‘Absolutely,’ said Mecklinger. It had finally dawned on him – he wondered why it had taken him so long – that the way to get rid of Schleiffer was to pretend to take his bizarre fantasies seriously, and to promise an investigation. True, there was always the chance that it might encourage him, that he might show up even more often with even more ridiculous charges. But, by the same token, maybe it would slow him down, make him more circumspect about which ‘reports’ he filed. Anyway, at the very least, it would get him out of the office for now.
‘We will do a thorough investigation, Schleiffer.’
‘And you will let me know how it turns out?’ said Schleiffer, suddenly filled with pride and hope.
‘Oh no, I’m afraid not, Schleiffer. No, no. You realize, this has to be investigated in secret and dealt with in secret, too. Any findings will be kept secret as well.’ Mecklinger lowered his voice. ‘You can see, Herr Schleiffer, that because there are foreign elements involved, in fact everywhere, as you say’ – he gestured to the left and right – ‘investigations of this sort are particularly sensitive. Which is why, Schleiffer, you must not speak of this matter to anyone.’
Mecklinger stood up and saluted. ‘Thank you, Schleiffer, for coming forward with this information. Heil Hitler!’
Schleiffer was startled by the abrupt ending of their meeting, but he recovered quickly, snapped to attention, and saluted. ‘Jawohl, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter! Heil Hitler!’ Schleiffer spun on his heels and left the office.
Mecklinger took the piece of paper where he had written Karl Juncker’s name and address. He looked at it for a moment before he crumpled it into a tight little ball and threw it into the trash. He smiled. He was pleased to have finally figured out how to deal with the Schleiffers of the world. He wondered whether in fact he might adapt the same technique – ‘the Schleiffer method’ he would call it – to other, more personal circumstances. He could pretend, for instance, to comply with Gudrun’s demands and yet still have his way with Lorelei. ‘Maybe. Just maybe it would work. But I’ll have to be careful. Really careful. Gudrun must remain Gudrun and Lorelei must remain Lorelei.’
The Gestapo
Reinhard Pabst was a fourth-year university student when he became disillusioned with academic life. German literature had been his course of study. But Lessing, Goethe, Schiller, Heine, the heroes of his chosen field, seemed to him to be essentially celebrating self-indulgence. Professor Schultheiß had proved this in his course and in his writings. Their ‘Enlightenment’ had only led the world into bitter conflict and secular confusion, and eventually brought about the cultural degeneracy and spiritual wasteland that was Weimar Germany. What ultimate purpose could studying these degenerate writers have besides the glorification of the self and the denigration of man and God?
This, Reinhard’s first epiphany, a ‘spiritual revelation,’ came about as he was reading a biography of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the warrior who had become a Christian saint. Reinhard thought that the way to happiness might lie for him through abandoning his own troubling earthly longings and pursuits, laying his discontent and unhappiness aside, and substituting God-filled dreams and meditations, visions of holiness, of Christ and Biblical Truth. And, in fact, he discovered that when he tried to think better thoughts, his anguish left him, and he did momentarily feel better.
He joined the Jesuit novitiate and began a month-long retreat in silence and isolation that took him through Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises. Through this series of spiritual practices – prayer, meditation, contemplation – he sought, like other Jesuits before him, ‘to conquer myself and to regulate my life in such a way that no decision is made under the influence of any inordinate attachment.’ The trouble was his ‘inordinate attachments’ would not leave him. During that period of extreme aloneness, he slept little and was visited by strong and disturbing visions and voices.
Next, Reinhard engaged in a series of what was called apostolic experiments, spending time in a Jesuit ministry, serving the war injured, the sick, the needy and the forgotten. He ministered in shelters and soup kitchens, among the poor and downtrodden, wherever he was needed. After two years Reinhard took the vows of perpetual poverty, chastity and obedience. He promised to commit his life ‘to serve God, the Church, and those to whom I am missioned for the greater glory of God.’ He embarked on a study in theology and philosophy – reading Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas – while continuing his apostolic service.
It was during this philosophical study – he had strayed for some reason to the dark philosophers, Schopenhauer, Hobbes, Nietzsche – that he had his second epiphany, even more violent than the first. It came about as he sat in a tenement room by the bed of a prostitute suffering from tuberculosis. He read to her comforting words from the Bible about heaven and reunion with God, about the sufferings of Jesus. She didn’t want his comfort or his God, for that matter. ‘Go away. Who are you anyway?’
‘I’m Brother Reinhard. Reinhard Pabst,’ he said. He thought she was asking his name.
‘Pabst? Pabst?’ She laughed, because Pabst is German for pope. ‘Pope Reinhard! Your Christian charity is crap. Go away, your Holiness.’
‘Please,’ said Reinhard. ‘I only want to help you find comfort.’
‘That’s shit,’ she said. ‘You hypocritical Pope. You just want to make yourself feel righteous. Rot in hell.’
She turned to face the wall. Reinhard took her arm and tried to turn her back his way. She pulled her arm away abruptly. ‘Stop it,’ she said. He tugged at her arm again, and she turned toward him in a fury. ‘Listen, Pope, hands off! I’ve been fucked by priests before. I was eight the first time. Are you going to fuck me too?’ Then she laughed again until her laughter turned into coughing.
Despite the woman’s wretched condition, or maybe because of it, Reinhard felt a violent anger welling up
