Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Bernanos, who tracked down all kinds of inhumane acts, nowhere mentions a single instance of crucifixion, and we must bear in mind that this writer, with a conscientious zeal motivated by a bad conscience, would have recorded anything that could serve — for his own private purposes — to exculpate his soul. To use the term “bad conscience” is, from the point of view of psychology, to speak quite superficially when applied to a thinker for whom the problem of Original Sin was a simple matter, but who fell for the abysmally stupid slogans of the Spanish monarchists in a manner matched only by a certain provincial German Nobel-Prize-winning philosopher who swallowed Hitler’s double-talk. When Bernanos once invited me to come and discuss a German translation of his Journal d’un curé de campagne , I refused. Tell me what company you keep, and I’ll tell you what you’re in for. Bernanos frequented the same exalted Catholic and aristocratic company on the island to which we had also found access, and which was the source of the Revolution. Does this mean that I should have gone against myself? A court jester can take liberties that a king must forego. If at the time I had read more of Bernanos’ work, I would have told myself, “Sooner or later this guy is going to have to wake up.” Miguel de Unamuno underwent an even more serious kind of blinding. He actually saw in the two-armed General Franco the Redeemer of Spain, and he suffered greatly as a result. With him, I was sure that the scales would fall from his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to recover, but he was soon put under arrest and didn’t survive the incarceration.

A big one-armed general contributed to the performance of this miracle. No, not our Patuco — unfortunately not him. Millán Astray provided the immediate cause for Unamuno’s uttering his famous pun, a faux pas that cost him his life. In front of his students in Salamanca, Unamuno waxed prophetic: Franco and his minions would, to be sure, be victorious ( vencerán ), but they would fail to convince ( convencerán ), and his beloved Spain would emerge from the Revolution—“Like you, General”—and he pointed to the one-armed Astray.

It was high time that this university professor got tossed in jail. Unamuno was famous for his words, which took wing as soon as he spoke them. Just hours later these words of his were circulating in tertulias in the remotest provinces of Spain, along with dozens of other bons mots about the King, dozens about Primo de Rivera, one bon mot more clever than the other. Such utterances have been known to dethrone kings. Franco was aware of this, and he also realized that an apostate Unamuno was more dangerous than a Don Miguel who was against the New Redeemer from the beginning. Don Miguel had to be muzzled. Ley fuga ? The circumstances didn’t permit this to happen, and so they employed “protective custody.” Necessity breeds invention, and it also strengthens group solidarity. To grab the Rector of Salamanca University, a religious thinker of world renown, and in front of all his students simply to…

“You? Haven’t you been shot?”

There you have it, dear reader, the question concerning our hero’s destiny from the mouth of the German Consul himself. It shook me awake from my reveries, and before I uttered my already familiar counter-query, as the victim of my complicated instincts I probably gave way to a very Prussian urge to leap up, stand at attention, and shout, “Am I supposed to be?” When, says St. Paul, will I be delivered from this mortal body? When will the rebellious citizen Vigoleis be delivered from the poisonous garb of his nationality? Anyone who was raised among wild animals will, even years later, start grunting as soon as the barking of a jackal reaches his ears. Madame de Manziarly records just such a regression to Paradise in her Pérégrinations asiatiques .

The Consul let us have it. He sat down behind his desk. I was seated next to Beatrice, whose expression was stony. She had taken her powder box out of her purse. Ever since Consul General Dr. Köcher in Barcelona had blessed our union and — lucky for us — reduced the fee according to the poverty laws, she had been a citizen of the German Reich . Now she was looking straight through the official representative of her obligatory fatherland — which is not to say that she saw through him.

In the course of a lengthy scolding we learned the following: on the night when the rebellious generals first struck on the mainland, on Mallorca a number of German emigrés were arrested and put in jails where they were to be tried. Among them was the famous Captain Kraschutzki, who had taken part in a mutiny in Kiel in 1918. For many years he lived as a stateless person on Mallorca, where he bred chickens. He, the Consul, had arranged the release of all of these people with the exception of Kraschutzki, since he lacked jurisdiction over individuals who had lost their citizenship. Franz Blei told us later that all the rest of those people had also been shot to death. Our own names were likewise on the liquidation list. And quite naturally so; we didn’t deserve any other fate, since we were against the Führer . A squad had entered our house on Barceló and asked questions. The hens had flown the coop. Where to? Pepe, my loitering friend from Palma Harbor, knew our new address but refused to reveal it. They shot him, and left his body behind. For three weeks afterward, a truckload of a dozen Falange goons, accompanied by a German interpreter, drove across the whole island looking for us. They eventually gave up the search. The Consulate was informed that we had been shot. But now, months later, these two sub-humans suddenly reappear and betake themselves straightaway to the monster’s lair!

Were we aware, the Consul inquired, that our presence in his office could compromise him? How so? Well, it was his duty to inform the leadership of the Falange that two presumably executed individuals were giving themselves up at his consulate. “Giving themselves up?” Well, at least that they were making an appearance there. Beatrice toyed with her pepper powder. Was she getting ready to blow out the man’s eyesight? I gestured to her and then said that all of this was news to us; we had known for quite a while that my fellow German citizens were intent on doing us in; he himself had repeatedly referred to certain ominous documents from my home town. Now he and the others, I went on, the whole brownshirt gang, were the victors, and we had lost the game. So—“Please?” “Please what?” Well, I said, now he must not shirk his duty as an employee of his other Führer . He must call up the Falange and pass the case on. Just two shots, and everybody would be happy. “What are you saying?” “You must do your duty,” I replied, “and call up the Blue House!” The Consul went pale: had I gone crazy? “Not at all,” I said. “If I were crazy, I would be a Nazi. So now get to work! Orders are orders!”

The Consul still couldn’t comprehend the situation. So I stood up, turned to Beatrice and asked her if she would allow me (ladies first!), lifted the receiver and was about to push it into the Consul’s hand. “Tell the Falange what’s going on here. We are under martial law. Do your duty!”

The Consul slammed the receiver down. I sat down again next to my German wife from the house of ck-dt and with Indian blood in her veins. She had replaced the powder box in her purse. There would be no need for pepper. The Consul was giving up the fight.

Today neither Beatrice nor I can recall how long it took for the Consul to go back into an official rage at us. He gave us a thorough dressing down. His recital of our political transgressions was lengthy, and is already familiar to my reader. But my reader is not yet familiar with the way the Consul sought to conceal his cowardice. He was, he told us, a student of human nature; he knew very well what kind of characters we were, and he could easily explain to the Führer why he wasn’t handing us over to the Blue House for execution. I was a confused individual, caught up in philosophical fantasies — a rough exterior, but a solid core. My heart was in the right place, and one fine day it would beat mightily for Nation and Führer . It was his conviction that I could yet turn into a valuable member of the new folk community that was persuading him to save my life. And now, what had I actually come for?