Professor Müller, if you weren't killed it was because of me.

He said my clumsiness bordered on insanity. How, he asked, did it occur to you to aid a fanatic like Rainer Minder? I told him it was a risky theme, that of Rainer's fanaticism. The elevation of sensitive folk had been common currency in Germany for some time. That exaltation led one to embrace many causes with immoderation. We live, as you know, in that mode. Any tepidness is a dishonor or a loss, or even cowardly. Every new day demands decisions and courage from Germans. With politics diminished, they occur now in those crude expressions that perpetuate it, as master Clausewitz might put it, "by other means": the war. Or isn't what is going on now a war?

What is going on now is a massacre, a cleaning, a tallying of accounts, and a definitive ordering of the politico-military National Socialist apparatus.

I know, I said, that as you said, I owe you my life.

My men are not subtle, as you know. They erase the problem, and everything around it. I had to seriously warn them that your life was to be respected. I know that Goering managed to save Papen, by a miracle, or by being Goering.

Which is the same.

The same.

You too made a little miracle this evening.

Your life, yes. You are an effective professor and a good national socialist. You will lead the faculty.

And Biemel?

That Marxist shot himself this morning.

Marxist? Biemel, Marxist? He said he hated Marx.

Those are the worst.

I looked at him fixedly. I looked for his eyes. I wanted to see if what I would say might awaken a shine in them.

Lieutenant Rolfe, I know what I speak of. Biemel was not a Marxist. He was a national socialist, he hated Bolsheviks and Jews. He was, in all, a good German. Or - and forgive my search for precision - he was what today should be every good German.

Only today?

As long as the Third Reich lasts.

It will last a thousand years.

For a thousand years, then, a good German must be that.

Will you be?

I won't live a thousand years.

Will you be while you live?

Absolutely. Every day that goes by affirms in me the two passions that plot my life: fear and obedience.

They are the same passion. I can take one away. Fear. Nothing will happen to you, Professor Müller. Keep your obedience and teach in your classes the materials you will be given. We know you will do it well and that's all we want from you. Heroism has a thousand faces.

Why did Biemel kill himself?

I told you: he was a Marxist.

No.

Was he or wasn't he with Röhm?

That doesn't make him a Marxist.

He leaned his arms on his desk and laughed whole heartedly, with the outrageous disdain of victorious soldiers. Professor Müller, Biemel was with Röhm. That made him our enemy. And our enemies are whatever we say they are. If we win, they are so definitively. And for being so we kill them. That is why it is war.

What will happen to Professor Heidegger?

Nothing. He resigned in time. He doesn't enjoy our sympathies. He exceeded with his ambitions. But he has our immense respect. He will continue teaching. National Socialism is not what he believes it is. But that doesn't matter to anyone nor does it prejudice anyone. The Master, dear Müller, is as much a genius in philosophy as he is limited in politics. He believed that Hitler would be the Führer of war and he, at his side, that of philosophy. Aligning with Röhm lost him. But without Röhm he wouldn't have been imposed on Freiburg. In any case his enterprise was implausible. Adolf Hitler is the Führer of war, of philosophy, of the West and, very soon, of the whole world. It's an old story; great intellectuals approach great political leaders to control them through ideas. But great political leaders are great because no one controls them. On the contrary, they hate those that try to. And so the bitter luck of so many intellectuals - an odious word, as you know - and philosophers. Herr Heidegger, at least, has saved his life. You too, Müller. Now retire.

I returned in the same black Mercedes Benz. I didn't know (it was impossible that I could know) that I would travel once more, in the car, in another time, in another place. I didn't know (it was impossible that I could know) that I would see Lieutenant Werner Rolfe once again. Even less did I know, on seeing him, also in another time and place, he, with sadism and with a demented pride, would open the doors of the abyss for me.

Labels: The Shadow of Heidegger

¶ 3:10 AM