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Waltzing the Enigma: Is This a Hallucination or a “True Hallucination?” (The Max Planck Institute and the Underground Reich)

S.S. Rotterdam (commissioned in 1959) Is this the Flying Dutchman of "Heintz" and McKenna's tale?

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COMMENT: In a recent post, we highlighted the Max Planck Institutes, formerly the Kaiser Wilhelm Institutes–an epicenter of scientific research for the Third Reich.

Here, we embark on a highly speculative, undoubtedly “open-ended” inquiry.

In a (possibly apocryphal) chapter from a book about his world travels while researching psychotropic drugs, Terence McKenna allegedly came in contact with a “Dr. Karl Heintz” in Kopang, in Timor (Indonesia).

Alleged to be with an apparent Bormann capital network company called “Far Eastern Mining and Minerals, Inc.” based in Singapore, “Heintz” related that he was the son of an SS officer.

Relating that his company was formed in the immediate aftermath of World War II, “Heintz” contends that the Max Planck Institute was the epicenter of his “group’s” efforts at building for the future.

Using patents developed during the Second World War, they were intimately bound up in the group’s vision for the future, using the twin powers of capital and science.

“Heintz” later offered to shepherd McKenna during a proposed trip to the Amazon to research psychotropic substances. That proposal fell through.

Several years later, McKenna alleges that he met “Heintz” at a symposium at the University of Colorado, conducted under the auspices of the Max Planck Institute. “Heintz” pretended not to know McKenna, despite obviously recognizing him and denied that he had ever been in Kupang (Timor–the site of their alleged meeting.)

IF this is a “True Hallucination” and not just a “hallucination,” this implies that the Max Planck Institute is twinned with the remarkable and deadly Bormann capital network as a working pillar of the Underground Reich.

There is no way of verifying, or disproving this. 

Internet searches revealed that there was, indeed, a cruise ship called the Rotterdam, commissioned in 1959. We found nothing of a “Krosnopolski” hotel in Rio de Janeiro, although the name may well have been changed, if there was such an entity. Krosnopolski MAY refer to Galicia, in the Ukraine. Does that have any link to the “Galician”-14th Waffen SS Division?

There is a Krasnopolski Hotel in Amsterdam. (We note, in passing, that Indonesia had been a colony of the Netherlands before World War II.)

There do appear to be one or more people named “Max Bockermann,” although it is unclear if any are old enough to have been the World War II-era mentors of “Heintz'” and company.

One interesting detail struck us. “Heintz” alleged that the chef at the “Krosnopolski Hotel” was his “father’s old cook.” We wonder if that refers to his father’s alleged service in the SS.

In Martin Bormann: Nazi in Exile, Paul Manning writes that SS officers who had served after the war at “Kolonie Waldner”–the Bormann compound in the Three Borders Area, were fed by former SS mess chefs. (See text excerpts below.)

Is this what “Heintz” was discussing with McKenna?

Obviously, we have no way of confirming or disproving what McKenna relates, and, frankly, hallucinogenic drugs and the people who use them are a long way from home for us.

Nonetheless, it is interesting to contemplate if McKenna’s tale is accurate. IF so, then the Max Planck Institute would appear to be an important element of the Underground Reich, alongside the remarkable and deadly Bormann network.

IF that is the case, it suggests the POSSIBILITY that Palantir and many other companies at the cutting edge of technological application MAY be fronts for the Underground Reich.

True Hallucinations by Terence McKenna; Copyright 1993 by Terence McKenna; Harper San Francisco; ISBN 0-06-250545-9; Chapter Title; “Waltzing the Enigma”.

EXCERPT: “The manager here has told me of your biological researches on Timor. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Karl Heintz of Far Eastern Mining and Minerals, Inc.”

My relief was immediate. Obviously this guy wasn’t some kind of Interpol porker come to track me down. But he had the look. He was powerfully built with swept-back, iron-grey hair and strikingly intense eyes of glacial blue. He sported a schmiss on his left cheek, a long, thin scar. I had never seen a schmiss before but the crossword puzzle term sprang into my mind unbidden. I wondered if he had received it in the traditional manner, in a sword duel that is part of the hazings that used to go on in the university fraternities of Prussia.

“As we are the only guests here at Rama Hotel, may I invite you to join my wife and me for some schnapps? I am keen to hear your perceptions concerning Timor.”

The town was too small for me to refuse gracefully. Had I said no we would have ended up at separate tables in the same five-table restaurant. I hated the idea of spending time with straight people but there seemed no decent way to escape.

Hearing him speak brought his wife into the small foyer to join us. She made the decision easier, though I was careful to guard my reaction of amazement. Only a year or two older than myself, maybe twenty five, she was stunningly beautiful, dark, sari-clad with huge fawn-like eyes, a gold nose ring, and many bracelets. In that tropical backwater her appearance was as unlikely as a flying saucer; she was a vision of overdressed Brahmanic perfection. Her name was Rani, and when she spoke her voice was cultivated and musical. Though she rarely spoke, her English was better than his. This was no girl from the villages. I confess that I was intrigued. What could I do but accompany this pair? It wasn’t as though I had something better to do.

Once we were seated at the restaurant with our quart bottles of Bintang beer in front of us, the conversation began to flow and I started to form an impression of my companions.

Dr. Heintz was, he said, a geologist with an outfit in Singapore. The year before, a survey team had found evidence of a large deposit of nickel that straddled the border between Indonesian and Portuguese Timor. He was there to confirm their findings and to estimate the feasibility of a mining operation. That seemed straightforward enough, although there were references to a set of instruments that could somehow determine the true size of the deposit. I knew very little of prospecting technology, but a device that could see hundreds of feet into the ground sounded farfetched to me.

I gently inquired about the language that I had heard them both speaking, thinking this would lead him on to discussing his wife. It turned out to be a favorite subject of his. She was, he told me while she merely sat and watched us both, a granddaughter of the Maharani of Maharashtra. It seemed that Heintz had been in the market for a few hundred acres of prime Maharashtran agricultural land and the old Maharani had a parcel that she was willing to cut loose. This had lead to Heintz meeting Rani. Before the deal was closed, it was clear that a wedding would soon follow. He waxed eloquent over the joys of tractor farming in India, how he was really a very simple man, the joys of watching the growth of a new crop, and so on. He was quite a raver, and I was content to let him spin it all out. It seemed that he was a kind of vice-president in charge of operations for the mining concern, a kind of trouble shooter really. He ordered another beer and told a story about being ambushed by guerrillas during the start up of a big tin extraction operation in northern Thailand. At the story’s climax he stood and lifted his shirt to display for my edification three neat scars across his chest. From a machine gun, he said.

“Any one of them could have killed me outright. But no! I was preserved, and the triumph of our company’s project was complete.”

Describing the start up of a tin mine as a triumph seemed a bit overblown to me, but it was clear that I was in the presence of one intense dude.

Hardly pausing he moved on to the time in Tanzania when he alone, bare chested and unarmed except for an axe, had strode into a crowd of six thousand angry workers during a strike at a bauxite operation. Modest he was not, but the stories were well told and compelling. And standards for dinner conversation in the warm tropics leave room for the self-aggrandizing traveler’s tale.

Eventually he turned his attention to the company that he worked for. “FEMMI is no ordinary company, Herr McKenna, please be assured of that. No. We are like a family. This is the source of our strength. And we have plans for the future. Very big plans.” I only nodded, thinking it best not to inform him that I considered large mining corporations the scourge of the earth. But this devotion to his corporation was no casual matter, and he seemed unable to leave the subject alone.

“Nowhere on earth is there a more closely knit and dedicated group than are we. We are bound like comrades in arms. Each member of the core management group is a genius in his or her own right.” He pronounced genius like “tchenius.” “And why is that you must wonder? Ach, I am telling you why. It is because we, each one of us, has known the horror of privation, the depths of despair, and the glorious feeling that comes from overcoming these things. We are united in our triumph, Herr McKenna, and the sense of inevitable conquest of difficulty has made us invincible!” At this last word, his voice rose and his fist descended to the flimsy table with such force that our quart bottles of Bintang jumped in reply.

Seeing my uncertain response, he continued. “You are amazed to hear this, I see. Maybe you are asking what privations, what difficulties? It is like this: we all lived through the Hitler times and the war. Germany was nothing after the war. There was not one stone upon another in my Berlin. In the ruins of Europe we were like cockroaches. May I tell you that the bank accounts of all the SS families were frozen. My mother, my poor aristocratic mother, was reduced to selling paintings from our estate in order to buy potatoes to feed herself and my younger sister. Imagine this!”

“Oh no,” I thought, “Not Nazis. Is this guy telling me he was a Nazi?” I fought to get my look of horror under control, but now he was on a roll and seemed to take no notice.

“My father was captured by the Russians during the battle for Berlin. He was hung like a dog in Moscow for war crimes. Can you imagine?

Verdammen Russian schweinen talking about war crimes? For all the SS it was like that.”

This conversation was like a bad dream or a B-movie. I looked over at his companion who returned my gaze with utter impassivity. It seemed important to deflect the conversation if only even slightly. “And you, Herr Heintz, what of your role in all of this?”

He shrugged. “I was a mere nothing. A Messerschmidt pilot in the Luftwaffe. A good German only.” This last was said without a trace of irony. “Before the war I was a young engineering student. The war changed everything. After the war, a few of us, my fellow, young scholars from the Max Planck Institute, gathered in the ruins of Berlin. We were finished with ideology, with the grand political dreams.”

This was the first good news in a while. I gratefully signaled the Indonesian waiter for another round of beer while Heintz continued: “We were a small group, pitiful really, but united by our revulsion at the horror all around us. We determined to build a new world for ourselves, a world based on two principles, two great powers, the power of capital and the power of science. We began slowly, with patents, processes that had been discovered at the Planck Institute during the war, trade secrets really. Carefully we expanded on this, we established ourselves in Singapore. There was not a shoemaker among us. Each member of our small team was a genius. Our furher was a professor who had trained us all, a true genius. His name was Max Bockermann. It was he who held us together; it was his faith and strength that made it all possible.”

The schmiss on his cheek had turned bright red at this turn of the conversation. I had hoped that there were no further depths of discomfiture to be plumbed in this conversation but I was wrong, for now I saw that he was moving, perhaps under the influence of the third quart of Bintang, from passionate intensity to outright maudlin sentimentality. “No man has ever loved another as Bockermann loved us. We are his kinder, his little birds, ja. When it seemed that there was no hope he inspired us; he made us believe in ourselves.”

Tears rose in his eyes at this, then he seemed to regain his self control and continued. “And what is the result? FEMMI, Herr McKenna, Far East Mining and Minerals Incorporated. We have grown and prospered. From our offices in Singapore we control projects in eleven countries.

Oil, nickel, tin, bauxite, uranium—we have it all. But we have more, we have love, companionship, community, and the power to make our dreams come true.” At this he broke stride and reached over to put his hand on the thigh of the woman beside him. I looked away.

When I returned to his depthless blue gaze his mood had changed. “But what about yourself, Herr McKenna. It is clear that you are leading the gypsy life.” He pronounced the word gypsy like chipsy. “And we gypsies always have our stories to tell. So what about you?”

I swallowed hard. He didn’t look like the sort of person who would appreciate my stories of fighting the police at the Berkeley barricades. . . .

. . . . “Last night you spoke of your ambitions to visit the Amazon. This is a commendable dream. But believe me, I know the Amazon well, a jungle the size of a continent; it is not like these islands here. Here you do well to stay with the priests and to make your expeditions, one week, two weeks into the forest. But in Amazon to do serious work you will have to sustain yourself in the field for perhaps months. You will need a boat, equipment, bearers. Believe me, I know. It is not for shoemakers. Therefore I make you a proposal. You have said your work is nearly completed here, that you are going soon to Japan to earn money for South America. Give up this plan and do instead the following.

FEMMI, as it turns out, has a deep interest in the Brazilian Amazon. Two years ago I was part of a resource assessment team that made some interesting discoveries. As it happens we are sending our people back for a serious second look. Our teams are thirteen in number and some of these are natural scientists such as yourself. The new team is nearly formed but Bockermann, if he approves of you, would accept my recommendation that you join the team as the thirteenth member. You will be well paid, and our expectations are only that you would complete the monograph that you have already planned. You see, by having scientists with us we can write off part of our tax liability, and anyhow we are believers in the worth of pure science. This plan must be cleared with Singapore, but if they agree then you would go there nearly immediately.

You would meet Bockermann. We give you dental check up, complete physical, new eyeglasses, two weeks of tennis to get you physically in shape. The cruise liner Rotterdam will call in Singapore in one month. We will ship three speedboats specially outfitted, all our equipment, and the team on the Rotterdam. In Rio you will continue training two weeks at the Krosnopolski Hotel, where they have excellent tennis courts. And I tell you something else, my father’s old cook is the chef there! We fatten you up some and then we give you your dream of the Amazon. Well, what do you say?” He sat back, evidently very pleased with himself. . . .

. . . . A full page had been reserved to announce that the University of Colorado, in association with the Max Planck Institute for Neurophysiology, would co-sponsor the next meeting of the World Congress of the Neurosciences. . . .

. . . . As my eyes roved over the crowd, I suddenly experienced something very close to a physical jolt. There, less than fifty feet away from me and nearly directly across the intervening open space, sat Dr. Karl Heintz! I felt absolute amazement. Heintz! Here! Could it be? Somehow I must have betrayed my agitation to him, for as I watched in near disbelief I saw him move his hand to the pocket of his jacket and with a faultlessly smooth motion remove his name tag and drop it into his pocket. He did not even interrupt the animated German conversation he was carrying on with the person sitting to his right.

I looked away, trying to pretend that I was unaware of him, had noticed nothing. The house lights dimmed and Manfred Eigen, magnificent with his swept back shock of white hair, began his lecture. My mind raced. Was it all true then? Here he was! This was a Planck Institute event. It must all be true. . . .

. . . . As the applause died down and the lights went up, people began to move toward the exits. Heintz was about fifty feet away talking animatedly to a couple of rather toad-like colleagues. But I could see that he was watching me, and as I began to approach he excused himself and began to move toward me. It was transparently clear to me that this maneuver was executed to make certain that we would be alone and our conversation unheard when we met. I moved directly into his oncoming path.

“Dr. Heintz. I believe that we met on Timor.” I extended my hand.

Ignoring my outstretched hand, he smiled broadly, but the schmiss perceptibly reddened. “Heintz? Heintz? My name is not Heintz. And I have never been in Kupang.”

Then he turned quickly and rejoined his departing colleagues, adding to their animated assessment of Eigen’s performance. The word “Kupang” rang in my ears. The bastard was rubbing my nose in it! . . . .

Martin Bormann: Nazi in Exile by Paul Manning; p. 214.

EXCERPT: . . . . A bowling alley down one side of the hangar provided about the only recreation, but the SS men I interviewed said that the best German cooking in the world was provided by former SS mess sergeants, and that this was an incomparable feature of the dining room. . . .


3 comments for “Waltzing the Enigma: Is This a Hallucination or a “True Hallucination?” (The Max Planck Institute and the Underground Reich)”

  1. I’m an admirer of Terrance McKenna and very surprised to find him referenced here. I’m familiar with FOOD OF THE GODS but not the book quoted in the post. Remarkably, without the benefit of the information presented here, I have in the past speculated that Terrance (or someone like him: with powerful ideas that don’t fit the fascist script) would be the target of assassination by cancer viruses. This background makes that kind of speculation even more inevitable for me. Did the Underground Reich, whom Terrance had the misfortune of briefly brushing up against, kill him with a cancer virus?

    Posted by Grumpusrex | September 2, 2013, 1:59 pm
  2. @Grumpusrex–

    When, and under what circumstances, did McKenna die of cancer?

    Obviously, I’m not familiar with him.



    Posted by Dave Emory | September 2, 2013, 2:58 pm
  3. I don’t know, Dave. It’s a highly speculative question on my part. All I know is what’s written on his Wikipedia page.


    “glioblastoma multiforme, a highly aggressive form of brain cancer.” Dead at 53.

    I know that UR opperators or their fellow travelers target young and potentially effective political leaders before they can get to power (Paul Wellstone, or John F Kennedy Jr. come to mind). Couldn’t this also be true for prominent academics or intellectuals? This lead me to speculate about McKenna’s death in the past. Then the information in your post came long and the synchronicity of context couldn’t go without comment on my part.

    Be well,

    Posted by Grumpusrex | September 2, 2013, 9:46 pm

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