The Castle in the Forest by Norman Mailer
The combination had to excite him—that small peekaboo into Angela’s privacy, so much like the mad murderer’s upper lip. He grew twice as excited when he heard his father coughing away like still another maniac.
2
On one of his occasional visits to the Buergerabends, Alois decided to speak. This was after listening to the “Atheistin-Residence,” a member who delighted in assuring all the others that “I am the only brave man in our ranks. I feel blessed. That is because I do not have to believe in God.” To Alois’ critical eye, he was a scrawny chap, though a long-invested member—his grandfather had been one of the founders of the society. Nonetheless, it did seem that the man had little else to offer. So Alois decided to speak up. He declared that each intelligent human had to decide for himself whether the Deity did exist, but he, for one, was certainly opposed to the sanctimony of all those pietists who would run to church at every drop of rain in their lives. He would attend on one day only of the year and that was the Emperor’s birthday. “In my opinion, it is Franz Josef who is to be celebrated. Especially now, after Sisi’s death.”
He soon discovered that he was dealing with a class of people who had a special attitude about such matters. While they did seem to exhibit some distaste for unseemly devotion in religion, they were still churchgoers.
If Alois had been a client, I could have alerted him. To be privately superior to religion is a privilege of the upper classes, but they do see going to church as the keel to preserving social life in common people.
One of the older gentry did reprove Alois’ views, therefore, by saying, “I would agree that I would not wish to be counted among those who become overenthusiastic about every last Saint’s Day observance. So often these rites are no more than a haven for unhappy women. But let us recognize that without religion, we would suffer chaos. It is the most dependable deterrent to madness in all of world history.”
Alois was ready to take up the argument. “Nonetheless, good sir,” he said, “permit me to suggest that religion does offer its own varieties of madness. I could offer as examples such highly immoral Popes as”—he knew the list—“Sixtus IV, Innocent VII, Alexander VI, Julius II, Leo X, and Clement VII. Simony was their daily practice, and a cardinal’s hat was waiting for every one of their illegitimate sons. Yes, good sir, I would declare that it was madness to exhibit such an excess of corruption.”
He sat down, pleased that there was at least a modicum of courteous applause, but he had to recognize that the recognition was formal—each speaker would receive, at worst, some minimal response. Nonetheless, a chill had come upon the room. He had been too outspoken. It made him decide, most unhappily, that he should not return too quickly to the Buergerabends. Indeed, when he did come back, he chose to be silent.
All the same, these evenings were diversions. The gentry certainly knew a lot about high styles of living. They were so knowledgeable about antique collecting and spoke of interesting innovations that would soon be available in indoor plumbing and electric lighting. Again he was obliged to feel the insufficiency of his own experience.
No surprise, then, if at the Buergerabends he thought often of the young officers for whom he made boots when he was working in Vienna, dreaming all the while of a beautiful young woman who would put together exquisite ladies’ hats before sharing his bed in the evening. Now, on the way home from a Buergerabend, a wealth of pity could pass through him for what had never come to pass.
Let me suggest that if the intensity of such compassion is enough to charm the heart of a saint, that is because self-pity is able to reach the finest operatic heights. It is indulged, however, at considerable expense to oneself. Alois was paying too much. His dreams at night had begun to bother him. He had now developed the fearful intuition that sleep was a marketplace where the dead could return in order to remind you of your personal debt to them. So he thought of Johann Nepomuk and his mother, and then he had to brood over his two dead wives. What if they met in this marketplace of sleep? What if they came to agree with each other concerning their former husband? He would then be facing a cabal. “That might even be more dangerous,” he told himself, “than for two of a man’s former mistresses to become friends.”
One of the gentry had made that remark at the Buergerabends, and it occasioned the heartiest burst of laughter. Of course, the fellow was an old roué from one of the best families in town. Alois had enjoyed those words enough to make them his own, and even served them up at the tavern. He had to notice that the louts laughed at this with as much gusto as the gentry. How unfair that this joke should now plague his dreams!
3
Adolf liked the new school in Leonding. It was a short walk from the Garden House, and less strict than the monastery. While he was, once more, an excellent student, he could hardly wait each day for school to end. The Kumberger Forest outside Leonding was full of wooded draws and small caves where one could prepare an ambush. He began to recruit schoolmates to join the battles, and they had a few encounters in the late afternoon, although the major event every week was reserved for Saturday morning, when there would be wars between white settlers and Indians.
Not all of his recruits wanted to be white settlers. That was because a redskin could steal up on a settler from behind, get an arm around the other boy’s neck, and declare, “You are scalped.” Then they could run back to their dens in the forest. Adolf was even scalped once, but he declared it illegal. “You do not attack leaders,” he said. “Indians believe in the vengeance of the war gods. So they do not attack high officers like myself. They do not dare. A terrible vengeance would fall on them.”
He even took Edmund along, Edmund, who was now five years old and certainly the youngest to participate. Nonetheless, the older kids liked him, even if Edmund could hardly be of service when attacks began. Still, Adolf liked having him alone in the forest. He could command Edmund then, which, of course, he was not able to do at home, where Klara would protect Edmund, Angela would protect him, and Alois certainly did.
Adi could remember that they had once used to safeguard him from Alois Junior, but that had been justifiable. Alois Junior had even planted a turd on the end of his nose, whereas he didn’t do such things to Edmund. But he did giggle at the thought that if he could do it, what a joy it would be to hear Edmund scream. Once, out in the forest, he even poked Edmund in the back with a stick and told him it was a hornet, which, of course, Edmund mentioned to Klara. He knew it was not a hornet.
The story worried her. Was Adi’s animosity worse than Alois Junior’s had been? Yes, she decided, worse. Adolf and Edmund were blood brothers.
By now, Adi was having trouble with one kid who gave promise that it might end in a fight. He had never had a fistfight, he had always known how to avoid them, but now he took a vow that he would not allow anyone to humiliate him. He would do what was necessary, even if that meant he had to do it with a rock in his hand. Visions came to him on the edge of sleep. He saw this boy he truly feared staring at him with a blood-spattered head. Could that happen?
Then an episode occurred which ended these wars for the rest of the winter. On a day when no one felt warm enough to hide motionless in ambush, a trooper declared that he was able to start a fire by rubbing twigs together. The others jeered, but Adolf said, “If you can make a real fire, then I give you the order to proceed.”
The boy did. Once the fire was lit, all went off to find fallen branches dry enough to burn. Soon the fire was not only blazing but ready to advance into the surrounding brush. Since there was no water handy, they tried to stomp it out, but smoke kept rising into the sky.
They quit the fire. One by one, they ran until they were a quarter of a mile away. Adolf began to explain to the others, all twenty-odd, that they must not tell anyone.
“Yes,” said Adolf, “if any one of you tells about this fire, we will all have to pay for it. And then we will look to find out who was the one who told. And there will be consequences. A brave soldier does not betray his c
One by one, two by two, they left the forest. By now, the fire had grown to a size visible enough to bring firemen, water wagons, and teams of horses out from Leonding.
On the way home, Edmund said that he had to tell one person, their father. “If you do,” said Adolf, “I will be severely punished. And you, too, will have to pay for it.”
“I do not believe that,” said Edmund. “Our father would never permit that. So don’t you try to hit me.”
“It is not me you have to fear. It is everybody else who was there. They will be punished, and then they will be waiting for you. All of them. If necessary, I will be the one to let them know that you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
“I have to tell our father.”
“What did you promise?”
“I have to tell him about anything that bothers me.”
“All right. That is all right for all other matters. But not this. I tell you, the other boys will beat you up. I will not be able to protect you. In fact, I won’t even want to!”
“I feel sick.”
“You are nothing but a snot-nose. Go throw up.”
Alois, however, had his own suspicions about the fire. Once they reached home, Alois held Edmund on his lap and looked tenderly into his eyes. Before he could ask a question, however, Edmund threw up again. Alois decided to let it go. He was convinced that Adolf had had something to do with the blaze, but Edmund’s life could become a misery if he forced him to talk about it.
Moreover, there might be repercussions. If he knew for certain that Adolf was one of the malefactors, it would be expected of him, as a father and a good citizen, to inform the authorities. Once he did, however, they could hold him responsible for the costs of bringing out the fire wagon. So Alois wiped Edmund’s spew off his own shirt and hugged him tenderly. He also made a point over the next few days of not looking Adolf in the eye.
4
In school that winter, Adolf’s class read a book by Friedrich Ludwig Jahn that spoke of a force powerful enough to shape history. That cetainly did remind him of the blacksmith. This force would depend on the presence of a “Führer cast of Iron and Fire.” Then came a sentence that brought tears to Adolf’s eyes: “The people will honor him as a savior and forgive all his sins.”
Of course, the class had also been offered Kant and Goethe and Schleiermacher, but Adolf felt these authors showed too much respect for reason. That bored him. His father, for one, was always speaking of the virtues of reason. “Human nature is undependable,” he would tell his family. “What enables stable societies to work is the power of the law. It is the law, not the people.” He looked around at the supper table and decided this should be of interest to Adolf. “It is legal constitutions that are needed, Adolf, constitutions that are constructed by the finest people. Then reason can do its work with the respect it deserves.”
Adolf preferred Friedrich Ludwig Jahn. He had decided that reason could be treacherous. It was like the sirens that swim in the Rhine and lead you to your death. Even while you drown, they sing sweet songs. Personal strength was of more importance. That would take care of your sins. Such small flaws would be incinerated by the heat of your effort.
He certainly rejected Goethe and Schiller. Their humor annoyed him. It was too personal—as if they were much too pleased with what they were saying. Not serious enough, Adolf decided. The other two, Kant and Schleiermacher, he simply could not read. After Jahn, his highest pleasure came from the fairy tales of the Grimm brothers. That had also been assigned to his class. Those were good stories, and deep! He delighted in acting them out for Edmund, who might be too young to read but was always ready to listen. He explained to Edmund that the Grimm brothers had written these tales so children would know how important it was to obey their parents and their older brother and sister. Then he spoke of one story called “The Girl Without Hands”: “This is about a father who has been ordered by the Devil to cut off the hands of his young daughter.” When Edmund shrieked at the thought, Adolf spoke in the voice of the father, explaining it to his daughter. “I don’t want to do this, dear daughter. But I must. These are orders. It is not for me to question orders that have come down to me from a very high authority. So I must obey.”
“What does the daughter say?” Edmund asked.
“Oh, she is obedient. Very obedient. She says, ‘Father, do with me what you will. For I am your child.’ Then she puts her hands right up on the chopping block. Her father picks up a big cleaver and he does it.”
“That is so awful,” said Edmund. “He chops off her hands?”
“With one whack! But she lives happily ever after.”
“How?” asked Edmund.
“Her father takes care of everything.” Adolf nodded. “I could tell you a worse story, but I won’t.”
“Tell me.”
“It is about a girl who was so disobedient that she died.”
“What did she do?” asked Edmund.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Adolf. “She was disobedient. That is enough. They bury this disobedient girl, and what do you think? It is hard to believe, but she remains disobedient even after she is dead. One of her arms keeps poking up out of her grave right into the air.”
“Is she so strong?” asked Edmund.
“The Devil is helping her. What else—that is the way it happens. So when her relatives see that arm up in the air, they come out to her grave and try to push it down again. They can’t. You are right. The arm is too strong. So they start to cover it with a mound of dirt. But her arm knocks the dirt away. Then her mother goes back to the house and picks up a heavy poker from the fireplace. When she gets back to her daughter’s grave, she starts beating on that disobedient arm until it is broken. That way, it can be folded back under the dirt. So the girl is able to find some rest.”
Edmund was shivering. He was crying and laughing at once. “Would you do something like that to me?” he asked Adolf.
“Only if you should die and I would see your arm popping out from your grave. Then I would have to do it to you. I certainly would.”
“Oh,” said Edmund, “I don’t like that.”
“It does not matter what you would like. It would have to be done.”
“Tell me one more story.”
“It would take too long. I’ll just give you the end: It’s about a queen who boils a child to death. Afterward, she eats the body.”
“Do you have to be a queen to be able to do something like that?” asked Edmund. “Isn’t this so?”
“Yes, probably. Especially if it is your own child that you are boiling.” Adolf nodded profoundly. “But nobody can take these matters for granted.”
“My mother would never do that to me.”
“Maybe not our mother, but I cannot say what Angela would do.”
“Oh, no,” said Edmund, “Angela would never do something like that to Paula or to me.”
“Don’t be so certain.”
Edmund shook his head. “I know you are wrong.”
“Do you want another story?”
“Maybe not.”
“This one is the best,” said Adolf.
“Is it truly the best?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s about a young man who is ordered to sleep with a corpse. In time to come you, too, may have to sleep next to a dead man.”
At this point, Edmund shrieked. Then he fainted.
Unfortunately for Adolf, this last conversation was overheard by Angela. She was standing in the doorway shaking her head. Adolf had time to think that his luck was foul.
Angela patted Edmund’s face until he could sit up. Then she went to tell Klara.
His mother no longer called him Adi, certainly not on any occasion when she had to scold him. “Adolf, this was dreadful. You are going to be punished.”
“For what? Edmund loves the stories. He kept asking me for more.”
“You knew what you w
“Mother, this is not something to bring Father into.”
“If I don’t tell him, then I will be the one who must look for a real punishment. And maybe I will. Maybe I will buy you no present at Christmas.”
“This is so unfair,” said Adolf. “I try to entertain my kid brother. But he is a brat.”
“Do you accept what I say? No gift for Christmas?”
“Yes. If you think that is fair, I have to accept. But, Mother, please, look into your heart when the time comes. See if you will still see me as guilty then.”
Klara was furious. This was even worse. He was so certain that she would change her mind and buy him a good present after all.
That evening, therefore, she did tell Alois.
His father had no doubts. He gave Adolf a severe whipping. It was the worst since they moved into the house in Leonding. But this time, Adolf was determined to make no sound at all. He thought of Preisinger all the while. He stiffened his body.
Alois was beginning to feel as if he had Junior back on his hands. Another criminal to deal with! That excited more rage.
Between each blow, Adolf thought of how Alois Junior had run away. It was the one memory he could use to make no sound. He could be and must be as strong as Alois Junior. If he did not cry, then his own strength might become great enough to justify whatever he might yet want to do next. Strength created its own kind of justice. He called upon the force of command that had been near to him after the fire in the forest. He had ordered them all then never to speak of it, and they had obeyed. Yes, he had been full of fear then, but he had called on his force of command. Then he had lived for days in the fear that someone would talk. He could hardly know it, but I had been with him through that turmoil, and I was with him now. Adolf’s confidence was so fragile that, metaphorically speaking, I had to maintain his ego at full erection. (Egos are prey to the same weakness that erections exhibit when unsure of what comes next.)