Berlin Diary (91 page)

B
ERLIN
,
October
5

The German newspapers make amusing reading today with their reports of the Brenner meeting. They rave for columns about its world-shaking importance, but offer not the slightest information to their readers as to why. They give no information whatsoever. But in the present totalitarian atmosphere, where words have lost all meaning, anything becomes true merely because the controlled press says so. I received one trustworthy report today that the Brenner meeting was rather stormy, with Mussolini doing some real lusty shouting. The Italians here put out a story, probably apocryphal, but indicative of Italo-German amity. They say the Duce asked the Führer yesterday why he had given up his plan to invade Britain. Hitler swallowed and then dodged an answer by posing a question of his own:

“Why haven’t you, Duce, been able to take a little place like Malta? I am very disappointed about that.”

The Italians here say Mussolini screwed up his face and said: “Führer, don’t forget that Malta is an island too.”

The fifth week of Germany
’s great air offensive against Britain began today. And the Germans are in a great state of mind because the British won’t admit they’re licked. They cannot repress their rage against Churchill for still holding out hopes of victory to his people, instead of lying down and surrendering, as have all of Hitler’s opponents up to date. The Germans cannot understand a people with character and guts.

B
ERLIN
,
October
7

A characteristic Nazi journalistic fake. The press quotes Knickerbocker, whom it dubs “the American world liar,” as having told Portuguese journalists in Lisbon that he fled London because it was no longer possible to live there. Knowing Knick, I know this is pure invention.

B
ERLIN
,
October
8

Lunch with the Greek Minister and Mme Rangabe. Their daughter, Elmina, whom we used to see a lot with Martha Dodd and who has a dark, Balkan beauty, was present. The Minister very glum, his valuables packed, and fearing Italian invasion any day. He clings to a slim hope that Hitler will save Greece because of what he calls the Führer’s “admiration for the glories of Athens.”

Though I do not broadcast to America until a quarter to two in the morning, I have to be at the
Rundfunk
at ten p.m., since it is theoretically possible for the British bombers to be over the city by then. When they do come, the Germans halt all transportation, not even permitting you to walk in the streets. That means that, if I am caught elsewhere by an alarm, there is no
broadcast. Last night I was helping celebrate the departure for home of “Butch” Leverich, Second Secretary of Embassy, at a party given by the Heaths when ten o’clock came. It was a great temptation to stay on. All present were certain the British would not come over. I left, however, got hopelessly lost in the black-out somewhere south of the Wittenbergplatz, but eventually got my bearings and steered my Ford through the inky night to the
Rundfunk
. As I turned off the motor, the sirens screamed, and before I could reach the building, the anti-aircraft shrapnel was falling all around like hail. The British attack lasted until four a.m., and was the most intensive yet. Once again the railroad tracks north of the Lehrter and Stettiner stations were torn up by bombs. One young German woman I know owes her life to the fact that she missed her suburban train by about twenty feet. She caught a second one fifteen minutes later, but it did not run very far. The first had been hit square on by a British bomb and blown to pieces, fifteen passengers perishing!

The German press harps so much on the Luftwaffe attacks on Britain being reprisals for the sort of thing we received last night that the public is already nauseated by the term—and Germans take a lot of nauseating. The story around town is that the average Berliner when he buys his ten-pfennig evening paper now says to the newsboy: “Give me ten pfennigs’ worth of reprisals.” It’s interesting, by the way, how few people buy the evening newspapers. Get on a subway or a bus during the evening rush hour. Not one German in ten is reading a newspaper. Slow-thinking and long-suffering though they are, they are beginning to be aware, I think, that their newspapers give them little news, and that little so doctored by propaganda that it is difficult to recognize. Radio news is no better and
of late I have noticed more than one German shut off a news broadcast after the first couple of minutes with that expressive Berlin exclamation: “Oh,
Quatsch!
” which is stronger than “Oh, nonsense!” “Rubbish” is probably a better translation.

B
ERLIN
,
October
15

I have pretty well made up my mind about some personal matters. For some time I’ve been getting information from military circles that Hitler is making ready to go into Spain in order to get Gibraltar—whether Franco, who is helpless, likes it or not. That will cut off the last avenue of escape for my family in Geneva. The only way you can get to America now from Europe is through Switzerland, unoccupied France, Spain, and Portugal to Lisbon, the one remaining port on the Continent from which you can get a boat or a plane to New York. If things come to the worst, I can always get out by way of Russia and Siberia, but that is no adventure for a child of two. This winter the Germans, to show their power to discipline the sturdy, democratic Swiss, are refusing to send Switzerland even the small amount of coal necessary for the Swiss people to heat their homes. The Germans are also allowing very little food into Switzerland, for the same shabby reason. Life in Switzerland this winter will be hard. Though Tess would rather stay, she has agreed to go home at the end of the month.

I shall follow in December. I think my usefulness here is about over. Until recently, despite the censorship, I think I’ve been able to do an honest job of reporting from Germany. But it has become increasingly difficult and at present it has become almost impossible. The new instructions of both the military and the political
censors are that they cannot allow me to say anything which might create an unfavourable impression for Nazi Germany in the United States. Moreover, the new restrictions about reporting air attacks force you either to give a completely false picture of them or to omit mention of them altogether. I usually do the latter, but it is almost as dishonest as the former. In short, you can no longer report the war or conditions in Germany as they are. You cannot call the Nazis “Nazis” or an invasion an “invasion.” You are reduced to re-broadcasting the official communiqués, which are lies, and which any automaton can do. Even the more intelligent and decent of my censors ask me, in confidence, why I stay. I have not the slightest interest in remaining under these circumstances. With my deep, burning hatred of all that Nazism stands for, it has never been pleasant working and living here. But that was secondary as long as there was a job to do. No one’s personal life in Europe counts any more, and I have had none since the war began. But now there is not even a job to do—not from here.

Z
ÜRICH
,
October
18

A wonderful thing, that relief you always feel the minute you get out of Germany. Flew down from Berlin this afternoon. From Munich to Zürich we had a Douglas plane flown by Swiss pilots, and off to the left the whole time the gorgeous panorama of the Alps, the peaks and high ranges already deep in snow. When the sun started to set, the snow turned pink, a magnificent shade. A half-hour out of Munich two German fighter planes pursued us, the rooky pilots using us to practise diving on. Three or four times, swooping down on us, they nearly touched our wings. I began to perspire,
but there was nothing to do about it. They had parachutes; we didn’t.

Soon a thick cloud belt began to blanket the country under us, and I worried a bit about getting down through it to the Zürich airport, surrounded as it is by high hills. Finally we plunged into the clouds. We soon appeared to be lost, for the pilot, after circling about for five minutes, climbed above the clouds again and turned back towards Munich. Then another plunge, this time a deep one, and suddenly it was dark and the thought that we were probably going to make an emergency landing in Germany depressed me, for a few minutes before, I had felt free of the Reich at last. Now we were diving at a steep angle. The pilot signalled to adjust the safety belt. I gripped the seat hard. And then out of the darkness the red fog light of a landing-field, and the familiar roof-tops, and the city lights sparkling—this could be no city of blacked-out Germany, this could only be Zürich—and in a minute we were on hard ground. The pilot had made a perfect blind landing in the fog.

I sit here in the Bahnhof waiting for my Geneva train, the Dôle red wine good, the free people of Switzerland bustling through the hall a sight worth seeing, feeling a release and yet sad at the farewell that must be said in Geneva next week, and the realization that still another home we tried to make will be broken up.

G
ENEVA
,
October
23

Tess and Eileen got off at dawn this morning on a Swiss bus that will take them in two days and nights of hard driving across unoccupied France to Barcelona, from where they can get a train to Madrid and Lisbon, and from Lisbon a boat for home. There are no trains
across France yet. By bus is the only way, and I suppose we were lucky, because there are more than a thousand refugees here waiting to get on the two buses that ply once a week to Spain. They could carry little luggage, and we must store our belongings here for the duration. The American Express would not dispatch its bus today because of word that floods in the Pyrenees had washed out the roads between France and Spain, but our company said it hoped to get through, a hope I share. Tess carried food and water for herself and child, as there are no provisions to be had en route in France. The child was happy with excitement as the bus pulled away and I was glad she was too young to notice or feel the tragedy in that car-load of human beings, most of whom were German Jews, who were nervous and jittery almost to a point of hysteria, for they were afraid that the French might take them off and turn them over to Himmler’s tortures, or that the Spaniards would not let them through.
²⁷
If they could get to Lisbon they would be safe, but Lisbon was far.