Ingersoll cowered in a shell hole, his ruined mask filled with muddy water, until finally he pulled a mask off a dead Englishman and got it over his face. The gas stung his hands and neck. Then he looked up and saw the American Marine standing over him, his rifle pointed at him, the point of his bayonet at Ingersoll s throat. The young German dropped his gun and slowly raised his hands in the ultimate gesture of surrender.
Returning to a devastated homeland, Ingersoll, like thousands of other soldiers, found himself scorned by civilians and betrayed by the Kaiser and his politicians. He became one of millions of impoverished Germans, begging for food, wandering from town to town looking for work, rootless and alone and damning to hell the British, French and Americans for humbling the motherland and driving her to her knees. The living nightmare of returning in disgrace to a devastated and bankrupt homeland, to bread- lines and street brawls and political chaos, still haunted him. Sometimes he awoke at night soaked in sweat. The vivid memory of being cold and hungry, of sleeping in an alley covered with a sheet of tar paper, was as real as if it were happening at that very moment.
He had joined the National Socialist party in 1928, a few months before the chance meeting with Freddie Kreisler that had changed his life forever. Although he had never been active in the Nazi party, it had introduced him to Mein Kampf and the genius of Adolf Hitler. He read and reread Mein Kampf, even underlining certain passages and memorizing them.
While on holiday near Braunschweig he had journeyed to the town out of curiosity to witness a Nazi rally. He watched in awe as hundreds of Hitler’s brownshirts goose-stepped up the cobblestone streets.
“Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” echoed through the ancient town.
Women held up their children to see the savior and threw flowers before his car, their eyes glassy with adoration. The men threw their arms out in the Nazi salute and continued the chorus.
“Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”
But it was that night, when Hitler made his speech, that Ingersoll recognized the true power of the man. Thousands crowded into the town square, their faces transfixed in the flickering light of torches, hypnotized by the sound of his voice and by the stern discipline of his stare.
It was a Gothic opera, a blend of choreography chorus and aria that both chilled and excited the actor.
What had been called the Führer’s Fingerspitzengefuhl, his ‘fingertip touch, “ was immediately obvious to Ingersoll. The man had a talent for moving rich and poor alike with an intoxicating brew of political strategy, super-patriotism, and rousing oratory. Angrily, he publicly damned the Allies, refuted the Treaty of Versailles and encouraged Ger many to refuse to pay its devastating reparations. He was preaching a new and inspiring kind of national patriotism, discarding the yoke of defeat with his fervor and passion.
Ingersoll also admired the actor in Hitler, for the Führer savored his performance with an uncanny sense of timing, knowing just when to pause, to wait for the crowd to answer his oratory.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Sieg heil!”
“Sieg heil!”
And there were two other things. First, his attack on the Versailles treaty. Ingersoll had never been political. He had gone to war because it was the patriotic thing to do, to fight for family and for Germany. But at Versailles, the Allies had overlooked that, had forgotten the millions of men who had returned broken in mind, body and spirit. After all, one man’s hero is always another man ‘s enemy. And so they had unleashed their victor’s venom on all of Germany instead of the politicians who had led them into war, had stripped Germany of honor and resources and left a country dispirited, bankrupt and divided by chaos, a nightmare place stripped of hope. The heart of the country and its people had been pierced by the sword of the avengers and, in the wake of war, anger and hate fired the need for retribution, for another match somewhere in time. The ink was not yet dry on the peace contract and already, from beer halls to breakfast nooks, there was talk of getting even. And no voice had been louder than Ingersoll’s.
And there was this other thing, this thing with the Jews. As a child, Ingersoll has listened to his father, an alcoholic failure, revile the Jews, blaming them for all his family’s misfortune. Ingersoll had accepted the stereotypical harangues as truth. The old man‘s fury infected the son until Ingersoll harbored an almost psychotic contempt for Jews. Ultimately, bigotry rather than courage became Ingersoll’s sticking post and subconsciously he turned his obsessive passion inward harnessing it and forging it into the frightening, antisocial monsters he invented for the screen.
So Hitler’s inspired intuitionism enhanced the Fuhrer’s allure, firing Ingersoll s creative sensitivity into an inferno of hatred and anger. Hitler’s racial attacks were like a tonic to Ingersoll and he found himself believing in the Führer with an intellectual ardor fueled by passionate racism. Proselytized by the power, baptized by the drama, Ingersoll soon became part of the throng, lashing out with his arm and joining the chorus.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!”
So this personal invitation was euphoric indeed, an unexpected bonus from a career that already had carried Ingersoll far beyond his wildest dreams.
“Absolutely,” he said, barely able to conceal his enthusiasm.
“Excellent! Our Leader will be delighted, as am I. I also am a fan. I think you are a genius, Herr Ingersoll, and I have heard the Führer refer to you as a national treasure.”
“Really! Well Ingersoll was almost stammering. “What can I say.”
“You have already said it,” Vierhaus said with a smile. “The Führer’s chauffeur will pick you up Friday morning, February 4th, at six A.M. for the flight to Munich.”
“I know the area. I’ve skied there”
“Gut. Are you a meat eater?”
“Herr Hitler is a vegetarian. He calls people who prefer meat ‘corpse eaters.’”
“That’s a bit severe.”
“The Führer tends toward the extreme in his opinions, as you probably know.”
“I eat everything but fish. Anything that breathes through a hole in the side of its neck makes me nervous.”
Vierhaus chuckled.
“You must tell him that. He has a keen sense of humor. Well, if there is a change, I will be in touch with Herr Kreisler. Otherwise we’ll see you on the fourth. Good luck with your film.”
They shook hands again and Vierhaus was gone as quickly as he had come. Ingersoll sat back with his mouth open.