Horizon 2

He was an old man, now, in his nineties.  Hermann Spanbower was writing his memoirs — he thought of them as confessions — good for the soul if he believed in that sort of claptrap.  Hermann only believed in himself, nothing else.  He wrote to distract himself from the ravages of old age.  His joints ached, his bladder needed emptying every twenty minutes, and his heart was weak — Hermann needed new appliances, machines and body-parts to replace his failing organs.  He waited for parts to become available.  While he waited he wrote — going back in time to make a record of his life.

“I was still a Nazi even after discovering my family came from Jews.  My mother’s family were Jewish.  My father’s relatives were all pure-bred German.  I never understood father’s attraction to a sub-human species.  He claimed he loved her … I knew he was faithful and treated the woman well, but it left me (his only son) to deal with the shame of an inferior heritage.  Ironically it worked to my advantage — I was able to leave a wrecked Germany after the war and emigrate to America to live with “Juden” (relatives I never knew I had).  I was an excellent performer — pretending to be Jewish until I could divest myself of the foolish people who called me “mischpoche” (family) — for that I needed money.  I was only seventeen.  As a Nazi Youth in Germany my education was excellent — and I was brilliant in every sense of the word; but without a college degree my employment prospects were less than adequate.  My new “family” wanted me to get a Jewish education — they sent me to Yeshiva.  I pretended to go, but instead I used the time to make money.  I was desperate.  I wanted my freedom from Jewry.   I was a superior being — a glorious Aryan Youth … so I did what I had to do … I used my body.”

The old man chuckles to himself as he recalls the past.  “Ironically, I discovered my talent during my first (and only) week at Yeshiva.  Rabbi Mortenson raped me with his eyes.  I could see his smoldering desire — checking out my lean, well defined body.  He was old — that didn’t bother me as much as the fact that he was a Jew.  I could use it to my advantage … and I did.  I pleasured the man.  It wasn’t as unpleasant as I expected — I discovered I enjoyed taking the old man’s orders.  I knew I was superior and letting the old man order me around was simply “play time.”   My ego could handle it — knowing, of course, that I was being well paid.  Money would take me anywhere I wanted to go.  I quickly learned where to find other men who were willing to pay for my services.  I stopped going to Yeshiva … instead, I frequented back alleys, restrooms, and bars that never asked for my ID.  I went after the men who were willing to pay.  I did whatever they demanded.  In my head I was in total command of the situation … I was the superior officer in total control even when a man mounted me and used me like a dog.  The money was good —  I used it to get away from my Jewish relatives.  I left without even leaving a note.  I rented a room in a slum where no one asked questions.  I catered to men of all ages and races much to my own humiliation.  Part of my act was accepting shame as my drug.  I was the Nazi hero being used by sub-humans and perverts — I did whatever I was told to do.  In the end I was always superior — able to use the most degrading circumstances to my advantage.   Money paved the way.  A higher class of clientele paid for my college education.  The days were always mine.   At night I was a sexual slave.   I lived with some very wealthy men — I didn’t care if they were Jews or Germans, Black or White as long as they wanted me.   I received an excellent education, eventually earning a Ph.D. in particle physics.  I was amazed at how many men wanted to fuck someone with a Ph.D.   My degree gave me the prestige to move on to the next phase of my life. (to be continued)

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One comment

  1. maxrandolph

    Lee, I hope you will not find what I have to say offensive. It starts with a question, and I ask it in all naivete and w/out the least shred of insinuation or cattiness. Why are some Jews seemingly positively (as opposed to negatively) obsessed w/ Nazis and Nazism? Is it a way of defeating one’s opponent by pretending to both assimilate and resemble him (and on the surface, indeed doing so), thus immobilizing his emotional or “spiritual” power? Or am I reading too much into your work?

    I find your work (I’m especially referencing this piece) fascinating . . . highly repulsive yet fascinating. Just as I find the Marquis de Sade, whom I am currently reading, both repulsive and fascinating. I know you abjure any cultural or artistic tradition vis a vis your work. But in my opinion none of us creates out of a cultural vacuum, and so our work, however original (and yours is unique), can be linked to some tradition or other, however obscure and outside the mainstream. With a piece like this, I see you being in the tradition of the Marquis de Sade. (And your excellent book, “Alien Journal,” largely ignored unfortunately because it’s so weird and, yes, repulsive, only lends weight to that theory.) A tradition that includes not too many American writers I can think of . . . in fact, William Burroughs is the only one.

    As to my initial question, I realize the vast difference–and discrepancy–between the man and the artist, especially knowing both. I think you like to play with fudging the lines of demarcation . . . and power to you for that! But if we are to be honest with each other and take ourselves seriously as artists (writers) I think we should be open to this kind of discussion and exploration.

    We both believe we are in this world largely to provoke a response. Our work reflects that belief. You, the man, have to deal with the response that you, the artist, have provoked, no? Hopefully doing so will only keep that weird ball rolling and deepen the bottomless pit of your creativity.

    Like

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