Any Survivors (2008)
| Any Survivors (2008) | |
| Freud, Martin | |
| (2008) | |
| Tags: | Historical/Fiction Historical/Fictionttt |
A recently rediscovered satirical novel about WWII by the eldest son of Sigmund Freud
In 2008 a faded typescript was discovered in a suitcase in the attic of the Freud Museum in London. It was a satirical novel written by Sigmund Freud's son Martin, but never published and apparently forgotten about. Now translated into English and published for the first time, this
is not only a satirical and dramatic novel about a Jewish refugee who returns to Hitler’s Germany as a rather inept spy, but also the testament of a man who lived through the most dramatic moments of this period as part of a famous and fascinating family. Freud and his family had escaped from Nazi-occupied Vienna in 1938, narrowly avoiding losing everything, including their lives. Arriving in England, Martin, formerly an eminent lawyer in Vienna, was interned as an "enemy alien," and later ran a shop near the British Museum (his son, Walter, fought for the British in the SOE during the war). It is known that Martin wrote numerous poems and pieces of fiction, but the only books he ever published were a fictionalized account of his experiences during World War I,
Parole d’Honneur
, in 1939 and a biography of his father,
Glory Reflected: Sigmund Freud—Man and Father
, in 1957.
SURVIVORS?
ANY
SURVIVORS?
A LOST NOVEL
OF WORLD WAR II
MARTIN FREUD
TRANSLATED BY ANETTE FUHRMEISTER EDITED BY HELEN FRY
Front Cover
: U-boat commander (Mary Evans Picture Library)
First published 2010
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire,
GL
5 2
QG
This ebook edition first published in 2011
© Martin Freud, 2010
Translation © Anette Fuhrmeister
Preface © Helen Fry
The right of Martin Freud, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN
978 0 7524 7596 7
MOBI ISBN
978 0 7524 7595 0
Original typesetting by The History Press
3 Counter-espionage on Holiday
13 Health Resort, Headquarters
It is every historian's dream to stumble across something significant in a battered old case in a forgotten attic. However, that is precisely what happened with Martin Freud's unpublished novel
Any Survivors?
I discovered it quite by chance whilst rummaging through papers which the family had lent me for writing
Freuds’ War
. The manuscript was amongst several papers in a tatty briefcase, both of which had seen better days. The novel, which ran to over 330 typed pages, was written in German except for the opening scene which was in English. When I read the opening scene, I wanted to read on – who was the survivor pulled out of the freezing water by men on a British destroyer? And what was his connection to the U-boat crew that had perished? Whilst my German was not sufficient to understand the bulk of the text, I knew already from my study of Martin Freud's life that much of what he had written in the past was strongly autobiographical and I suspected that this might be true of this novel which is set in the Second World War. During his lifetime Martin Freud published two books: the first his autobiography
Glory Reflected
and second, his novel
Parole d’Honneur
which is heavily based on his experiences in the Austro-Hungarian Royal Horse Artillery in the First World War.
The manuscript has been translated from the German and edited in such a way as to keep closely to the style and ambiance of the original.
Martin Freud was the eldest son of Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis. Born in Vienna on 7 December 1889, Martin grew up in an environment where he was aware of his father's international reputation and fame, and spoke of being ‘content to bask in reflected glory’. Martin was close to his father, whom he described as having ‘
ein froehliches herz
’ (a merry heart). From 1914 until 1918 he fought for his country on the Russian and Italian front lines during the First World War, during which time he was awarded seven medals for bravery, two of which were Military Crosses. Just days before the Armistice was signed in November 1918 he was taken as a prisoner of war by the British in Italy and spent nearly a year in an Italian prisonerof-war camp until the summer of 1919. When he was finally released he returned to Vienna and trained as a lawyer. On his thirtieth birthday in 1919 he married Ernestine Drucker and settled into married life. They had two children: Anton Walter (1921) and Sophie (1924). During the 1930s Martin ran his father's press as Director of International Psychoanalytical Press (Verlag). The offices of the Verlag had moved to 7 Berggasse, just down the street from the family home. In March 1938 Freud's world and that of Austrian Jews was turned upside down when Hitler marched his troops over the border into Austria and annexed the country. After a period of house arrest and two tense months in which it was not obvious the family would get out, visas were finally secured. Martin left for England a month before his parents and settled in London. His marriage had deteriorated and so Martin and Esti separated. Esti stayed in France with their daughter Sophie until forced to flee from the Nazis again, eventually settling in America.
With the outbreak of war in September 1939, Martin and son Walter (now in England) were classified as ‘enemy aliens’. In June 1940 Martin was interned by the British government at Huyton near Liverpool, from where a few months later he enlisted in the British army's Pioneer Corps. Disillusioned with life in a labour corps, he was eventually invalided out in June 1941 and took up reserved war work travelling the country as an auditor for the National Dock Labour Corporation. It was during this particular work that he may have gained the inspiration which forms the basis of parts of this novel. This is not an unreasonable assumption because most of his unpublished short stories which exist amongst the family papers are largely based on his personal experiences; likewise his autobiographical first novel
Parole d’Honneur
. Martin worked for the National Dock Labour Corporation until
c
. 1948. When he left, he opened a tobacconist shop near the British Museum. Later he moved to Hove in Sussex where he lived with his partner Margaret, until his death on 25 April 1967. His ashes are interred in the family section at Golders Green crematorium.
During his lifetime Martin had no success in getting
Any Survivors?
published. However, four decades after his death this has come to fruition and is a welcome addition to the Freud family contribution to the literary world.
Dr Helen Fry, author of
Freuds’ War
‘Are there any survivors? Any survivors?’ asked the commander of the British destroyer.
‘Just the one, sir. A young sailor. He is conscious and unhurt. Spitting a little blood, the poor chap. I don't think his lungs could cope with the
Davisapparat
.’
‘What is he saying?’
‘Well sir, he won't stop talking. His English is terrible but he insists he is not part of the U-boat crew.’
‘What a cheek! He appeared at exactly the spot where we sank the U-boat. And who does he pretend to be? A cruise passenger or a leisure traveller …?’
‘Sir, I don't think he means any harm. He's just expressing himself a little awkwardly in our language. He's saying: “I am supposed to be a member of the crew but I am not a member.” He may well be confused from the shock of being submerged in the icy water. He keeps repeating that he must tell his story. Would you like to hear it, sir?’
‘Nonsense! Not now. The man should be taken to quarters, given some warm clothes and put to bed with a hot toddy. Tomorrow, as soon as we land, he will be taken to hospital.’
‘Yes sir!’
What a dirty trick to pretend he is not a member of the crew.
Well, here is the story
…
LIGHTS OUT!
September 1939
I was thinking … and when I was thinking simple things, I thought in English. I had been living in London for over a year. Although I was not exactly a maharajah in my home town, I was at least a young man with a profession and the opportunity to progress in my career. A dental technician is a useful and reputable occupation and even well paid. And here I was now living as a refugee in England with no work permit, forgetting the little I had learnt in my previous life. People treated me like one half of a pair of gloves found lying on the street – of no commercial value.
I'm sure my mother was right to persuade me to leave the country. I can divulge only a little of my past as my mother is still in my home country and anything I say, write down or do, could harm her. I will say only this much: I am from a country that used to be free and happy until Hitler came along and forced us into submission with arms and no resistance.
I received some aid here in London but not to the extent that I could live it up in the Grosvenor House or even anywhere in Mayfair; I was living in King's Cross in a basic boarding house. Unfortunately it so happened that I was the only young man in the house. The other guests, mainly elderly ladies, were also from countries that Hitler had already occupied – or was going to in the near future. The more prudent amongst us did not wait but emigrated well before he seized power.
My room was a tiny garret on the top floor, just big enough to sleep in but with no real space in which to live during the day. Once, when I was in the communal living room, I had no time to relax because all the ladies started bossing me around and asking me to do things for them. As they were older than I, and female too, they believed this was their right. If they had their own way I might have spent all day on ladders, hanging blackout curtains and filling gaps with black paper to achieve perfect darkness.
I should have started with the fact that war had just broken out. As I headed for the lounge, I could overhear one of the ladies saying: ‘Where is that insolent lazy-bones hiding?’ It was one of the elderly ladies with a very deep voice. ‘I’ve been looking for him all day. I want him to go to the W.W. for me to get some more drawing pins before they run out.’
‘I don't know what you mean,’ said a lady with a much higher voice. ‘I don't think he's insolent. He is modest and shy and often looks at one with his kind eyes. I tell you it makes me feel quite motherly towards him.’
‘That's only when he wants something from you; some toast made or some trousers ironed.’ Now this was slightly unfair in my opinion; it was over a week since anyone had made me any toast or ironed my trousers.
