Hitler later said that he learned all he needed to know about ruling modern Germany from this period in his life.
Fagan looked at the bookmark. It was a piece of 8 1/2 by 11 foolscap from an office printer marked “Property Bullard County Library System.”
“Both Guernica and the 1934 drawing conceal references to a mystical battle between Picasso and Hitler in connection with the Spear of Destiny. This hidden pictorial narrative, set in the context of Wagner’s opera Parsifal , reveals some uncanny associations with events in Hitler’s life and with his quest to dominate Europe.
“On 12th March 1938, the day Hitler annexed Austria, he arrived in Vienna a conquering hero. He first port of call was to the Hofmuseum where he took possession of the Spear, which he immediately sent to Nuremberg, the spiritual capital of Nazi Germany.
“At 2.10 on 30th April, 1943, during the final days of the war, after considerable bombing of Nuremberg, the Spear fell into the hands of the American 7th Army under General Patton. Later that day, in fulfillment of the legend, Hitler committed suicide.” (http://web.org.uk/picasso/spear.html)
Fagan closed the book.
Fagan sat there with the weight of the books on his lap. The weight of history. Old books by the look of them. Two had Dewey Decimal markings on the spine.
He had checked Hitler and the Occult out of the library when he was a kid. He and Josh. It had nothing to do with his Jewish upbringing. It came from someplace outside and deep within, a wellspring of self-loathing and creeping sociopathy.
His parent’s heroes were scholars and crusaders. The Rabbi marched with Jesse Jackson. He had a black-and-white photo of a mob scene in New York; himself circled in red felt-tipped marker about three persons from the Reverend. RFK, Rabbi Hillel, Elie Wiesel, Sandy Koufax, Mark Spitz, Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, any Jew in the arts, sciences, academia or professional sports. Especially sports. Jewish sports heroes were few and far between. Kirk Douglas, Joseph Wiseman and Frank Sinatra. The Rabbi especially loved Sinatra for his efforts to break down social barriers by insisting that Sammy Davis, Jr. be part of the Rat Pack. And God love Sammy Davis, Jr.
Many an evening the Rabbi and Esther spent listening to Sinatra on the stereo, sometimes slow-dancing to Fagan’s acute embarrassment. They particularly liked “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Fagan had a basement bedroom in the modest blond brick ranch style on Morton Blvd. The house always smelled of his father’s aftershave and boiled cabbage, a big hit in Esther’s kitchen. That and Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. “Jews don’t know from fresh fish,” the rabbi explained.
Fagan’s basement room was finished in faux knotty pine covered with the objects of his desire: Cameron Diaz, Keira Knightley, Kawasaki, The Creature From the Black Lagoon. He had to keep the hard stuff hidden, not that the Rabbi and Esther ever looked too closely. That was a good lesson for the civilized—not to look too closely.
He had his own bathroom.
His model shelf contained Frankenstein, Dracula, Alien, the Wolfman. He’d scratch built his own pit and pendulum out of balsa wood and razors. His little torture devices included a scale-model gurney with a Barbie doll strapped down, hair shaved, the mad scientist standing over her with a miniature chainsaw. He made the mad scientist out of the ever popular bulging-eyed “troll” doll. Inspired by Josh he’d started his own comic collection. He had his own TV and VCR. He kept his stroke books and porn films in a box behind the furnace. He’d left it all behind when he’d enlisted. These were objects of fascination for the depraved and adolescent, not adults.
When Fagan returned from his deployment the models and pornography were gone. He and his father never commented on them. He’d attended enough of the Rabbi’s lectures to know the litany. He’d seen Triumph of the Will , Night and Fog ,
Fagan looked at the bookmark. It was a piece of 8 1/2 by 11 foolscap from an office printer marked “Property Bullard County Library System.”
“Both Guernica and the 1934 drawing conceal references to a mystical battle between Picasso and Hitler in connection with the Spear of Destiny. This hidden pictorial narrative, set in the context of Wagner’s opera Parsifal , reveals some uncanny associations with events in Hitler’s life and with his quest to dominate Europe.
“On 12th March 1938, the day Hitler annexed Austria, he arrived in Vienna a conquering hero. He first port of call was to the Hofmuseum where he took possession of the Spear, which he immediately sent to Nuremberg, the spiritual capital of Nazi Germany.
“At 2.10 on 30th April, 1943, during the final days of the war, after considerable bombing of Nuremberg, the Spear fell into the hands of the American 7th Army under General Patton. Later that day, in fulfillment of the legend, Hitler committed suicide.” (http://web.org.uk/picasso/spear.html)
Fagan closed the book.
Fagan sat there with the weight of the books on his lap. The weight of history. Old books by the look of them. Two had Dewey Decimal markings on the spine.
He had checked Hitler and the Occult out of the library when he was a kid. He and Josh. It had nothing to do with his Jewish upbringing. It came from someplace outside and deep within, a wellspring of self-loathing and creeping sociopathy.
His parent’s heroes were scholars and crusaders. The Rabbi marched with Jesse Jackson. He had a black-and-white photo of a mob scene in New York; himself circled in red felt-tipped marker about three persons from the Reverend. RFK, Rabbi Hillel, Elie Wiesel, Sandy Koufax, Mark Spitz, Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, any Jew in the arts, sciences, academia or professional sports. Especially sports. Jewish sports heroes were few and far between. Kirk Douglas, Joseph Wiseman and Frank Sinatra. The Rabbi especially loved Sinatra for his efforts to break down social barriers by insisting that Sammy Davis, Jr. be part of the Rat Pack. And God love Sammy Davis, Jr.
Many an evening the Rabbi and Esther spent listening to Sinatra on the stereo, sometimes slow-dancing to Fagan’s acute embarrassment. They particularly liked “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Fagan had a basement bedroom in the modest blond brick ranch style on Morton Blvd. The house always smelled of his father’s aftershave and boiled cabbage, a big hit in Esther’s kitchen. That and Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. “Jews don’t know from fresh fish,” the rabbi explained.
Fagan’s basement room was finished in faux knotty pine covered with the objects of his desire: Cameron Diaz, Keira Knightley, Kawasaki, The Creature From the Black Lagoon. He had to keep the hard stuff hidden, not that the Rabbi and Esther ever looked too closely. That was a good lesson for the civilized—not to look too closely.
He had his own bathroom.
His model shelf contained Frankenstein, Dracula, Alien, the Wolfman. He’d scratch built his own pit and pendulum out of balsa wood and razors. His little torture devices included a scale-model gurney with a Barbie doll strapped down, hair shaved, the mad scientist standing over her with a miniature chainsaw. He made the mad scientist out of the ever popular bulging-eyed “troll” doll. Inspired by Josh he’d started his own comic collection. He had his own TV and VCR. He kept his stroke books and porn films in a box behind the furnace. He’d left it all behind when he’d enlisted. These were objects of fascination for the depraved and adolescent, not adults.
When Fagan returned from his deployment the models and pornography were gone. He and his father never commented on them. He’d attended enough of the Rabbi’s lectures to know the litany. He’d seen Triumph of the Will , Night and Fog ,
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