Aladdin's Problem Read Free Page B

until the medical corps captain said: "The reserve can retire; your hitch is over."
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    Accident suffered during service; that was a good discharge, almost a pass key. Limping with my cane through the garden of the convalescent home, I pon dered my prospects. It was fall, the asters were still blossoming, the October sun was shining.
    If we get into a difficult situation, say, prison, we have to resign ourselves. Even better, we can derive some benefit from it. Our situation can then function as a step towards our self-realization. The same is true of successes: we should not take them for granted. They can always be trumped.
    Whenever Bertha and I played checkers during the evenings of our first year of marriage (that was later), she would sometimes say: "You're cunning — you turn every windmill into something to tilt at."
    The same applied here. When I returned to my company in regard to my discharge, I had already forged my plan. Stellmann stood at the barracks entrance; I hobbled past him with my cane and saluted — not with my hand at my forehead, but with an exact turn of my head. He crossed his arms and glared at me.
    Inside, I reported to the captain; he allowed me to sit. He said: "My dear B., we have to part, I'm sorry. I'll miss you; there's more to you than I heard from the sergeant. But you know: duty is duty. In any case, good luck in your future endeavors."
    I rose to my feet and stood at attention: "Sir, may I request permission to remain in the army — I am still fit for service."
    This had never happened before; I was tilting at a windmill.
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    Word about my zeal had spread quickly: the colonel received me benevolently. I was a shining example. Like some of the older officers, he had once served "King and Country." He enjoyed being addressed in the third person, albeit only privately. He pointed out to me that, after his head, an infantryman is dependent on his legs.
    "Sir, if I may respond: I believe it makes no difference in a tank or an airplane."
    He liked that; he patted me on the back and rang up the doctor. I was thoroughly reexamined and then detailed to the military academy. Needless to say, I had to undergo tests, but there was nothing negative in my background. Good marks, no criminal record. Stellmann had once put me in the guardhouse, but that can happen. It was not raked up until later. Above all: I was politically sound.
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    One can capitalize on a leg injury as need be. It sometimes improves, sometimes gets worse — depending on circumstances, especially the weather. I benefited from it at the military academy; I wore it like a decoration. They were considerate toward me, especially for drills and field duty. I made up for this in the theoretical courses. I followed the instruction attentively, occasionally asking a question — the kind that instructors like. I did this not just in order to score with them, but also because I grow all the more interested in power the higher the level on which it is manifested.
    The general spiritualization now emerging is also expressed in tactics. It is astounding to see how inventiveness grows in nature and in technology when existence is at stake. This applies to both defense and pursuit. For every missile, an anti-missile is devised. At times, it all looks like sheer bragadoccio. This could lead to a stalemate or else to the moment when the opponent says, "I give up," if he does not knock over the chessboard and ruin the game.
    Darwin did not go that far; in this context, one is better off with Cuvier's theory of catastrophes.
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    So much for tactics; those are mental games. The same holds for "Morale," which was taught as the second major subject. In this respect, I was fortunate in having studied social theories from early on. I had been inspired to do so by the fate of my family. As I grew up and tried to form an opinion, Socialism was not merely an academic subject for me; I read its major works — often until late at night. Incidentally, I