I am not a “white man.” My German friends are not “Germans,” nor my Jewish friends “Jews.” I am a nominalist. To me, there are only individual entities, not group entities such as race, blood, people, etc. For example, I am an Anglo-Catholic; yet my views differ from those of my vicar, and his do — enormously — from the bishop of the diocese — whose views I happen to agree with, Bishop Pike. And so forth.
I will not walk out of a room when a German enters any more than I would have walked out of a room when a Jew entered. Nor will I allow myself to be a “gentile” — i.e., a member of a race — to my Jewish friends. If they don’t like me, let them hit me, as an individual, one right in the eye; let’s see them hit a race — as the Nazis tried to do — one right in the eye. It won’t work; the Nazis failed: Israel exists, and Jews exist. And — let us face it: Germany exists. Let’s live in the present and for the future, not dwelling neurotically on the outrages of the past. Ludwig von Beethoven did not light the fires at Dachau. Leonard Bernstein did not hit that Jewish violinist on the hand with a piece of lead pipe. Okay? And salve, as the Romans used to say. Or, as we Anglo-Catholics say, may the peace and love of God be with you. Germans included. And, please, Jews, too.
“Biographical Material on Hawthorne Abendsen” (1974)
I am, of course, one of Mr. Abendsen’s admirers; my own works, such as they are, have been influenced strongly by his, in particular my novel Man in the High Castle (Berkley Books, U.S.A., 1974 [a reprint paperback edition]).
It goes without saying that The Grasshopper Lies Heavy (its German title, Schwer Liegt die Heuschrecke [Miinchen: Konig Verlag, 1974] is perhaps more familiar to us) has become Hawthorne Abendsen’s most renowned book, although “underground” both in printing and distribution, due to its political and religious nature. Although Grasshopper offended the Authorities, they themselves studied it with keen professional intent, for it outlines major historic “possibilities” of an “alternate world,” of a sort familiar to SF readers, in which the Axis is not favorably described, thus causing Mr. Abendsen and his family to seek an uneasy and certainly temporary sanctuary in the Rocky Mountain states between the two more militant zones of the United States, partitioned off by treaty after the defeat of the Communist-Plutocrat Alliance.
Further writing by Mr. Abendsen, who lives as modest and conventional a family life as possible, in view of his vulnerability to police reprisal for his famous underground novel in which the Axis lost the war, is meager; most appear in the form of hasty letters printed in nonprofit “fanzines,” as they are called, outside the United States — for obvious reasons.
The Two Completed Chapters of a Proposed Sequel to The Man in the High Castle (1964)
ONE
On the morning of August fifth, 1956, Reichsmarshal Hermann Goring flew north from the big Luftwaffe base located at Miami, Florida. He had not wakened in a good mood; on his mind, like an iron press, rested the recent memory of the Little Doktor’s appointment as chancellor of Germany and all German-occupied territory. And when one ponders, Goring thought, it was after all my bombers that defeated England and won for us the war; the Ministry of Propaganda did nothing more than whip up and excoriate the people to a useless but fashionable enthusiasm.
Below him the Gau of Virginia passed; his R-15 Messerschmitt rocket flew low enough for him to glimpse black specks: slaves working the fields in the God-ordained manner, both timeless and circular. It appealed to reason and to good sense. But nothing could please him today.
He had not properly anticipated the death of the old chancellor, Bormann. Others had, as, for example, Goebbels himself — not to mention the eager eggheads in the higher SS. Keeping politically alert, however, had not benefited the Reichsfuhrer SS, Reinhardt Heydrich, who chafed, fumed, and wrote many memos at his permanent headquarters on Prinz-Albrechstrasse, home in Berlin. I wonder what he intends? the Reichsmarshal mused. Supposedly a concentration of Waffen-SS troops and armor, specifically the Leibstandarte Division, commanded by old, dependable Sepp Dietrich, had gathered in order to protect Heydrich from removal — Dr. Goebbels had certainly by now considered that — and in addition to threaten the party, should it fish for a loyalty oath to the new chancellor by the generals, something Bormann had been unable to do. And then, meditating, he wondered once again if he had been wise to leave the Miami Luftwaffe base, his center of protection throughout the current crisis. After all, Baldur von Scherach, the head of the Hitler Youth, had been arrested on Goebbels’ order. But Goebbels had been jealous of von Scherach since the success of Project Farmland: the draining of the Mediterranean. The project — Scherach’s one achievement — had been popular with the masses whom Goebbels appealed to, so there lay a conflict of interests. . . resolved a few days ago by von Sherach’s arrest.
Of course, in a showdown the Wehrmacht had an advantage: possession, solely and exclusively, of the hydrogen bomb. For years the SS had sent its agents skulking about army installations, trying to learn enough to build a nuclear reactor of their own. Evidently they had failed. But any government, representing either the party or the SS — or a third force, perhaps a coalition — would need the generals, in particular the support of the supreme wartime field marshal, General Rommel, living now in retirement, but still vigorous. And still hating the party and the SS for his removal as Military Governor of German-occupied America a few years after Capitulation Day — a day that he believed in his arrogant ignorance he had personally brought about at Cairo. Whereas the knocking out of the English radar network by the Luftwaffe had achieved the victory, as every German schoolboy knew.
The autopilot of the R-15 bleeped, indicating that he had reached his destination, Albany, New York.
I hope, he thought, that Fritz Sacher has come up with proof of his contention. If so, I will reward him. The reward, carefully wrapped in cloth, lay in the rear compartment of the ship: a great bottle containing a uniquely deformed fetus, the product of medical experiments carried out by Dr. Seyss-Inquart. The father had been a Slav, the mother a Negress. The fetus, worked on by Seyss-Inquart’s staff during its development in the womb, had a foot where its head should have been and eyes at the end of its feet. Only this one existed, and it had been part of the Reichsmarshal’s collection of more than a hundred genetic sports. It was in fact the best. But pleasing Fritz Sacher came before the pride of collecting, at least if the research scientist’s claims could be believed.
An armed patrol with dogs kept watch along the perimeter of Sacher’s New York estate, but it was through secrecy that the operation protected itself. Luftwaffe funds supported it; hence his knowledge. The Abwehr, Naval Counterintelligence, supplied men and so Admiral Canaris knew, too. He was not therefore surprised when, upon climbing from the R-15, he found both Sacher and Canaris waiting for him.
Puffing with the exertion of descending the rungs of his ship, Goring said, “I brought you a Wunderkind, Herr Sacher.” He eyed Admiral Canaris, whom he did not like. “Nothing for you.”
“Der Dicke [the Fat One] emulates the Japanese,” Canaris said to no one in particular. “The giving of gifts. Ceremony.” He examined his watch. “I’d like to get started.” He started from the field, into the building that had once been a governor’s mansion in the prewar days when America had governed itself.
“Try and guess the deformity of this,” Goring said, reaching up to grasp the bulky, cloth-wrapped bottle.
“Who knows you’re here, Reichsmarshal?” Sacher asked. “Anyone in the SS? We’re especially concerned about the SS.”
“Only my own people,” Goring answered as he lifted down the bottle and held it out to the young scientist Sacher. “This one is novel; it will give you quite a lift.”
Accepting the bottle, Sacher said, “Many thanks, Reichsmarshal. Your collection of enormities is well known. I remember as a schoolchild touring your villa near Brenner and seeing. . .” He had by now unwrapped the bottle. “A cephalopedalis. Well. How nice.” He stared fixedly at the fetus floating gradually to the bottom of the bottle. “Must be worth at least a thousand Reichsmarks at home; even more here. I have as yet created no real collection myself; only a few — ”
“Can we get started?” Admiral Canaris called sharply.
They entered the building. Goring and Canaris followed the white-robed research scientist down a hallway and into a large room that, the Reichsmarshal guessed, had once been a dining room. The two men sat at a table with papers and objects before them, neither of them particularly distinguished-looking; they both seemed ill-at-ease, and when they made out the Reichsmarshal they rose awkwardly in respect.