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Staatsschutzstrafrecht (aus dem Roman “Nachtwachen”)

English: Defense counsel Robert Servatius (for...
English: Defense counsel Robert Servatius (foreground) and chief prosecutor Gideon Hausner (standing) during the Eichmann Trial in Jerusalem. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An der Universität hatte K an einem Seminar zum Staatsschutzstrafrecht teilgenommen und den Großvater in ausführlichen Briefen über den Fortgang der Veranstaltung auf dem Laufenden gehalten. In dem Seminar erhitzte Debatten darüber, ob es denkbar sei, dass einer ganzen Generation von Menschen unter Umständen gehandelt hatte, die es ihnen unmöglich gemacht haben sollte, das Unrecht der eigenen Taten zu erkennen oder auch nur zu begreifen, dass sich der Staat, in dem sie lebten, und der Führer, dem sie auf Veranstaltungen bejubelten, einen Völkermord vorbereiteten, diesen gnadenlos ausführten und rechtfertigten. Katja hatte eingeworfen, dass bereits die Fragestellung an sich  fragwürdig sei. Schließlich hatten jene,  die verfolgt und ermordet worden waren, zu jener Generation von Deutschen gehört, der angeblich über Nacht das Unrechtsbewusstsein abhanden gekommen war.  Als sei das Wissen der Verfolgten nicht identisch mit dem Wissen der Verfolger. Als habe es sich um zwei unterschiedliche Generationen gehandelt.

Bei einem Besucht hatte Katja hatte dem Großvater die am häufigsten vorgebrachten Argumente vorgetragen. Es gab jene, die sagten, dass der einzelne seine eigenen Vorstellungen von Recht und Unrecht immer nur an den  bestehenden staatlichen Vorstellungen und Gesetzen bilden kann. Man könne es schließlich nicht jedem einzelnen zumuten, ständig die Gesetze in Frage zu stellen. Jemand hatte dagegen den Literaten Klaus Mann und sein scharfes Urteil über Gottfried Benn und die Nationalsozialisten ins Feld als Beispiel in die Diskussion eingeworfen. Klaus Mann habe Benn vorgeworfen, sich denjenen angebiedert zu haben, “deren Niveaulosigkeit absolut beispiellos in der europäischen Geschichte ist und vor deren moralischer Unreinheit sich die Welt in Abscheu abwendet.” Es sei, mit anderen Worten, offenbar möglich gewesen, sich ein unabhängiges Urteil über die Nationalsozialisten zu bilden. Andere hatten auch auf Dietrich Bonhoeffer und Sophie Scholl hingewiesen. Auf von Stauffenberg,

Der Großvater hatte ihr tatsächlich zugehört. Schließlich hatte er gesagt: “Das ist doch alles so lange her, Katja. Man muss ja auch mal vergessen können. Ich weiß nicht, warum sie Euch immer wieder dazu anhalten, die Vergangenheit aufzurühren. Das macht doch niemanden wieder lebendig. Aber so viel will ich Dir sagen. Ich stimme mit Deinem Professor überein. Hitler hat sich geirrt, das wissen wir jetzt. Was den Umgang mit den Juden anging. Es war unmenschlich und auch grausam, das war es. Auch wenn es sich nicht um Deutsche handelte. Es waren ja Kinder und Frauen dabei. ” Als Katja gefragt hatte, ob die Männer in den Konzentrationslagern weniger grausam zu Tode gekommen seien, war der Großvater abrupt aufgestanden und hatte das Zimmer verlassen. “Das brauche ich mir von Dir nicht anzuhören, Katja,” hatte er konstatiert. “Du bist doch nur ein junges Mädchen, davon verstehst Du doch gar nichts, das ist nicht Frauensache, über die Soldaten und Männer zu urteilen, die ihre Pflicht getan haben. Auch nicht, wenn Du jetzt Juristin wirst. Wir hatten schon die Nürnberger Prozesse. Und jetzt wollen wir endlich ein wenig Rechtsfrieden, das kannst Du auch mal nachlesen, was das heißt.” Ende der Diskussion.

Bis ans Ende seines Lebens war er der unerschütterlichen Überzeugung geblieben, dass „die Juden eben anders“ seien. Das liest sie auch mit dem Abstand der Jahre wieder einmal aus seinem Brief. Sie erinnert sich auch an andere Bemerkungen, mit denen er sie zu überzeugen suchte, dass er keine Vorurteile gegen Juden habe, dass er nichts “gegen Juden habe”: „Sie sind nun mal sehr viel intelligenter als wir, Katja, sie sind uns weit voraus. Sie sind halt ein altes Volk. Das darf man doch wohl  so sagen. So ist es nun einmal. Man kann es ja sogar in der Bibel lesen.”  Als Katja ihm vorgehalten habe, auch in dieser Äußerung zeige sich Rassimus (sie hatte feige gesagt: “in Äußerungen wie dieser”, nicht: “in Deiner Äußerung”), hatte er sie verzweifelt angeschrien: “Was willst Du denn eigentlich von mir, Katja? Was soll ich denn noch sagen?” Es war kein Verstehen zwischen zweien, die nicht einmal wussten, worüber sie eigentlich sprachen und zu welchem Ende und warum.

Als Hitler die Macht ergriff, war der Großvater 27 Jahre alt gewesen. Ist es möglich, hatte sich Katja gefragt, dass man als erwachsener Mann oder als erwachsene Frau so bereitwillig eine Ideologie verinnerlicht, dass sie einem zum zweiten Wesen wird? Dass man sie niemals mehr abstreifen kann? Oder war Deutschland nicht schon vor Hitler, vielleicht schon seit 1918, vielleicht schon vor 1914 bereit gewesen, sich in einen neuen Krieg zu stürzen, in einen Krieg von ganz neuen, ungeahnten Ausmaßen? Das industrielle Zeitalter wartete darauf, seine Waffen zu erproben.

Wie weit zurück reichte der Rassismus des Großvaters,  wo waren seine Wurzeln, überlegt K. K muss in seinen Briefen erkennen, dass der Großvater bis ins hohe Alter versucht hatte, seine eigene Biografie mit dem Urteil der nachfolgenden Zeit, der Zeit seiner Kinder und Enkel, auszusöhnen, und dass er entgegen seiner eigenen Bemühung dennoch nicht in der Lage gewesen zu sein schien, zu beurteilen, worin das eigentliche Unrecht des Schreckensregimes, dem er gefolgt war, bestanden hatte, und welches seine Voraussetzungen gewesen waren. In dieser Hinsicht war ihr der Fall Eichmann, der Gegenstand ihrer Seminararbeit gewesen war, erschreckend vertraut vorgekommen.Sie glaubt nicht, dass der Großvater, den sie bei anderen Themen als gebildeten, artikulierten und selbstbewussten Mann erlebt hatte, mit der Machtergreifung Hitlers unreflektiert eine vorherige Identität abgelegt hatte, um sodann zu einem glühenden Anhänger Hitlers zu werden wie es auch gleichzeitig viele andere taten. Sie glaubt, dass die Ideologie Hitlers auf eine abwartende Haltung getroffen war, in der bereits die unbedingte Bereitschaft gelegen hatte, mit bitterer Konsequenz einen neuen Krieg zu führen. Sie glaubt, dass Hitler nur noch schlafende Hunde geweckt hatte.

the dragon lair

I did not stop at the reception desk but walked straight towards the staircase leading up to the first floor. I felt confident, no adrenalin rush this time.

A demanding voice stopped me: “And where do you think you are going, Miss?” I stopped dead in my track. This was not supposed to happen. I turned around slowly and walked over to the reception desk. A no-nonsense woman, maybe in her mid-fifties, observed my progress critically. When I had reached the desk, I put on my nicest smile and stated: “ I have an appointment with Prof. H. I can just walk straight up, thank you.” “Prof. H.?” the woman inquired. The buttons of her starched and ironed shirt strained against her quivering bust. “Yes,” I answered, leaning over the polished desk a bit, lowering my voice, “I have been working on an assignment she gave me.” That did not seem to impress her much. I waited. “Feeling a bit funny, aren’t we” she answered without any expression. I changed my tactic: “Please, M’am, why don’t you just call and ask her,” I suggested. “Her office is on the first floor.” We stared at each other. She slowly turned red. “Where do you think you are,” she finally hissed, “a fancy hotel? Wall Street?” She exhaled deeply, then inhaled again, as if she was practicing her yoga breath. The shirt buttons were getting a good work-out which I noticed as a detail despite my growing annoyance. Why wouldn’t she just let me find my way as was custom in the building or at least call up? I was certain that Prof. H. wanted to see me just about as urgently as I wanted to see her. But the reception desk lady behaved like a dragon in front of a lair. I thought I could even smell her foul breath. “Listen, missy,” she snarled “I don’t know what you intend by walking straight into a men’s homeless shelter and I am sure I don’t want to know. I do not care whether you are looking for your daddy or grandpa, you have to wait until they come out. What I want, right now, is for you to leave this building through the front door and not bother me any further.” I took a step back. Men’s homeless shelter? I looked around. This was unmistakably the same lobby I had crossed through the last time. “Now. Missy,” commanded the voice of the dragon lady  “… or I will call the police to see you out.”

space, void of people

I woke up when a hand was gently nudging my shoulder. My neck was stiff. I was still sitting in the library chair. Dr. Hausner was gone. “Miss, I am afraid we are closing.” A woman’s voice. I looked up. Ms. Clarice stood right next to my chair, smiling. All other visitors were gone. I got up drowsily and carefully checked the window reflections, too. All visitors were gone. “Are you alright?” Ms. Clarice inquired. I looked at her closely. Her small golden earrings reflected the fluorescent library lights, transforming the miniature reflections of the library on the convex mirror of the gleaming curves  into a warmer, more elegant version of the actual space. An alternate space more suitable for someone like Dr. Hausner than the mundane space of Summerville library.

“When did Dr. Hausner leave?” I asked. Ms. Clarice narrowed her eyes. She ignored my question.  “You must be very tired,” she replied, “go home and sleep.” “Did you see him?”, I insisted. “Go home and sleep, Miss, I have to switch off the lights now.” I wanted to protest but she anticipated my notion and gently shoved me along. “Come back tomorrow,” she repeated, not unfriendly. We walked down the staircase together.

There was nobody downstairs either. From the winding staircase I could see  the lower floor breathing calmly. The tessellation of the carpet tiles looked like the exposed skin of an ancient creature. An empty library is a marvelous space. Really any space empty of people holds some kind of promise that seems to disappear once it gets populated. When I slowed down to linger on the staircase, I felt Ms. Clarice’s warm hand on my shoulders again, encouraging me to continue down the last few steps. I sighed. “It’s beautiful, the library, “ I said apologetically, “at night, I mean. When all the visitors have left.” We reached the ground floor. I took care not to step on the lines of the irregular tile pattern. I have never been quite able to just move without paying attention to the rhythm of any kind of tile, responding to it in some way, and today was not the day to start with it. Ms. Clarice remained silent while I gingerly crossed the open space. I wondered if I ever would get used to people not answering. Strictly speaking, I had not asked a question though. Ms. Clarice looked the kind of woman who did not have an appreciation for idle conversation.

She waited patiently while I balanced over to the cubbies to pick up my bag. I pulled out my jacket first. A small piece of paper trundled to the floor like a feeble bird. Folded from yellow legal paper. I bent over and picked it up. Ms. Clarice was still waiting for me at the door, so I simply slid it into my pocket, shouldered my bag and walked over. She still smiled, never once complaining about the delay. “Good night now,” she said simply. I nodded. She locked the door right behind me. It was cold outside. When I turned around, the lights in the library had already been switched off. The building looked deserted. I started walking into the evening.

organic sources of light

“Recordings of what?” I inquired. His smile faded. Again it seemed like he was listening to my voice retreating in the library. “She said you were smart,” he remarked, more to himself. I was not sure that was supposed to be a compliment or a reminder to himself. “Who said?” I cut in. I had the uncomfortable feeling of him looking at me again and I felt reprimanded without him saying a word. “Sir, please, who said that?” I rephrased my words.

“Never leave a question before it has been answered,” he advised me, not answering either one of my questions. He fell silent.  I stared at him, then lowered my glance, then looked up at him again. He could sit perfectly still, looking very much like the archetypical image of a blind man. It seemed to me, again, that I noticed more visual detail than one should notice. More than I could process. The crease of his pant legs, the way the fine wool fabric folded itself, the nuanced shadows in those folds. His white, chiseled hands, holding on to the walking cane even as he was sitting. And yet, despite or maybe because of the rich details  I had an increasingly hard time focusing on him. It was like reading a book when you are very tired already and you can’t focus on the words. You are still reading them mechanically but you do not get their meaning. He faded or rather he diminished in size. He diminished in size but gained in clarity. I wanted to protest. I had a million questions. He looked like an illustration, I thought, feeling very tired, like one of my mother’s illustrations, done in a myriad of very fine, sharp lines. And each of these lines was emanating a fine, very precise, white light.

coloring idaho

My mother was busy preparing dinner and answering questions my sister had while sitting at the big wooden table and doing her homework. This evening she was coloring and cutting out the states and gluing them in the right place on a map of the US. Both my sister and I hated coloring in worksheets and my mother had brought out her expensive Sennelier pastels to persuade my sister to employ some effort on the task. The map as far as it was completed looked like a beautiful velvet patchwork quilt. You can’t achieve that with your Crayolas. I wondered whether her teacher would be able to appreciate the difference.

Montana was already pasted in its proper place. It was colored in layers of gorgeous deep Indigo and now, with a vengeance, Phoebe was wasting pale Vermillion Orange on Idaho. I sat down at the table and watched her. There is something nice about a little kid coloring in even if she detests it. My mother walked past me and ruffled my hair in a distracted way. It was just as much part of her dinner routine as cleaning dishes right after using them. For a moment I was back in a comprehensible, friendly world. No opportunistic cannibalism, no aliens. Phoebe pasted Idaho on to her map and contemplated color choices for Washington State. “Why do they have to be different colors?” she complained but her heart wasn’t in it, you could see that she did enjoy choosing a new pastel stick. According to my mother you can never work with materials that are too good and you should always strive for beauty but I still felt a bit doubtful whether you actually needed art pastels to complete this kind of homework.

Phoebe still had the whole west coast and Alaska to color and paste and she grunted disapprovingly as she studied the worksheet after cutting out Washington State. Washington was going to be Cinnabar Green. I liked the way she held her tongue between her lips when she had to cut something out or color something in. She looked a lot like Plinius, our cat, after his dinner when he sits down on the table and probably contemplates dessert choices waiting outside in the dark beyond the kitchen door. Phoebe looked like that whenever she was focusing on something. Right now she smeared Cinnabar Green all over Washington. The pastel stick made a fat, smacking sound on the paper. At the kitchen bar behind us my mother cracked an egg. The splintering  was very clear and pleasing to me. I thought that recently I had been much more perceptive to small sounds. Only this morning on my way to school I had stopped to listen to the sparrows hopping over the path to the front door of our school, their tiny claws scratching the bricks. How much does a sparrow weigh? 35 g?

Phoebe looked up. “Mommy?” she asked. My mother looked up from her mixing bowl. “Which language do they speak in California?”

the library, a visitor/2

As a matter of fact, Dr. Hausner had started talking again. The low drone of his voice brought me back from my existential self-doubt to the mundane world of the Summerville library. Or not so mundane as I had just recently discovered. I drifted off again as if lured away by my own obsessive thoughts.  What was real? What was dream? Where was I when I wasn’t aware of myself? Where was I when I was asleep in my bed? I pinched myself hard to make myself listen to the melodic voice of the blind man by my side.

“Normally they go about their own business, “ Dr. Hausner concluded at that moment.  “But of course they are bored.” He seemed to be thinking for a moment, folding his elegant white fingers in his lap. Then he added: “Even in the library.“ He sounded incredulous as if that was an incomprehensible idea.  “But what are they doing here?,” I ask. “Where do they come from?”

the library, a visitor

Dr. Aaron Hausner cocked his head as if he was listening to the retreating sound of my voice slowly travelling into the distance of the library, finally getting caught in some shelves, its individual corresponding vibrations disintegrating and archiving themselves alphabetically in the juvenile fiction section somewhere between Susan Cooper, E.L. Königsburg and Madeleine L’Engle. “Dr. Hausner,” I whispered, “do you remember me?” He smiled. “You sound tired,” he observed instead of an answer, “I say, you don’t sound well at all.” I felt a brief wave of frustration and annoyance. No one ever answered my questions. But then the warmth of compassion in his voice reached me and to my surprise I felt my eyes filling with tears. I swallowed hard. It had been a while since someone had showed an interest in how I was feeling. We sat in silence for a while. Dr. Hausner didn’t press for an answer, and I sat back, not feeling the pressure to make any kind of conversation. There was a strange, comforting feeling that he kept me in his focus even though he didn’t inquire any further. We sat almost next to each other in silent company. I felt real and alive.

I don’t know whether I was crying. I might have been. There were a few moments when I felt peaceful. But after a while the questions came sneaking back to my mind. They were destructive and very smart about it. And I started feeling agitated again. Hell, I didn’t even know whether this grandfather, his reassuringly old fashioned, three piece suit clashing with his white skinned, bare feet in biblical sandals, who was providing me with his compassionate company, whether this man actually existed.  He immediately sensed my aggravation and shifted in his seat as if releasing me from his interest. Maybe my breathing pattern changed. Or maybe he was just a part of my mind, responding to me because he was me.  I briefly contemplated if I could ask some other visitor whether Dr. Hausner existed, but the problem was really, that everybody I would maybe choose to ask could equally be a fabrication of my mind. I couldn’t prove anybody’s existence. Not even my own. I just had to operate on the assumption that I existed and that people I talked to existed, too.

lunacy

From that day on my world has been different. Even though I have lost some of the feverishness that I lived with back then, a feverishness that brought on a clarity about which I knew nothing as long as it lasted, I still hold it for possible that at any moment in our lives just about anything can happen. I still know that we are like divers in a deep ocean finding access to different currents and tides, each one of them distinctly different in temperature, clarity and speed. Accepting the reality of the girl in the window I acknowledged that I preferred to be raving mad to inhabiting a world without surprises. A suburban world where everything was designed to be stagnant or at least to create the never to be questioned illusion of stability. Even my free spirited artist mother surfed the tide of that illusion. That day I rejected the comforting hand of a reality created by others for needs I didn’t even knew I might have one day. Instead I allowed myself an unfiltered acknowledgement of the impulses that my brain felt inclined to produce. I did not know whether or not there was anything out there at all, I didn’t know if we possess any kind of objective reality but whereas before that had horribly worried me (along with the question how to prove to oneself that one exists at all outside the universe of our own brain), suddenly I was intrigued by the freedom of it. So what – if this girl in the mirror did not exist, I could still see her bright and clear, she looked like a normal kid.