Continuum File #237

Due to his vague, but intriguing, reference to the controversial and perhaps elusive figure Berthold Volkov, in his book Thine Hunger and Zeitgeist Be Due (1953), our foundation, Fundatio Continuum, approached Zimmerman in the fall of 1973, in an attempt to persuade him to expound on their relationship for inclusion in our then forthcoming Annales des Études Temporelles publication. Three and a half months later, in February of 1974, he visited us in Montauban and delivered his testimony. What follows is a direct, unaltered transcription.

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<Cough cough… ahehehehemmmm> Right here? Is this alright? Yeah? Okay, are you recording? Alright, sure, I’ll tell you what I know. Of course, the other tales you collect for your volume will be more in depth, perhaps revealing, personal, and telling of who he was. My own will be accurate and true and complete.

Sure, I remember Volkov, I mean, I met him only four times, and we really had, in some ways, just one meaningful conversation, at least one that I think will interest you. But yes, I remember him. The first time we met was in 1909, on the University of Durham campus in England. I would have been about 21 at the time and less than two years into my studies. It was during an evening lecture on The Revolutions of 1848. If this is not known to you, it was a period or event… or series of events known as the Spring (or Springtime) of the Peoples. It’s basically several democratic uprisings that swept across Europe… France, Austria, Prussia, Italy.

Randomly, I ended up sitting next to Volkov in the second row of the great hall, which was nowhere near capacity that evening. He too would have been in his early- to mid-twenties. On his right side sat an elderly gentleman with an enviable beard… or at least I recall it as such, at my current age. Conversely, at this stage, I can’t recall the speaker — smaller, older yet with smooth skin that hinted at a life with little time under the sun — but his identity is irrelevant.

I recall that he began stating just historical background — that the revolutionary movements were rooted in liberal democratic principles, with revolutionaries attempting to overthrow established monarchies and forge unified nation-states inspired by romantic nationalist sentiment, and so on. It was these basic facts he used as the foundation for what he deemed his Telegraph Theory.

He posited that the rapid spread of the revolutions was not merely coincidental but facilitated by the emerging telegraph networks. The revolutionaries, he theorized, may have coordinated their uprisings through coded telegraphic communications, explaining the remarkable simultaneity across such vast distances.

It was the older gentleman near us who spoke up first, raising his hand and stating that he respectfully disagreed with the professor’s telegraph theory as, having been in Paris during those February days, he could attest that their revolution was entirely spontaneous — born from immediate local grievances, not distant coordination. This was most interesting, as the fellow outed himself, be it true or false, as a participant in the revolution. Having done so, it sparked a bit of cordial back-and-forth between he and the speaker.

I tuned out for the exchange, as Volkov leaned into me, speaking softly, sharing something along the lines of, ‘You know, it’s true, the telegraph lines, where they existed, were controlled by the very governments we… err they sought to overthrow. How could revolutionaries have accessed the lines for secret communications?’

I tell you I’m positive, though I thought little of it at the time, he made that we/they slip. Such a meaningless moment I only recall in clarity, as it might have relevance to our later meetings.

The rest of the lecture went on, uneventful, as the speaker followed his plan and notes. However, at its end, Volkov, Lucien (I later learned to be the older fellow’s name), and I decided to walk to a local pub for a pint or two. The three of us walked casually past the Durham Cathedral and Castle, and I prompted Lucien for more information. Specifically, I asked if he truly was a part of the revolution, as his argument was so logical and personal.

Lucien responded that he was indeed, that he’d witnessed firsthand how news of their February success inspired others — but that this inspiration came through traditional means: newspapers, travelers, and refugees fleeing across borders. The revolution spread like wildfire precisely because the conditions were ripe everywhere, not because of any grand telegraphic conspiracy. The very diversity of their failures proved they were not coordinated — a truly connected network would not have collapsed so inconsistently.

He went on to provide further detail of the events and rationale why the speaking professor’s theory was flawed. However, it was not long before we reached The Shakespeare Tavern on Saddler Street, a well-liked pub in the city center. As we approached, Lucien excused himself for the evening, we said our good-byes, and Volkov and I went in, spending the next few hours discussing (me listening, mostly) his — allow me to say, expert-level — knowledge of the revolutions over many pints.

When I noted that I was amazed at his knowledge of the events, virtually equaling Lucien’s, almost as if he were there, he chuckled, and merely commented, ‘Yes, one would think. Rather, and humbly, I’m just quite well-read.’ We parted that evening with a firm handshake. He thanked me for the conversation and noted he’d be heading back home in a few hours. Until that point, I’d not realized he was only visiting.

It was not until eleven years later, 1920, that I saw him again. Now in my early thirties, I’d graduated and long since left Durham. As a bit of refuge from the war, I’d found opportunity with a professorial position in the history department at Université de Toulouse starting in 1915. Before I tell you of this next meeting, it’s important you understand his appearance.

Volkov looked amazing; I state this in the way that one says such a thing of a 40-year-old woman who’s made up and carries herself to look not a day past 30. While my then-boyish face had grown into manhood, his still had the appearance of a fellow in his mid-twenties. I, of course, questioned his unchanged face (something was surely amiss, in my mind), yet I chose not to comment on, or acknowledge, this point for fear of offending or creating an unnecessary awkwardness, or something. I’m not really sure, why I didn’t broach what seemed an obvious topic, beyond the fact that I really didn’t know the man well enough to do so.

It took place in the Museu de Belles Artes in Barcelona, at a group exhibit. I was actually gazing upon what would be my first-seen Miró piece, though it was then in a relatively conventional style, not his distinctive surrealist style we’ve come to associate with him. From over my shoulder, I just heard, ‘Well, hello, Zimmerman.’ Volkov immediately recognized me, which came as a great surprise. We spoke for a moment, and he quickly invited me to lunch. Given that he was with a large group of friends, I believed this would be an event in which I’d be lost in the crowd of those surrounding him. But I accepted; from the previous meeting, I can say I enjoyed his tales and historical knowledge. He orated honest, true, interesting stories, facts, and theories that were always of utmost entertainment, information, and insight. But I never once found him to be pompous, spouting, or egotistical in any way.

So, when it came time for the lunch event and he turned everyone away, I was sufficiently surprised, albeit pleased, to be sure. We took a tram down to Barceloneta for lunch. I don’t recall the name. It was just a simple seaside café overlooking the Mediterranean where we shared a lunch of grilled prawns and fish soup, which we washed down with a local wine.

We talked of various topics, but what stands out now, and didn’t at the time, was another odd verbal slip. At one point, as the topic changed, he said, “When we spoke last year… uh, that is, when we spoke last, I recall we discussed The Revolutions of 1848. And now you instruct history. What areas do you focus on?”

Yes, he seemed to first reference us speaking only a year prior before correcting himself, yet I glossed over that in the moment, praising his fine memory and noting that my academic focus then was on sixteenth-century magic and mysticism.

Surprisingly, he knew of my main academic subject, John Dee, the personal clairvoyant to Queen Elizabeth I and founder of Enochian magick. Volkov noted that Dee was an interesting man, personally, and he had an extremely detailed knowledge of Dee’s work, even sharing, ‘When we experienced the Protestant Reformation’s materialization in sixteenth-century England, there was a sudden upsurge of such occult individuals and magical orders.’

When I questioned his phrasing of ‘We experienced,’ he clarified that he meant the greater “we” — humanity. I brushed it off and argued that there could be no correlation in his theory, as the Reformation and Dee’s work were like a hundred years apart.

Volkov explained that such major change is rarely immediate, that he could cite other instances of both broad and specific religious responses to intense change in established religion at that and any time which took many decades… even near a century. He went on to argue that the Reformation, which was the first real successful revolt against the hegemony of the Catholic Church causing many people to separate themselves from it, had specific, though historically overlooked effects. Basically, his point was that in the absence of authority from the Church directing and shaping people’s religious views, many turned to a more direct method of reaching God and that this situation gave rise to definite esoteric movements, such as John Dee’s work. But it felt less like a theory and more like a witnessed account.

I had little more fuel for retort on the matter, so the topic quickly changed to more platitudinous things like the meal and the beautiful view. Toward the end of lunch, Volkov paid the bill and cordially departed with pleasantries, while I stayed to finish my wine. He walked north up the beach, where I glanced at his path occasionally. At one point, he was just gone. Soon after, I went back to my hotel to prepare for the morning’s train departure back to Toulouse via Cerbère/Port-Bou.

Later that year, I saw him briefly while I was speaking at Charles University in Prague. About halfway through my lecture on "John Dee’s Enochian Experiments at Rudolf's Court," I saw Volkov sitting toward the back of the large hall. It gave me pause, but I continued on.

Afterward, as a number of attendees approached me with questions, I saw him start to leave. I excused myself and ran up the steps to the back of the room, calling his name. Turning, he spoke, ‘Well, hello, Zimmerman,’ before congratulating me on the quality and accuracy of my talk. I invited him to get a drink or perhaps dinner, but he declined, stating something about ‘them closing the door, soon.’ When I asked what door he meant, and who was closing it, he just smiled, clapped me on the back, and told me he’d see me at another time.

Can I get some of that water? Thank you.

The last and final time I saw Volkov was not until many years later, actually not that long ago, it must’ve been about ’67... yes, in the summer. By then, all the conspiracies and reports and photos of him had surfaced… all the wild claims of immortality and vampirism and teleportation and such. I mean, you know all the tales of this man popping in and out of places, showing up in old photos and all. I suppose the “reported sitings,” if that’s what we’d call them, had peaked around ’63, and I think folks had just forgotten about it… about him.

Yes, it was 1967, and I was on a ship heading to visit New York. I recall it was quite windy and brisk, but I was lounging on the deck under a blanket and the warm sun. My eyes were closed when I heard him speak my name. ‘Well, hello, Zimmerman,’ was all he said. I knew the voice... as clearly as I knew it all those decades before. I opened my eyes and first saw him as more of a silhouette, given his head perfectly blocked the sun. I tilted my head and saw him fully. It was unmistakably him.

But look, and you must understand, he was the same, almost unaged… oh, maybe 5ish years older and with a smart, thin moustache. But the man looked virtually as he did the last time I’d seen him in Prague back in 1920, and here I was just this side of 80. Despite the many tales, disbelief set in, and I actually asked if he was a Volkov, thinking he could possibly be an offspring. He smiled and told me he was Berthold Volkov, not a descendant thereof. It didn’t take long for him to prove his identity by recalling our earlier conversations.

Of course, I was overflowing with questions. He didn’t tell me much, but I’ll share with you all he did. You choose whether to believe me or, by extension, him or any of this. For starters, there’s no immortality in the common sense; he ages like all of us. But the man has the ability to move through time. Yes.

Beyond acknowledging that he did spend time with John Dee, he’d not share where else… or when else he’d been. He also declined to tell me what era or place he was originally from. I asked him no questions about future or past events, and he offered none.

He didn’t know why he was chosen or if he even was. There seemed to be no clear plan or goal. That is, he didn’t feel like he ever had a mission to right a wrong or warn people of events. They, and he didn’t know who ‘they’ were nor had ever seen them, gave him knowledge about when he’d be able to shift, that’s what he called it. Then, he was sort of sent, maybe allowed, to go more as an observer, though clearly, he interacted with people in any given time he visited.

From what I could glean, it’s the classic doors, portals, stargates, wormholes… something like people have discussed for centuries and like you and I have read and watched, represented in fictional accounts. But it was somehow two-dimensional. He struggled to explain it himself. Volkov told me the shifting process was actually a little painful — not inordinately so, but uncomfortable. He told me to imagine the feeling of my stomach muscles convulsing when vomiting, yet happening to my whole body.

Volkov spoke no more than fifteen minutes before it was time for him to leave. I asked if he knew where or when he was going. He didn’t know, but he did say that having experienced this condition for a few years now, he hoped he’d soon find someone else with the ability or knowledge about such travel. He was out to find more like-minded people. I stood up and, for the first time, embraced him. Then he left.

I’ll acknowledge it’s a fantastical tale. But, given my presence here for this recording, I’m betting you all find it in line with what you already know or believe. You can stop the tape there; that’s all I have. I hope it was helpful.

<door creaks open>

Well, hello, Zimmerman.

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