The History of History - By Ida Hattemer-Higgins Page 0,98

your memory.”

Margaret glanced up at her.

The doctor went on: “It is because you have no system of ethics.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Margaret’s vertigo redoubled.

“You, my pet, are having an identity crisis that has become moral despair. It is impossible for the human animal to remember his or her own life without cleaving a line, a line of some kind, however capriciously zigzag, lazy, narcissistic, arrogant or, on the other hand, self-blaming and unforgiving, between right and wrong, credit and blame. Why? Because this is what makes it possible to distinguish between nostalgia and regret. The border between the two is of pivotal importance in the formation of continuous memory. Eventually, all of us will stop thinking back, if we don’t know with what attitude of the soul to do so.”

The doctor sat back in her chair and paused, and when she spoke again it was in a louder voice. “There are pure paths that will lead you away from your troubles if you have the—the talent to find them. You must handle the historical idea, and also your own memory of life, like a delicate pancake you are trying not to rip.”

Margaret looked at the doctor.

“I’ll tell you a story,” the doctor said, “and then I’m afraid you must go.” The old woman with her giant head sank further into the chair. She appeared to be interested in other things this night.

“All right,” said Margaret glumly.

TWENTY-THREE • Beautiful Albert

More than twenty years ago, my brother died,” the doctor said. “But let me start even many years before that, when he was still a promising young man; this would be in 1938. Young people were in the youth groups they had then. My brother was an unusually talented, bright young man. Very high-spirited. There was nothing he couldn’t do, nothing he couldn’t do extremely well. He was with the HJ photographic society, and they were in the mountains, what we call Saxon Switzerland. They were taking pictures and making films for the Youth Sports and Games Party Congress Exhibition.

My brother was the sort beloved for his iconoclasm. He always could push through a new and startling idea—for a wild stunt, a fabulous show. He was also remarkable for his collectivist spirit, his indifference to danger, and his natural tendency to look out for the younger and the weaker. These were the days of ‘Führung der Jugend durch die Jugend’—in other words he was a natural leader, a lover of excitement and action at the helm of a happy, singing, strapping passel of young men. If he had a fault, it was his carelessness when it came to his personal well-being—his sweaty, relentless physicality. His indifference to pain and discomfort, and the pain and discomfort of others—it was something he simply couldn’t understand.

“And then there was the little issue of pyromania. He had a sort of arousal, an overweening vivacity that I often observed myself, at the mere thought of watching something go up in flames. And when he and his boys set something on fire they responded, I do not shy away from telling you, by jumping up and down, hitting their own faces with excitement and arousal.

“In any case, my brother had an idea, an elaborate vision that even in the planning phases brought him the most zealous admiration of his compatriots: he wanted to make a film that would depict the legend of a youth rising out of a lake of fire in a ring of flames, the half-human, half-god foundling child of the fire giants, Surtr and Sinmore, come with sword in hand to fight at the helm of the Wehrmacht. He chose a point where there was a craggy, romantic outcropping of rock, and a slightly higher rocky ledge upon which the camera could be perched.” The doctor stopped for a moment. “Is this constellation familiar to you, my pet?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, darkly.

“Good,” the doctor said, beaming. “In any case, he convinced the boys of his group—and they were easily convinced, let me tell you—to trek the distance from Dresden to the mountains rather than ride via omnibus, so that he could appropriate the gasoline they would have used. He meant to set the lake on fire by pouring the petrol over it and dropping a lit match. Then, the next thing was, a boy was meant to walk backward off the ledge into the flaming lake and swim down under the water. The idea being that later the film would be played back in reverse,