had arranged lightly smoked eels. He watched her slim back, which was shaking. He ran to her, turned her round and made to kiss away her tears. He did not do so, however, as Erika was not crying, she was shaking with laughter.
“My childhood was normal and nobody raped me,” she spluttered. “And talking of life’s wrecks, I wasn’t thinking about myself at all, but about a certain man …”
“A man who goes by the name of Kurt, no doubt? Go on, say it!” Mock was shouting, heedless of the fishmonger’s knowing eyes which said “that’s what young wives are like”. “That’s why you like the name Kurt so much, eh? You told me that the day before yesterday! Kurty, eh? Who was Kurty? Go on, tell me, damn it!”
“No.” Erika became serious. “The man’s name is Eberhard.”
8. IX.1919
It was remarkable, the occultists’ conference organized by Professor Schmikale, the representative of the Thule order in Breslau. The whole world and their father were invited! Ludwig Klages himself, Lanz von Liebenfels and even Walter Friedrich Otto! They did not, however, trouble themselves to come to this out-of-the-way Silesian province. Instead, the first of these sent his assistant, some lisping lad who gave a completely incomprehensible lecture on the cult of the Pelasgians’ Great Mother goddess. Furthermore he kept on suggesting that Klages’ master, Friedrich Nietzsche, was in constant spiritual contact with the Magna Mater. It was she who allegedly gave him the idea to call Jahwe and Jesus “usurpers of divinity”. At the same time he mercilessly criticized the young Englishman Robert Graves, who in a lecture had dared to claim that it was he who had come up with this term for the Jewish gods. It’s ridiculous! A paper on who was the first to think up some trivial formulation!
From the order of the new Templars it was not von Liebenfels who came, but a Doctor Fritzjorg Neumann, who foretold the return of Wotan. His lecture was rewarded with applause, not because of his searing antiSemitic and anti-Christian attacks, but for the lecture’s constant reiteration of the support of Erich von Ludendorff — chief quartermaster of the Emperor’s Armies — for the concept of Wotan’s Second Coming.
It is not surprising that after Neumann’s utterances the next lecturer, an intelligent, young Jewish woman, Dora Lorkin, was met with iciness and contempt. Oh, you profane people! Oh, you idiots with “von” before your names! Oh, you quarrelling chieftains who see nothing beyond your own dull tribes! You’re unable to appreciate true wisdom! Because through this young woman spoke Athena! Dora Lorkin was the represen tative of W.F. Otto’s polytheistic spiritualism. It transpired from the insightful theories of the Master she was representing that the human soul is a playing field for the ceaseless action of the Greek gods, who are the only true beings, while all other gods are mere myth. I will pass over her ontological reasoning. It is not vital. What made the greatest impression on me was the not new — as, after the lecture, some people accused it of being — but very apt notion of the Erinyes as the workings of a bad conscience.
Several sentences on the subject led me to ponder deeply, and allowed me to modify the piece on which I was working. Because as yet our bitter enemy has not admitted to his guilt, has not confessed his mistake. First I set free the spiritual energy of four young men. This energy was to guide him to a rightful way of thinking. The gouged eyes and the quotation from the Bible were supposed to make things evident to him. Our enemy, in his stubbornness, has not admitted to anything. In his house, some former butcher’s shop, I forced the evil spirit of an old libertine to return and torment the inhabitants. Still no confession of any guilt. Finally, for our cause, I offered up a harlot covered in scales. Admittedly I did not tear out her eyes. He is bound to know by now what we want of him! It should not take the rheumy eyes of an adulteress to make him realize! But he persists in his silence.
Only now, after Dora Lorkin’s lecture, have I understood that I must bring down true evil — the Erinyes — upon him. Then his torments will reach their zenith and he will admit to everything. At home I had a look at my shelf of books by writers of antiquity and took down Aeschylus’ tragedies. After reading for several hours I understood. I will bring down the Erinyes upon our enemy, and sacrifice his father as an offering to him. The Erinyes persecuted Orestes because he killed his mother. Aeschylus writes that they did not listen to Orestes’ reasonings or his pleas for mercy. Only one thing was important to them: to punish him and avenge his mother’s blood. At that point I had doubts. Our bitter enemy would not, after all, be guilty of patricide because I would be the one offering his father in sacrifice. Will then the Erinyes come down upon him? After all it is he who,
When this thought came to mind, I remembered that I had once read about one of the Erinyes, probably Megaera or Tisiphone, being the personification of wild jealousy. I now knew what to do. The worst I can do is fail. True wisdom is not the garbled analysis of some baroque mystic! True wisdom is not to be found in Daniel von Czepko or Angelus Silesius! True wisdom is achieved only through experience. And it is precisely my next experiment which will show whether Aristotle was right when he wrote: “The soul in a way is all that exists.” We will see whether, as Otto claims, the Erinyes really do exist.
RUGENWALDERMUNDE, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16TH, 1919
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Erika and Mock passed the lighthouse and turned right towards the eastern beach. Erika rested her head on Mock’s shoulder and turned away for a moment to let her eyes glide indifferently over the houses on the other side of the canal. Mock followed her gaze. Although his interest in maritime architecture was equal to his interest in the question of civilizing Slavs and Kasubians, frequently blared out in newspaper headlines, he nevertheless unexpectedly took in a large number of technical details: on the whole the houses were built with timber-and-stone walls and generally covered with tarred roofing sheets, which somewhat surprised Mock, accustomed as he was to the Silesian craft of roof slating. Once in a tavern, where Bornholm salmon sizzled on a spit, he had asked about this maritime roofing and had been told by an old sailor how incredibly strong the sea wind could be, and that flying slates would smash against the walls of the houses or on the heads of passers-by.
“Do you remember, Erika, that old sailor who told us about how roofing is done in Pomerania?” He felt her nod on his shoulder. “When you left to go out for a walk he told me about another effect of the sea wind …”
“What effect?” Erika took her head off his shoulder and looked at him with interest.
“When the wind howls for a long time it drives people insane. Makes them commit suicide.”
“Then it’s a good thing it’s not howling now,” she said gravely and huddled against him.
The eye of the lighthouse lit up behind them. Its built-in horn monotonously announced a fog which was to descend on the port after the hot autumnal day. Seagulls screeched in warning.
At a seafront cafe they turned down to the beach. Erika was full of energy. She ran across the sand below the cafe terrace and raced towards the ladies’ changing room. For a moment Mock lost sight of her. Carrying a wicker basket filled with bread, wine, fried marinated herring and half a roast chicken, he could barely keep up with her. He panted and gasped, his lungs damaged by nicotine.
Finally he staggered onto the eastern beach. A few strollers were building up an appetite for supper with a brisk walk. Some daredevil in a tight tricot bathing suit was cutting through the gentle waves with his solid knots of muscle. On the footbridge leading to the splendid ladies’ changing room, supported by several metre-long wooden stumps sunk into the beach, Erika stood talking to a young woman. Mock wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked carefully at the girl. He recognized her. It was the prostitute who was staying at the Spa House Hotel where, as Mock had already managed to discover, a four-woman team of Corinthian professionals was at work.
“She’s met her match,” he thought, and walked on westwards, ignoring Erika who bade her friend-by-trade goodbye and ran gaily after him. They sat down on a dune. Erika turned her face to the salty sea breeze; Mock turned his mind to an all-consuming fury: “She’s met her match — surely I’m mad to associate with this whore.” Erika paid no heed to the man lying next to her with his hands behind his head, watching the girl step off the footbridge which connected the changing room to the beach. When she found herself past the broken teeth of the
