Berlin Diary (77 page)

B
ERLIN
,
July
10

Hans came in to see me. He had just driven from Irun, on the Franco-Spanish border, to Berlin. He said he could not get over the looks of Verdun, which he visited yesterday. Not a house there has been scratched, he said. Yet in the World War, when it was never taken, not a house remained standing. There you have the difference between 1914–18 and 1940.

B
ERLIN
,
July
(
undated
)

Ralph Barnes, correspondent of the
Herald Tribune
(and one of my oldest friends), who came here from London just before the big offensive, left Berlin today, by request. With him went Russell Hill, assistant to Ralph and to me. They were thrown out because of a story of Ralph’s that Russo-German relations were not so friendly now as of old. The Wilhelmstrasse is very touchy on the subject, but I think the real reason is the Nazi hate of the
Herald Tribune
’s editorial policy and its insistence on maintaining fearlessly independent correspondents here—the only New York paper that does. Though Russell had nothing to do with the story, the Nazis could not forgive him for his steadfast refusal to knuckle down to them, and so took this opportunity to get rid of him too. Ralph and I had a farewell walk in the Tiergarten this afternoon, he naturally depressed and not quite realizing that his going was a proof that he had more integrity than any of us who are allowed to stay.
²⁵

B
ERLIN
,
July
15

The German press today informed its readers that German troops of all arms “now stand ready for the attack on Britain. The date of the attack will be decided by the Führer alone.” One hears the High Command is not keen about it, but that Hitler insists.

B
ERLIN
,
July
17

Three hundred S.S. men in Berlin have started learning Swahili. Swahili is the lingua franca of the former German colony in East Africa.

B
ERLIN
,
July
18

For the first time since 1871, German troops staged a victory parade through the Brandenburg Gate today. They comprised a division conscripted from Berlin. Stores and factories closed, by order, and the whole town turned out to cheer. Nothing pleases the Berliners—a naïve and simple people on the whole—more than a good military parade. And nothing more than an afternoon off from their dull jobs and their dismal homes. I mingled among the crowds in the Pariserplatz. A holiday spirit ruled completely. Nothing
martial
about the mass of the people here. They were just out for a good time. Looking at them, I wondered if any of them understood what was going on in Europe, if they had an inkling that their joy, that this victorious parade of the goose-steppers, was based on a great tragedy for millions of others whom these troops and the leaders of these people had enslaved. Not one in a thousand, I wager, gave the matter a thought. It was somewhat sultry, and scores of women in the Platz fainted. An efficient Red Cross outfit hauled them from the pavement
on stretchers to a near-by first-aid station.

The troops were tanned and hard-looking, and goose-stepped past like automatons. One officer’s horse, obviously unused to victory parades, provided a brief comedy. Kicking wildly, he backed into the reviewing stand, just missing Dr. Goebbels.

The last time German troops paraded through the Brandenburger Tor after a war was on a dismal cold day of December 16, 1918. That was the day the Prussian Guard came home. Memories are short.

Hitler will speak in the Reichstag tomorrow, we hear. But we’re threatened with expulsion if we say it to America. Himmler is afraid the British bombers will come over. There is some speculation whether it will be, as on the grey morning of September 1, an occasion to announce a new
Blitzkrieg
—this time against Britain—or an offer of peace. My hotel filled with big generals arriving for the show.

B
ERLIN
,
July
19

It is not to be a
Blitzkrieg
against Britain. At least not yet. In the Reichstag tonight, Hitler “offered” peace. He said he saw no reason why this war should go on. But of course it’s peace with Hitler sitting astride the Continent as its conqueror. Leaving the fantastic show in the Reichstag—and it was the most colourful of all I’ve ever seen—I wondered what the British would make of it. As to the Germans, there’s no doubt. As a manœuvre calculated to rally them for the fight against Britain, it was a masterpiece. For the German people will now say: “Hitler offers England peace, and no strings attached. He says he sees no reason why this war should go on. If it does, why, it’s England’s fault.”

I wondered a little what answer the British would make, and I had hardly arrived at the
Rundfunk
to prepare my talk when I picked up the BBC in German.
²⁶
And there was the answer already! It was a great big No. The more I thought of it, the less I was surprised. Peace for Britain with Germany
absolute master of the Continent
is
impossible. Also: the British must have some reason to believe they can successfully defend their island and in the end bring Hitler down. For Hitler has given them an easy way out to save at least some pieces for themselves. Only a year and a half ago at Munich I saw them grasping at such a straw. The BBC No was very emphatic. The announcer heaped ridicule on Hitler’s every utterance. Officers from the High Command and officials from various ministries sitting around the room could not believe their ears. One of them shouted at me: “Can you make it out? Can you understand those British fools? To turn down peace now?” I merely grunted. “They’re crazy,” he said.

Hitler put his peace “offer” very eloquently, at least for Germans. He said: “In this hour I feel it my duty before my own conscience to appeal once more to reason and common sense. I can see no reason why this war must go on.”

There was no applause, no cheering, no stamping of heavy boots. There was silence. And it was tense. For
in their hearts the Germans long for peace now. Hitler went on in the silence: “I am grieved to think of the sacrifices which it will claim. I should like to avert them, also for my own people.”

The Hitler we saw in the Reichstag tonight was the conqueror, and conscious of it, and yet so wonderful an actor, so magnificent a handler of the German mind, that he mixed superbly the full confidence of the conqueror with the humbleness which always goes down so well with the masses when they know a man is on top. His voice was lower tonight; he rarely shouted as he usually does; and he did not once cry out hysterically as I’ve seen him do so often from this rostrum. His oratorical form was at its best. I’ve often sat in the gallery of the Kroll Opera House at these Reichstag sessions watching the man as he spoke and considering what a superb actor he was, as indeed are all good orators. I’ve often admired the way he uses his hands, which are somewhat feminine and quite artistic. Tonight he used those hands beautifully, seemed to express himself almost as much with his hands—and the sway of his body—as he did with his words and the use of his voice. I noticed too his gift for using his face and eyes (cocking his eyes) and the turn of his head for irony, of which there was considerable in tonight’s speech, especially when he referred to Mr. Churchill.

I noticed again, too, that he can tell a lie with as straight a face as any man. Probably some of the lies are not lies to him because he believes fanatically the words he is saying, as for instance his false recapitulation of the last twenty-two years and his constant reiteration that Germany was never really defeated in the last war, only betrayed. But tonight he could also say with the ring of utter sincerity that all the night bombings of the British in recent weeks had caused no military
damage whatsoever. One wonders what is in his mind when he tells a tall one like that. Joe [Harsch], watching him speak for the first time, was impressed. He said he couldn’t keep his eyes off his hands; thought the hand work brilliant.

Under one roof I have never seen so many gold-braided generals before. Massed together, their chests heaving with crosses and other decorations, they filled a third of the first balcony. Part of the show was for them. Suddenly pausing in the middle of his speech, Hitler became the Napoleon, creating with the flick of his hand (in this case the Nazi salute) twelve field-marshals, and since Göring already was one, creating a special honour for him—Reichsmarshal. It was amusing to watch Göring. Sitting up on the dais of the Speaker in all his bulk, he acted like a happy child playing with his toys on Christmas morning. (Only how deadly that some of the toys he plays with, besides the electric train in the attic of Karin Hall, happen to be Stuka bombers!) Throughout Hitler’s speech Göring leaned over his desk chewing his pencil, and scribbling out in large, scrawly letters the text of his remarks which he would make after Hitler finished. He chewed on his pencil and frowned and scribbled like a schoolboy over a composition that has got to be in by the time class is ended. But always he kept one ear cocked on the Leader’s words, and at appropriate moments he would put down his pencil and applaud heartily, his face a smile of approval from one ear to the other. He had two big moments, and he reacted to them with the happy naturalness of a big child. Once when Hitler named two of his air-force generals field-marshals, he beamed like a proud big brother, smiling his approval and his happiness up to the generals in the balcony and clapping his hands with Gargantuan gestures, pointing his big paws at the new field-marshals
as at a boxer in the ring when he’s introduced. The climax was when Hitler named him Reichsmarshal. Hitler turned around and handed him a box with whatever insignia a Reichsmarshal wears. Göring took the box, and his boyish pride and satisfaction was almost touching, old murderer that he is. He could not deny himself a sneaking glance under the cover of the lid. Then he went back to his pencil-chewing and his speech. I considered his popularity—second only to Hitler’s in the country—and concluded that it is just because, on occasions like this, he’s so human, so completely the big, good-natured boy. (But also the boy who in June 1934 could dispatch men to the firing squad by the hundreds.)