I had to declare myself shamefully devoid of any sense of national pride. I wasn’t a German, after all, hadn’t anything invested in the lost cause, hadn’t risked my neck—an arm off here, a leg off there—no, no, the times owed me nothing . . . but that’s not what I’m talking about; it’s the future of Europe as a whole I’m worried about . . . exactly, and that’s why I was so contented: that future could only come from the total destruction of the existing order, right? In that regard, Germany was an exemplary country. . . But that’s pure nihilism! . . . Could be, I said, sure. I’m quite aware of that, but I’m simply a very radical thinker who happens to have no allegiances whatsoever, always an outsider, alas, I’ve always been a lone wolf—in short, the hunter-gatherer existence in this arctic, archetypical landscape suited me. It corresponded completely to the world of inner experience (as Hertzog would call it) that was formed by my experience of the war, and from that, from the acceptance of that, something new might emerge . . .

(Honestly, back then I seriously thought it could be possible. I was dazzled by freedom, didn’t see what was coming. That is, I saw it but refused to see it. But even then, Nagel didn’t buy it.)

He was pissed off: So why the hell are you even here!?

In fact, that’s a very touchy subject, I said. I couldn’t really tell you without hurting your feelings . . . Come on, don’t beat around the bush and play Mr. Sensitive, just spit it out if you can . . . all right then: I’m looking for a spiritual experience de profundis as well—in fact, I feel like a pig in shit at our evening discussions—but I don’t find it in what Hertzog has to offer (I have no intention of becoming a cabaret comedian). But I think it’s enormously worthwhile to observe the impression he makes on our friends and where it presumably will lead—that was a significant spiritual experience, wasn’t it? . . .

Nagel pricked up his ears: What do you mean, exactly?

Well, what it takes to make a new society. . . For instance, the development of a catacomb congregation into a church—

Come again?

The metamorphosis of spiritually impoverished people, touched by God’s finger, into staunch spiritual bookkeepers—

Nagel made a superhuman effort to control himself, but below the surface he seethed and rumbled alarmingly. The stump of his arm thrashed about involuntarily, making the empty sleeve of his dyed field shirt flutter, but he was listening—