paintings which they will condemn as immoral. Oh yes, we’ve had it. No doubt about that. We might as well cut our throats or gas ourselves.”
And then he would launch into an imitation of Hitler which was so lifelike they all burst out in horrified but irresistible laughter.
“Yes,” he would say, suddenly calm, “it’s not worth killing oneself on account of that little twerp.”
Nevertheless that is what he did, suddenly, after a day when he had appeared unusually cheerful. He still came to Klaus often in dreams.
As for the actual moment, the turning-point in his life, January 30, 1933, Klaus had taken a train from Berlin to Leipzig where he had an appointment with the director of the City Theatre to discuss the production of one of his plays. The director, as arranged, met him at the station, and took him straight to the bar where, without asking, he ordered two large brandies.
“You’re going to need this,” he said.
“What’s wrong? Have you decided not to do the play?” (Oh, the egocentricity of authors!)
“It’s not that. I can’t believe you haven’t heard the news. The old gentleman has appointed him.”
“What?”
“Hitler,” he said. “Hindenburg has made him Chancellor…”
Hindenburg, the senile Junker who boasted he had never read a book since his schooldays before the war of 1870, believed the assurances given him by the Conservative Nationalist Right – von Papen and the other idiots – that they could control Hitler. “He’s our obedient tool,” they whispered.
Some tool!
At the Nuremberg trials, Erika, there as a journalist, had observed all, and written to Klaus to say: “It’s extraordinary. Von Papen still doesn’t feel the burden of guilt he carries.”
He got away with it too, one of the three in the dock there to be acquitted.
There was no more talk of the play, and Klaus took the next train to Munich where, for the moment, sanity still reigned. There was no Gestapo yet in Bavaria. Life still seemed close to normal. People who would have been arrested if they had remained in Berlin – Klaus himself among them – were free to amuse themselves. They flocked to Erika’s cabaret show, The Peppermill, and laughed at its sharp and bitter mockery of the Nazis. Some said that if Hitler appointed a Gauleiter for Bavaria he would be arrested when he crossed the frontier. Clerical Conservative politicians and aristocrats talked of restoring the Wittelsbach monarchy and proclaiming that Bavaria had resumed its independence. They were in discussions with Prince Rupprecht, the heir to the throne. It came to nothing. He had fought bravely, they said, in the war, but now he preferred to remain on his estates, shooting game.
What a farce!
The Reichstag burned in Berlin, but in Munich they danced at the Regina Palast Hotel and the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten. There were rumours of arrests in Berlin, of Social Democrats and Communists being hauled off to torture chambers, but tea was still drunk and strawberry tarts and apfelstrudel eaten at the Carlton. Erika arranged to transfer her cabaret to a bigger theatre, and she and Klaus slipped over the border to Switzerland for a few days’ holiday.
Even when you hear the first cracks in the ice, Klaus thought, you still persuade yourself it will bear your weight. Yet every time they turned on the radio, the news was worse, more frightening and scarcely believable.
Nevertheless they went back to Munich. Erika had rehearsals to arrange, Klaus was eager to resume discussions about his new play.
The family chauffeur Hans met them at the station, as usual. But he wasn’t himself.
“Don’t go out,” he said, “don’t let anyone know you’re here. Don’t even telephone. The Nazis are out to get you. Especially you, Fraulein Erika.”
He was sweating as he spoke.
(It was not long before Klaus understood the reason for his agitation. Hans, a nice friendly fellow, always respectful, devoted apparently to Mielein, had been a
And then he would launch into an imitation of Hitler which was so lifelike they all burst out in horrified but irresistible laughter.
“Yes,” he would say, suddenly calm, “it’s not worth killing oneself on account of that little twerp.”
Nevertheless that is what he did, suddenly, after a day when he had appeared unusually cheerful. He still came to Klaus often in dreams.
As for the actual moment, the turning-point in his life, January 30, 1933, Klaus had taken a train from Berlin to Leipzig where he had an appointment with the director of the City Theatre to discuss the production of one of his plays. The director, as arranged, met him at the station, and took him straight to the bar where, without asking, he ordered two large brandies.
“You’re going to need this,” he said.
“What’s wrong? Have you decided not to do the play?” (Oh, the egocentricity of authors!)
“It’s not that. I can’t believe you haven’t heard the news. The old gentleman has appointed him.”
“What?”
“Hitler,” he said. “Hindenburg has made him Chancellor…”
Hindenburg, the senile Junker who boasted he had never read a book since his schooldays before the war of 1870, believed the assurances given him by the Conservative Nationalist Right – von Papen and the other idiots – that they could control Hitler. “He’s our obedient tool,” they whispered.
Some tool!
At the Nuremberg trials, Erika, there as a journalist, had observed all, and written to Klaus to say: “It’s extraordinary. Von Papen still doesn’t feel the burden of guilt he carries.”
He got away with it too, one of the three in the dock there to be acquitted.
There was no more talk of the play, and Klaus took the next train to Munich where, for the moment, sanity still reigned. There was no Gestapo yet in Bavaria. Life still seemed close to normal. People who would have been arrested if they had remained in Berlin – Klaus himself among them – were free to amuse themselves. They flocked to Erika’s cabaret show, The Peppermill, and laughed at its sharp and bitter mockery of the Nazis. Some said that if Hitler appointed a Gauleiter for Bavaria he would be arrested when he crossed the frontier. Clerical Conservative politicians and aristocrats talked of restoring the Wittelsbach monarchy and proclaiming that Bavaria had resumed its independence. They were in discussions with Prince Rupprecht, the heir to the throne. It came to nothing. He had fought bravely, they said, in the war, but now he preferred to remain on his estates, shooting game.
What a farce!
The Reichstag burned in Berlin, but in Munich they danced at the Regina Palast Hotel and the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten. There were rumours of arrests in Berlin, of Social Democrats and Communists being hauled off to torture chambers, but tea was still drunk and strawberry tarts and apfelstrudel eaten at the Carlton. Erika arranged to transfer her cabaret to a bigger theatre, and she and Klaus slipped over the border to Switzerland for a few days’ holiday.
Even when you hear the first cracks in the ice, Klaus thought, you still persuade yourself it will bear your weight. Yet every time they turned on the radio, the news was worse, more frightening and scarcely believable.
Nevertheless they went back to Munich. Erika had rehearsals to arrange, Klaus was eager to resume discussions about his new play.
The family chauffeur Hans met them at the station, as usual. But he wasn’t himself.
“Don’t go out,” he said, “don’t let anyone know you’re here. Don’t even telephone. The Nazis are out to get you. Especially you, Fraulein Erika.”
He was sweating as he spoke.
(It was not long before Klaus understood the reason for his agitation. Hans, a nice friendly fellow, always respectful, devoted apparently to Mielein, had been a
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