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Authors: Max Egremont

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Like Kant, Herder dismissed the idea of a golden age, of escape into myth. One should be oneself, in the culture of home, in the present. It was, he believed, impossible to absorb another culture, even through the learning of its language – and nostalgia and a yearning for home seemed to him to be natural and good, the mainspring of most popular movements. This exaltation of rootedness was later taken up by Fichte, by Treitschke and by cruder successors who grossly distorted it. Herder died in 1803, too early for the humiliation of Napoleon’s victories over the Prussians and the rise of national feeling that followed the coalition’s defeat of the French. He had rejected the idea of the Germans as military masters of Europe, seeing them much more as philosophers and poets.
Hamann’s problem was that he was often incomprehensible. He had a crippling stammer and a dense, difficult prose that often obscures his subtle irony and sophisticated arguments; Herder and Kant begged him to be clearer. His thought encompassed a suspicion of science and a contradiction of the rational precision of the French Enlightenment. He believed in passion, saw rules as necessary evils, distrusted autocrats and the Jews – and believed it possible to throw off intellectualism and to have a direct understanding of the masses. Like Kant, Hamann stayed loyal to his king, Frederick the Great. But he denied that government measures could improve the condition of the poor, because this went against the uniqueness of individuals. He did, however, foresee the failure of utopian systems such as communism.
The resonance of what began in the east echoed for centuries. Kant’s elevation of the unique will was taken up by Herder, mutating into the concept of a powerful irrational self, exploding into the romantic cry ‘I am not here to think, but to be, to feel, live!’ After this came Fichte and the cult of the hero; then Hegel, followed by a corruption of genius into nationalist hysteria and a terrifying end.
Many thousands of people had come to Masuria, to Tannenberg, in September 1927, fourteen years before Marion Dönhoff’s now famous 1941 ride through the early autumn landscape. The huge gathering of 1927 was by no means inclusive; Republican and Jewish ex-service associations were not asked and the Social Democratic Prussian government refused to attend what seemed to be a throw-back to the old monarchist days. The old First World War commanders were there but not the man who had been perhaps the true architect of the victory: Colonel Hoffmann, the brilliant staff officer, had died the previous July. Ludendorff, by now rabidly nationalist, was estranged from Hindenburg; they bowed stiffly to each other, brought together for this dedication of the memorial to their victory.
The legend that the German army had not been defeated in the field but stabbed in the back by treacherous politicians was already strong. Now Hindenburg, the President of the new German republic, spoke. Dressed as the Colonel-in-Chief of a Masurian regiment to which he’d been appointed by the Emperor, and using words that must have delighted the old guard like Januschau, and (to judge from the press response) much of his country, he repudiated Germany’s admission in the Treaty of Versailles that it had started the war. ‘The accusation that Germany was responsible for this greatest of all wars we hereby repudiate,’ he declared. ‘It was in no spirit of envy, hatred or lust of conquest that we unsheathed the sword’ but ‘with clean hearts we marched
out to defend our fatherland’. This should be settled; ‘Germany is ready at any moment to prove this fact before an impartial tribunal.’ This place symbolized national unity. ‘May every discord therefore break against this monument.’
Alarm spread through Europe. An editorial in the London
Times
, on 20 September, regretted that Hindenburg should have allowed himself to be manipulated by the German nationalists ‘who have their stronghold in eastern Prussia’. The building and the ceremony seemed, to the writer, a frightening resurrection of another age: ‘there is a medieval flavour in the very name of Tannenberg and it is hardly surprising that something resembling a medieval fortress … should have been erected even now in that centre of an ancient battle zone in East Prussia.’ The enforced absence of a rabbi or of republicans was noted, as was the presence of the German Chancellor Wilhelm Marx; in fact ministers had helped to draft the speech. ‘In that East Prussian atmosphere, which is still so strangely insensitive to modern facts’, it seemed as if something entirely different was being said to the more conciliatory approach of the German Foreign Minister Gustav Stresemann. In the Nazi time, an extract from Hindenburg’s speech denying war guilt was carved onto a bronze tablet and put into one of the towers.
The Krügers, architects of the monument, also designed an inn nearby. At first this was quite a modest building with broad dark beams, a heavy tiled roof and small windows – traditional in style, as if to show what had been saved in August 1914. It was later greatly enlarged when tourism grew under the Third Reich. First, though, the numbers of visitors dipped, because of the economic crisis; there began to be concern about the vast building’s cost. Hitler came for the first time in April 1932, on a return journey from Königsberg during his presidential election campaign against Hindenburg. He lost the election but East Prussians greeted him hysterically. Hitler returned to Tannenberg after Hindenburg had appointed him chancellor, in August 1933, accompanied by the old President. The Nazis had enormous majorities in East Prussia
in the elections of July 1932 and March 1933 as they exploited the fears in this frontier land. Their support was particularly strong in the poor rural districts, even among the Polish minority, whom Hitler promised full inclusion in his new Germany.
Nineteen twenty-seven, the year of the Tannenberg monument’s dedication, also saw the President’s eightieth birthday. Neudeck had been put up for sale by Hindenburg’s relations and Elard von Oldenburg-Januschau and other East Prussian well-wishers set about buying the house as a birthday gift for the old man. With the President’s son Oskar, they organized a collection, hoping to raise the money in East Prussia, but after an inadequate response from the beleaguered rural province, they had to go for help to rich industrialists in the west. The property was put in Oskar’s name, thus avoiding future death duties – a scheme of tax-dodging out of keeping with traditional Prussian austerity.
Neudeck gave Hindenburg a stake in the land. During his visits there, he behaved like a caricature of a Junker, fond of hunting, a good trencherman, sparing with words, his hair clipped to resemble a stand of grey needles. On the terrace or in the sparsely decorated rooms, the
camarilla
– as the President’s cronies were called – met to discuss whom they liked and trusted. Within this circle was the conservative Franz von Papen, a minor aristocrat and former cavalry officer whom Hindenburg particularly liked; Hitler himself seemed desperately uncouth. Januschau thought that the Nazis could be managed; they were, after all, ‘quite attractive’ young people and Göring was a much-decorated officer of the First World War. There were hints that Hitler would support farming and the estates in the east and restore the monarchy as well.
The Junker class was beginning to be an embarrassment, especially over the subsidies given to big landowners. In January 1933, on the eve of Hitler’s confirmation as chancellor, the British Ambassador reported that the budget committee of the Reichstag had demanded to know more about ‘the affairs of the notorious
East Prussian landowner and friend of the President of the Reich, Herr von Januschau’, who ‘showed no desire to provide parliament with any information as to the public funds which had been doled out to him.’
Much has been made of Januschau and other landowners influencing the President at Neudeck in May 1932. They were said to have encouraged his intransigence, which brought about Chancellor Heinrich Brüning’s resignation and the appointment of Papen, a process that led to Hitler’s taking office some eight months later. In fact Januschau was on another of his estates at the time but the landlords – who loathed Brüning’s scheme of encouraging more settlement in the east by moderate land reform – were delighted to see the Chancellor go. Not until after 1933 did Januschau see the true nature of National Socialist rule; by then, the fat, jovial figure who rode round his estate on a small pony, wearing a Lenin cap and letting a communist live in a cottage on his property because he thought the remote spot would keep the man out of mischief, seemed to come from another age.
In August 1933, some seven months after they had come to power, the Nazis laid on a massive demonstration at the Tannenberg Memorial, to commemorate the anniversary of the battle. Even the Polish authorities co-operated, allowing some fifteen hundred cars on a ‘loyalty run’ through the corridor to Hohenstein. Among the guests were Hitler, Göring (now Prime Minister of Prussia), Papen (the Vice-Chancellor), the army and navy commanders and several Lutheran bishops. Erich Koch, East Prussia’s Nazi Governor, told Hindenburg that the state wished to present him with some six thousand acres of land that adjoined Neudeck and had a long connection with his family. Göring handed over the deeds and Hitler declared that this property would be free of taxation as long as it was owned by Hindenburg or one of his male descendants.
Hitler’s speech at the memorial was a repeat of familiar grudges and resentment, including Hindenburg’s 1927 repudiation of German war guilt. Tannenberg, he said, had ‘accomplished’
Germany’s salvation: also that ‘posterity will not understand that a nation, after the loss of a war which it never wanted, should have been unworthily oppressed and shamefully mishandled simply because it did not defencelessly surrender its freedom, but tried to defend its right to live and the independence of its territory while making untold sacrifices.’ Hindenburg’s reply evoked dead comrades and his loyalty to the monarch whom he had forced to abdicate: ‘When I pursue my memories of the time in question, I think first in reverence and loyalty, and gratitude of my Kaiser, king and master, whose confidence and command first called me here.’
A year later, the monument became again a symbol of memory and renewal, after the death of the victor of Tannenberg. When on 2 August 1934 the black and white Prussian standard above Neudeck was lowered to half-mast, the planning of the funeral began. The old man had wanted a simple burial next to his wife (who had died in 1921) in Hanover; for his son Oskar and for Hitler’s government, however, this was a magnificent chance for the Nazi propaganda team. Hitler told the architect Albert Speer to make sure that the day was spectacular. Any objections by the Krügers that the plans compromised their original vision were swept aside; they may have felt that they did well enough under the Nazis to forgive this.
Late on the night of 6 August the coffin left Neudeck on a gun carriage, travelling across the East Prussian landscape – one observer noting the storks overhead – escorted by infantry and cavalry on a route lined by torches. Early on the cloudless morning of the funeral – 7 August – special trains began to cross the Polish Corridor to bring mourners to Hohenstein. The guests poured in through the northern gate of the Tannenberg Memorial, where an immense iron cross and a black banner hung by the southern tower; in the centre of the arena was another huge cross, with chairs lined up on three sides for the crowd. On the ramparts, between the eight towers, stood blue-jacketed sailors and steel-helmeted troops, outlined against the sky. Fires burned on
the top of each tower, the black smoke curling southwards in the slight breeze.
Uniforms predominated: the old uniforms – the spiked helmets, the black cavalry busbies or the blue and scarlet of the foot-guards worn by Field Marshal Mackensen or Elard von Oldenburg-Januschau in his old Reichswehr ceremonial kit: then the new black of the SS bodyguard or brown of the Nazi storm troopers or the grey of the Stahlhelm, the other main nationalist paramilitary group. Never since the war, the London
Times
correspondent thought, had there been such a gathering of imperial uniforms. Wreaths, some so large that six men had to carry them, were banked up around the cross; colour parties held aloft the fifty-two standards of the regiments that had fought at Tannenberg. The Roman Catholic Bishop of East Prussia gave the Hitler salute and sat beside the Reich Primate, Ludwig Müller, who wore the sober black of the evangelical church.
The coffin was placed on a central slab by the cross, with the Field Marshal’s baton and decorations. It was covered by the black, white and red army flag – onto which had been stitched an Iron Cross – and Hindenburg’s
Pickelhaube
spiked helmet (that caricature of Prussiandom) and sword. After the Lutheran hymn ‘A safe stronghold our God is still’, Hitler went to the dais. An aide handed him a leather wallet. The Chancellor seemed to fumble while retrieving his text, thereby heightening the tension, before making almost exactly the same speech as he had given the day before in the Reichstag. Already he had declared that the offices of chancellor and president and commander of the armed forces would henceforth be combined in one person: himself. Now grandiloquent sentences once more retraced the dead President’s life from his wounds in the Austro-Prussian War to the supreme wartime command and election to the presidency – ‘the last triumph of the old army’. It was, the Führer said, ‘a wonderful dispensation of Providence that during his Presidency the preparation for the national resurrection could be begun.’ Now, he said, ‘Go hence to Valhalla.’
Hindenburg’s funeral.
Visitors started to come again to Tannenberg, making it into a national shrine. The theatre did not end with the old man’s death. Two giant stone soldiers carved by Paul Bronisch were put as if on guard outside Hindenburg’s tomb – and above the entrance glowered a massive granite stone, symbolically from Königsberg, with the Field Marshal’s name carved on it. So heavy was this piece that railway bridges had to be strengthened to get it to the memorial by train. Again the Krügers claimed the influence of Stonehenge. A porphyry statue of the victor dominated the hall of honour above the tomb, by the East Prussian Friedrich Bagdons – a representation not of the dead, grey Reichspresident but of the defiant victor of Tannenberg. In the concourse, stone replaced grass; the landscape around was dotted with reconstructions or interpretive displays claiming that Aryan Germans had been in East Prussia at least since the Bronze Age.
On 2 October 1935 – the eighty-eighth anniversary of the Field Marshal’s birth – another ceremony took place at the memorial when the body was moved to a final resting place in another
tower. The Nazis may have seen this as a chance to demonstrate the consolidation of their power; the Night of the Long Knives – when Hitler had his old colleague Ernst Röhm and others murdered – had silenced internal opposition, a growing closeness to Mussolini’s Italy had broken Germany’s international isolation and German parliamentary democracy was dead. Hitler – accompanied by Göring, the War Minister General von Blomberg, the commanders of the navy, army and air force and the Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess – descended into the vault to lay a wreath. The family was led by Oskar, the hero’s son, now a major-general, who had prospered under the new regime. Also represented were the ‘organizations of the new Germany’ – the SA, the SS and the National Socialist Party. The symbolism had changed, reducing Hindenburg’s Weimar role to concentrate on the victor of Tannenberg, and the sarcophagus was covered with the wartime flag. In his speech, Hitler talked only of the victory, not of the Field Marshal’s subsequent political activities. He declared the place a national memorial, to be paid for henceforth by the German government.

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