3

Over the entrance to the monastery was a large swastika carved into the stone of the arched gate. It was the coat of arms of a previous Abbot named von Hagen, who had been Abbot Superior in 1850, and von Hagen must have enjoyed the propinquity to his own name—a hooked cross was called a Hakenkreuz.

Not too much, I hasten to add, should be made of this. Von Hagen’s swastika was subtly carved, and so offered no striking suggestion of the phalanxes yet to march beneath that symbol. Nonetheless, there it was, a hooked cross.

On his ninth birthday, Adolf was alone and smoking a cigarette in the archway. He was not alone for long, however. The meanest of the priests under whom he studied, a prelate notorious among the students for his stealthy tread, came by to catch Adolf in the act. The cigarette (a twist of Alois’ pipe tobacco rolled into newspaper) was immediately seized and stomped upon by the cleric. He had all the frenzy of a man who is squashing cockroaches.

Adi was ready to weep. “It is possible,” he now heard, “that the Devil has entered into you. If so, you will die in great misery.” Then he gave an evil smile. He was summoning the powers of anathema he had collected over the years.

So soon as Adolf was able to speak, he said, “Oh, Father, I knew it was wrong. I detested it always. I will never go near to tobacco again.”

At that moment, however, he had to run down to the grass beyond the stone steps of the entrance, where he immediately threw up. The execration of the priest had presented such aridity of soul that Adi could not breathe. The long nose of the man seemed as malignant as his lips and they were as thin as a knife edge. All the while, in the midst of suffering such a whole set of atrocious feelings, Adi was already calculating how to seek forgiveness from the Abbot. He knew he would be sent over to that august office so soon as he stopped vomiting.

Before the Abbot, he burst into tears again. He had the inspiration to say that he did not want this abominable act to interfere with his longing to become a priest. How much he wished to repent, he declared. When he was done, the Abbot even said, “Well, someday you may yet make a fine man of the cloth.”

The sincerity in Adi’s voice resonated with the full inspiration of an outright lie. His one taste of anathema had been sufficient. He was now disabused forever of the thought of becoming a priest. Only his admiration for the Abbot remained intact.

By the measure of my endeavors, it had been a profitable day. Given the many clients I was overseeing in that part of Austria, I cannot claim to have been always in the right place at the best moment, but on this occasion I was. Our mean-spirited cleric—small surprise!—happened to be one of my finest clients in Lambach and had of course been alerted to take a quick stroll over to the gate where von Hagen’s hooked stone cross was emblazoned.