Mengele's Friend?

By Simon Kogon

An adventure story set in 1969-72 North and South America, Mengele’s Friend? narrates Kurt’s search for a father known for his war heroics and literary genius, but also for befriending human monsters like Mengele and Eichmann. At a deeper level, the novel explores the nature of evil with Kurt, in his obsession with his suspected Nazi war-criminal father, unwittingly getting enmeshed in a different kind of horror – that of the Argentinian and Brazilian torture regimes of the time. Kurt’s father, both in his writings and appearance, is modeled on the controversial writer Ernst Jünger, literary genius and highly decorated war hero.

On the run from his Nazi friends, Kurt’s father, alias “Mengele’s Friend” (or MF), lures his son, along with his traveling companion, narrator Joel Niemand, into a vortex of ever-more lurid horrors. Like an invisible puppeteer, MF has his son and companion meet former friends, enemies, and mistresses; has them read his diaries and fragments of a new novel satirizing his Nazi-colony associates; and unwittingly causes them to tangle with ex-Nazi henchmen running the São Paolo Gestapo. However, as for MF himself and his most deeply-held convictions, they remain a mystery to the end.

Illustrations of some of the novel’s authentic geographical locales and historical personages, along with their captions, provide this story with a parallel text of sorts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aguilar Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9780991728305

Book preview

Mengele's Friend?

by Simon Kogon

Published by Aguilar Press

Toronto, Mexico City, Madrid, Paris, Berlin

www.aguilarpress.com

ISBN 978-0-9917283-0-5

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 © Simon Kogon

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you.

I never killed anyone. I only decided who was fit to work.

Josef Mengele after 1945

I knew Josef Mengele as an absolutely honourable, decent, conscientious, very charming, elegant, and fun-loving person, otherwise I would not have married him.

Josef Mengele's first wife Irene in 1984

But the stories they print about him – they're just stories. Lies. No, no, they're just not true. He's a very educated, very gentle, very affectionate man, a wonderful husband, a wonderful father.

Josef Mengele's second wife Martha in 1971

Compare Hitler and Napoleon, two world spirits.

Gottfried Benn in 1933

How great were the beginnings, and how sordid it looks today.

Gottfried Benn around 1934-5

The boundless atrocities enacted in the abattoirs of men open up visions of an escalation of pain, which makes one slump back in resignation. I am seized with loathing for the uniforms, epaulettes, medals, and arms whose splendour I loved so much.

Ernst Jünger in 1942

Today the old wives of the literary world are everywhere croaking at me, charging me with 'betrayal of the spirit'! And they themselves have been betraying the spirit to this day in their fine phrases. So long as it was just a literary pastime, they prided themselves on it. Now that we are in earnest with it, they are opening wide their innocent eyes.

Adolf Hitler

Table of Contents

Meeting Kurt Meissner

Kurt's Story about Uncle Franz

The Niemands

The Banality of Evil

The Messenger

The Gold Digger

Ein Alter Schulfreund

In Search of Altmann

Eva Sanchez

Martirios

O Filho do Libertador

Rescuing Eva Sanchez

The War Hero

The Canadian

Rudel's Friend

Climbing Aconcagua

Letters from Home

Dr. Gregor's Friend

Dr. Josef Mengele

Meeting Altmann

Hans Meinhardt's Grave

Going Home

Olga's Editorial Postscript

Josef Mengele (1911-1979?), the infamous Auschwitz doctor, in October 1943, just a few months after his posting to the concentration camp. Kurt's father, Henry Meissner (alias Edward Green, alias Hans Meinhardt, alias Ernst Werister) associates with Josef Mengele and other Nazi war criminals in the 60s and 70s in South America. Hence his son Kurt and Joel Niemand refer to him as Mengele's Friend or simply as MF.

Meeting Kurt Meissner

I'd never read anything like it:

He found the Bogromils' sacred site abandoned. A massive gateway of granite slabs led into the mountain. Inside was an amphitheatre hewn out of the rocks which also served as a roof to this giant cavern. Along its upper edge ran an oblong gap, roughly the height of a man, allowing the outside light to illumine the vast interior. There he stood, his back to the sun, watching his shadow fall down the half-moon rows of seats toward the distant stage.

Thence obviously proceeded the sweet smell of putrefaction that had clung to his nostrils even outside. For on the stage were displayed some two dozen naked human bodies, male and female, cast in poses such as to simulate the utmost of what the mind can picture in torment: crucified, impaled; strung up by ankles, wrists, and elbows; men castrated, women with their breasts cut; some blinded, others disemboweled.

Had Kurt dreamt up these horrors?

To regain my bearings I looked up from what I was reading. Below us, Montréal lay sparkling in the sharp afternoon sunlight. It was a beautiful late April day, clear, crisp and Canadian, perhaps yet another snowstorm lingering in the spring air.

Kurt and I had gone for a stroll up Mount Royal after school. By the time we'd reached the top of the mountain and settled down on a stone bench, he'd pulled a typewritten sheet of paper from a side pocket of his corduroy jacket, and asked me to read it.

It's like William Burroughs, I said, after recovering from my shock. I was trying to impress Kurt. In fact, I'd never read Naked Lunch.

Just read on! Kurt said, a contemptuous smile on his face.

I did:

Other than himself, the only spectators present were several vultures which, glutted by their feast of human carrion, stalked around the lower rows of seats. Only one of them was on stage, furiously tearing away at a man impaled upside down on a sharply pointed stake which, after entering his body through his mouth, reappeared through his crotch. The vulture suddenly let out an angry shriek which, amplified by the cavernous space, hit his ears as if the animal was upon him.

I'm not sure if it's a nightmare script or a madman's fantasy, I volunteered, feeling more and more disgusted.

Kurt just stared at me, to make me feel silly, I thought.

"It's from my father's Bogromilischen Frühlingsriten, he said finally. I am translating it. "

********

The excerpts from Bogromilian Spring Rites gradually came to remind me of what first drew my attention to Kurt. It was a phrase, the blindfolded Apocalyptic Riders, from an essay a certain K. Meissner had published in our high school journal. Nothing in it made normal sense. Yet it stuck in my mind like the anguish left by an evil dream. Still with me too are its syntactical cascades plunging towards some ominous destination. There was energy in it, and drive; but all geared towards death. Clearly, it ran against everything I'd been raised to believe in.

Just two weeks earlier, I'd been confirmed at Temple Emanu-el. I'll never forget the elation I'd felt delivering my confirmation address. In front of me was the auditorium packed with teachers, parents, and other kids, to my right the Ark, and above me the night-sky-like ceiling, encircled by gabled windows open to God's actual firmament beyond.

I know that most of us think of confirmation at Temple Emanu-el as of an initiation rite into upper middle class society. But not me. That's partly because I'd been taught by the enthusiastic Steve Smith, to whom Leonard Cohen dedicated Beautiful Losers. Up until '64 anyway, when Steve, who was only twenty-one, died a tragic death. Steve had made me love and respect our religion – its tolerance for other creeds, its clean air of rationality, and above all its world-wide perspectives. My confirmation address was a speech in Steve's memory.

With a tremulous but elated voice, I spoke of God's infinite goodness, of our great moral tradition, and of a future age of enlightenment, tolerance and love when the belief in man's incarnate evil would appear like a crude superstition. I concluded by quoting the psalmist:

The heavens declare the glory of God,

And the firmament shows His handiwork;

Day unto day expresses His greatness.

Reading Kurt's essay a fortnight later, all this enthusiasm gave way to sudden fear – as if Kurt's insidious rhetoric might draw me away from my love of God's marvelous creation onto a slippery slide of perversion.

Later on, during our lunch break, I asked Larry if he knew Kurt Meissner.

Of course, Larry said, pointing to a corner across the schoolyard. "The oddball right there, reading the Gazette. His father was a Nazi."

Though I had seen Kurt before, he was the last person I'd have associated with the essay. He was tall, lean, and lankish; his clothes hung on him like rags on a scarecrow. Even after he'd ceased reading the paper, he looked down, as if searching the ground. His straight, flaxen hair was falling over his eyebrows. Starting to walk, he moved gawkishly, as if shuddering, now and then sending a sharp burst of air from his mouth up across his face to make the hair over his forehead form, for a brief moment, a fluttering awning above his sad, light blue eyes. He had sharply drawn, gentle features of an almost feminine softness. He seemed so infinitely vulnerable I felt sorry for him.

But a radical change overcame him when he talked. Kurt spoke in rushes, with a serious, absentminded intensity punctured by derisive bursts of laughter. Sometimes his face would start radiating for no apparent reason. Then he'd suddenly turn serious again, blow the hair over his forehead into a hovering arch, and often just walk away from whoever he'd spoken to, leaving that person stunned and bewildered. At least, that's how it affected me.

At first I tried to dismiss Kurt: a hippy. But his evasiveness certainly wasn't what's called laid back: there was something catlike, perhaps cunning, about him. One thing was certain: most kids at Westmount High School were intrigued by Kurt. Some claimed he had a Russian girlfriend six years his senior; others that he was a powerful athlete.

Given my own athletic achievements and Kurt's skeletal figure, I had my doubts. But not for long. During our '66 track and field meet, he finished a hands-down first in the mile, speeding gazelle-like across the finish line fifty yards ahead of everyone else, then trotted to a halt, shook himself like a wet dog, and smiled his angelic smile.

One day, several weeks later, Kurt rescued me from a situation which, ironically, almost ended up in the violent destructiveness I'd come to associate with his essay. It all started harmlessly enough, like a stupid teenage prank. Trying to find out where Kurt lived, I had persuaded Larry to join me in secretly following Kurt on his way home after our late Thursday afternoon indoor gym class. It was a snowy night. By the time we'd reached de Ramezay Road, his spidery figure had suddenly vanished in the snowfall.

Meanwhile, Larry had spotted an Oldsmobile on the east side of de Ramezay towards the wooden cross. The car's headlights were turned off, but there was smoke coming from the exhaust pipe. The front seats were vacant but through the steamed-up rear window we saw the head of a man, slumped into the backrest. Crawling up more closely, we could hear groans. Guessing what was happening, I peered through the backdoor window and saw a woman's disheveled mane move up and down over the man's lap.

She turned towards me, burying her face in her hands. Before I could think, the car door burst open. Out came the man, tightening his belt. He caught up with me at the corner of Daulac, pulled me round by my shoulder, then smashed his bony fist into my face. Right, left, right, left, then a final blow which sent me reeling into a snow bank. In a split second he was upon me, pushing my head into the snow, holding it until I choked, as I twitched helplessly under his heavy body, ice cutting into my windpipe.

But suddenly I was free again, while a teenager's voice shouted: Run! The man was struggling in the grip of an arm locked around his throat, gasping for air, the youngster behind him screaming: Come on, run! which I did. Turning round, I saw Kurt dash off along de Ramezay. He quickly disappeared in the thickly falling snow as the man sat up in the snow bank, holding his throat, spitting, coughing, and cursing. Obviously, Larry had run away.

The first thing I felt after recovering from my panic was shame. Had Kurt noticed that Larry and I had been following him, then eluded us, and, in spite of our spying on him, come to my rescue? How could I thank him?

After that, I tried everything to attract his attention. Once, I even jostled him while he was walking past me. But Kurt ignored me, searching the ground as if lost in deep thought. Finally, I just grabbed his arm.

I want to thank you, I stuttered. You remember – the night in the snow.

Kurt looked at me, smiled his beatific smile, and said, That's all right! He made his hair fly over his forehead, looked at me with his sad, light blue eyes, gave my shoulder a gentle tap, and left me standing there more embarrassed than ever.

Several days later I managed to corner him in the upstairs gallery of the Westmount Public Library.

Can I bother you for a second? I stammered. Strangely, I was crying. But then my tearfulness suddenly changed to elation. Something light in my chest was pushing up to free itself through my throat, making the words I spoke vibrate as they had during my confirmation address.

You know me, don't you? I said. My name's Joel. Joel Niemand. I'd like to be your friend.

As Kurt raised his face, I once again felt the tears rush to my eyes.

You're Jewish, aren't you? he said, lowering his face.

Yes, I am, I replied.

You could help me find my father, he said drily.

Later I came to realize that being abrupt like this was one of Kurt's special tricks.

I'd sure like to, I shot back, stunned by his request. How could I refuse to help a person who'd risked his life saving mine?

Ignoring my offer, Kurt added pensively:

My father was a member of the Waffen-SS.

The Waffen-SS? To Kurt's surprise I'd never heard that term before. So he explained, adding that a section of the Waffen-SS called the Totenkopfbrigade had been running the concentration camps.

So perhaps my father was involved in that. If that's so, I'd like to find him, and bring him to justice.

Kurt fell silent.

Where is he? I asked.

That's the problem, Kurt answered. I'm not sure. But I'll tell you what I know. Let's go to Nick's and talk. You know, the greasy spoon on Greene.

Of course I knew. That's where Westmount kids like us hung out.

We found a booth in the back of Nick's. Even before we got a chance to order, Kurt began telling his story, slowly, in detail, and with a frankness that made me cringe. Every so often he would interrupt himself, smile while looking past me, then continue exactly where he'd stopped. Here's what he told me:

Kurt's Story about Uncle Franz

Coming home from school one afternoon in 1960, I found Mom talking to a stranger in the living room overlooking Cedar Avenue. The man turned to me, saying, 'Hello, Kurt.' He'd taken my hands in his. How come the man knew me? Somehow he reminded me of Dad, whose photograph stood on the dresser behind him; my dad who'd died in a car crash in São Paulo. I'd recently located that place in our atlas.

This is Uncle Franz, Mother told me. Say hello. He's your father's brother.

My memories of Father were rather sketchy. Most of them came from photographs like the one on the dresser. It showed someone with a narrow face, aquiline nose, dimpled chin, deeply set, penetrating eyes that looked past you, and a faint, eerie smile – just like the smile on Uncle Franz's face. Only Uncle Franz had a moustache.

Your uncle and I are discussing serious family matters, Mother announced. So you'll have to go to your room. Tomorrow he'll take you for a walk.

I knew from experience that there was no point resisting her. So I went, my thoughts focused on my dead father. Just recently I'd found out that he'd been an SS man. That was after discovering a new photograph that had suddenly turned up in the family album. It showed a young Nazi officer in a tight-fitting uniform with a cone-shaped collar and epaulettes, as well as a high, oval cap with an eagle and swastika above the shiny black visor. He was leaning out of a railway carriage, smiling his eerie smile, arms crossed on the down-turned window, nonchalantly holding a cigarette in his right hand. He looked proud and content, perhaps at the thought of going to some exotic, far-away destination.

I'd never seen that photograph, although I'd often leafed through our family album. Mother promptly explained: she'd found it in a volume from Father's library. He had probably used it as a bookmark. So Mother had stuck it into the album. Had he