Gold in the Furnace

by Savitri Devi

  “Merci Monsieur; merci infiniment,” said I, with a smile, to the oppressor of my Führer’s people, when I reached the cloakroom and parted from the man forever.

  * * *

  On the 9th of October 1948, I paid a visit to a Frenchman in high position, Monsieur G,152 whose address in Baden-Baden had been given to me by the Paris official who had granted me my pass to Germany. “The more one indulges in forbidden political activities, the more one should remain on ‘friendly’ terms with the established authorities,” my wise husband once said shortly after the outbreak of the war. And I remembered the advice. I had therefore not come to discuss, still less, openly, to defy; but to hear, and to judge in silence—as far as possible.

  This man had been in Germany ever since 1945, and before that had taken an active part in the French résistance. I had been in this country a little more than a month, and all through the war, nay for many years before the war, I had been living in India, officially “unconnected” with and outwardly “non-interested” in European affairs. It was easy for me, on account of these circumstances, to play the part of the ignorant in search of enlightenment. And I knew that, provided I had enough mastery over myself to conceal my natural Nazi feelings whatever the Frenchman might say, my acting would be welcome, for it would flatter the man’s vanity both as a Frenchman and as a high official of the “Information Department” in occupied Germany.

  Monsieur G, knowing nothing about me save what was stated in the letter from the “Office for German Affairs” (which, naturally, I showed him) received me with great amiability. He asked me a few questions about my projected book on Germany. “From what I understand,” said he, after a while, “it is the German people—the German soul—that interest you, rather than the political or economical aspects of the ‘German question.’”

  “Surely; economics can only come second, or even third; factors of ethics and race come first,” I replied. And I suddenly realised that I had been quoting Mein Kampf without meaning to.153 But Monsieur G—who did not know the book by heart; who, as thousands of notorious anti-Nazis, had possibly never even read it—did not notice that the words were not mine.

  “But the Germans are not really one race,” he answered. “They have only tried to make us believe that they are, and failed. And as for ethics, National Socialism has deprived them of the little they had. You cannot imagine what a monstrous influence it has had on them. It has killed in them the sense of humanity. We are trying to re-educate them. But it is difficult, very difficult.”

  My spontaneous answer would have been: “I do hope it is impossible!” But again, I had not come to discuss. I had come to see one of our persecutors, as he is; as they all are. I acted up to my rôle. “But,” said I—to see what the man would answer—“many Germans are Christians. And one cannot be a Christian and a National Socialist. At least I, who have studied logic under Professor Goblot,154 cannot understand how one possibly could.”

  “You cannot; nor can I,” replied Monsieur G. “But the Germans seem to. Their logic is different from other people’s. You don’t know them yet. You probably find them all charming. They are, at first sight. But wait till you know them. Wait till you know the Nazis—if you are clever enough to spot them out; for nobody will tell you that he or she is one.”

  “Have you not found any praiseworthy qualities at all in the Germans, including the National Socialists?” said I. “They are hard-working, clean, and courageous; one has to admit that. And,”—I added—“should I speak of that? Is it a general trait? Or did it strike me only because I have been but a few days here, and because I have come from India where the contrary has so often and so painfully impressed me? They seem to me to be kind to animals. Shall I tell you of a scene I witnessed in a village of the Saar?”

  “Do.”

  “Well, I was stopping, waiting for a bus to another village. Nearby, I saw a man trying to bring a horse and cart out of some waste land on the border of the main road. The cart was loaded with earth. The horse tried as hard as he could to pull it. But he could not. It was too heavy. The man coaxed him, encouraged him. He did not beat him. The animal tried again, twice, without any result. In India—in southern Europe, why speak of the distant East?—the driver would have lost his temper, and started whipping and kicking his beast. This man did not. He merely allowed about one third of the earth to drop from the cart; he coaxed the horse again, patted him on the neck. And the animal gave a jerk, and came forth drawing the cart behind him. I could not say what were that man’s politics, if any. But he was a German. And I have seen many other similar instances of kindness to beasts since I have come here. Only in England, and in the North of Europe, have I seen the same. The people, there, are of the same stock—which is perhaps an explanation.”

  “As for that,” said Monsieur G, “I entirely agree with you; they are kind to animals. And the Nazis more than the others. They were taught to be, under the Hitler régime. They were trained to love living creatures, trees, flowers, everything in Nature, and, at the same time, encouraged to be merciless towards their political opponents. Do you know,” he pursued after a pause, “that in that world-famous place of untold horrors, Buchenwald, they had beautiful flowerbeds? And, hung up in the trees, wooden shelters in which the birds could find food and protection against the bitter wind in wintertime? That, along with their gas chambers and their crematoria! That is the Nazi logic.”

  I said nothing. For the only thing I could think of in answer to this tirade was: “I thank you, Monsieur, for your information about the flowerbeds and the bird shelters at Buchenwald. You have made me feel sorry that I cannot congratulate the governor of the place.” And to say that, would have been to step out of my incognito.

  Monsieur G continued: “I say ‘the Nazi logic,’ for it is a logic in its own way, but a logic that baffles us; that baffles all decent people. It is the logic of a nation in which, as I told you before, all sense of human rights has been killed; a frightful logic.155 Those people’s whole mental outlook was guided, dominated by one principle, namely that everything else must be subordinated to the triumph of National Socialism. They crushed all opposition. But, at the same time, they used their opponents to the utmost. To make them work to their maximum capacity, in concentration camps, was not sufficient. They had to use them even dead. They made soap with their fat; strong ropes with the women’s hair; lampshades with their skins. Nothing was to be wasted. And those same people were against cruelty to animals. Those same people made the use of steel traps illegal; ordered that even pigs were not to be killed for food save in one second, by an automatic pistol. Can you understand such logic? I am sure our few French National Socialists would not have followed it to the end, had they seen it at work. But the Germans did. Because the German soul is fundamentally made up of contrasts and contradictions. Show that, in your book, and you will be telling the truth.”

  “I am not a German,” thought I; “and yet that absolute logic, which frightens this fellow so much, is mine, nevertheless; has been mine all my life. To me, innocent animals are far more lovable than one’s human opponents. Undoubtedly! Does this Frenchman imagine that he is going to stir my sympathy for those who fought us or betrayed us, for the sole reason that they have two legs and no tails? No fear! The fellow does not know me.” That is what I thought. But naturally I did not say it. To the best of my ability I remained expressionless, and prepared my answer.

  I knew that half the accusations against us (of which Monsieur G had only repeated a few) are groundless. But had they all been buttressed by facts, I could not have cared less. I surely could not—and cannot—understand why so many consider it a crime to make use of people’s hair (or skin) once they are dead. In my eyes, one can only object to such a thing on purely sentimental grounds, namely, in the case of one’s friends, not of one’s opponents; not of people who are out to destroy all one loves. And to raise such points against a régime that has done so much, on the other hand, not only for animals, as Mon
sieur G admitted, but also for the best among living people, seems to me utterly absurd; mad—all the more shocking that, in those very countries in which anti-Nazi propaganda has been the most successful, countless horrors are tolerated, nay, encouraged, even in peace time, provided they be performed in the name of some real or supposed interest of “mankind” upon innocent beasts instead of upon dangerous human beings. I did not wish to discuss the truth or falsity of Monsieur G’s statements about our doings, for I knew that this could only raise his suspicion. But I felt I could not remain silent about that inconsistency, that contradiction—for it surely is one—and I spoke. “Are not contrasts and contradictions the characteristics of average human nature?” said I cautiously.

  I was going to say more, but Monsieur G interrupted me with vehemence: “That may well be. But no civilised people have ever committed such atrocities as those Nazis,” he exclaimed, “not in our times, at least; and not in Europe.”

  “People who practice vivisection under the cover of the law in nearly all so-called civilised countries of the world, in Europe and elsewhere, and in our times, commit far worse atrocities,” said I, risking at last to be found out. I am not made for a diplomatic career, and could not stand the conversation any longer.

  “But that is on animals,” retorted Monsieur G, “We make a difference between them and human beings. Don’t you?”

  “I am not a Christian,” I replied; “and I love all life that is beautiful.” I did not add: “And I make a difference—and a very great one—between human beings who hate all that I love, and others.” I thought I had already spoken too much, and was inwardly reproaching myself with my lack of suppleness. But Monsieur G did not seem to notice, or even to suspect, the source from which my answer had sprung.

  “I too, am no Christian,” said he; “but I believe in humanity. And I know you do too, at heart.”

  I wanted to reply: “Do you, really?” But I thought it wiser to say nothing.

  * * *

  I have already reported some of the fanciful arguments which Monsieur G put forward to justify in my eyes the plunder policy of the Allies in occupied Germany.156 They rank among the most remarkable lies I have ever heard. But Monsieur G—that kind Monsieur G, who “believes in humanity”—said something more to me; something that will remain engraved within my heart as long as I live. He spoke to me of one of the unknown thousands who died for the National Socialist Idea; of one whom he had known, at least a few hours, and in the murder of whom I feel sure he played a part.

  He was speaking of what he called the “contrasts” of the German soul—his favourite theme. He had told me that, in 1945, he had met some Germans who appeared to him to have “little dignity in defeat.” “But,” he added, “while I was in the résistance, during the war, I have seen a few of them die; all real, hundred percent Nazis. And those, I cannot help admiring. I have never seen anybody show such fortitude as they in suffering, nor such calm and fearlessness in front of death.”

  I felt an icy sensation run along my spine and all through my body. I kept in my breath, and listened. This was the story of my own comrades—of those who had loved our Hitler as I do, and who had had the honour of dying for him, which I had not had. And one of our persecutors was telling it to me, as an eyewitness, if not . . . something more; something worse—without knowing who I was.

  “Yes,” continued Monsieur G, wrapped up in his own recollections, and not noticing how moved I was, “yes; and there is one among them all, whom I can never forget; a boy of eighteen, a mere lad, but a lad whom we were forced to respect, we hardened men of the maquis.157 We caught him in France, never mind where. He was to be executed the next day. A tall, particularly handsome German type; the best specimen of Hitler youth one can imagine. I could have felt sorry for him, had I not known who he was. But I knew. And had I not been quite sure, my night long conversation with him would have been more than sufficient to convince me that he was a full-fledged Nazi. He had behaved as they all did: ruthlessly, without the slightest regard for human life. But he believed in what he did. He had a purpose, and ideals, and was perfectly sincere. He knew he was to die in a few hours’ time. Yet, during that night, he explained to me his whole philosophy with the earnestness and the happiness of absolute faith, thinking perhaps that, one day, I might remember what he said and admit he was right. You know the philosophy; I do not need to tell you. He believed in what they all did—in what they all still do, at heart: in the God-ordained superiority of the Aryan and the divine mission of the German nation; in the prophetic rôle of Hitler in world history. There was beauty, there was greatness in what he said, even if it were but a misconception, for he was beautiful from every point of view. Beautiful and strong; absolutely sincere, and absolutely fearless.

  “He was shot the next morning. I have never seen anyone look so happy as that boy walking to the spot of execution. He refused to be tied or blindfolded; stood against the pole of his own accord; lifted his right arm in the ritual gesture which you can guess, and died in a cry of triumph; ‘Heil Hitler!’”

  “And it is you, you yourself who killed him! I would bet anything that it is you—you swine, you devil!” These were the only words I could have said—shouted—had I not known that, to speak thus to Monsieur G was to ruin all the possibilities I had to work for the National Socialist Idea in occupied Germany. But knowing this, I said nothing. For the sake of the unknown thousands for the love of whom I had come, I had no right to be rash. Yet, I was moved to my depths. Every one of the Frenchman’s words had gone through me like a knife. I now loathed the creature, for I felt sure that he had been more than a mere eyewitness to this murder. And the handsome, sincere, and fearless young Nazi, I loved, as though he had been my son. I felt proud of him; and at the same time aggrieved, as one is for a loss that is irreparable. Those large thoughtful blue eyes that shone as the young man spoke of our great ideals; those eyes that had looked straight into the faces of the men who shot him, without a shadow of hatred or fear, would never see the Sun again . . .

  Controlling the tears that I felt welling up into my eyes, I asked Monsieur G: “Could you tell me the name of that young German, and where exactly, and in what year he was shot?”

  The Frenchman seemed a little surprised. “Why do you wish to know all those details?” said he. “I only told you of this episode in order to illustrate what I had tried to explain previously concerning the contrasts of the German soul.”

  “That’s just it,” I replied. “I was thinking of putting it in my book, as it is so illustrative. And I was going to ask you if I could not quote your name, both in connection with this episode and with what you said of the ‘appalling logic.’”

  “Oh, you can mention me with regard to the ‘appalling logic’ as much as you like. But not with regard to this. No please; on no account. Those were very tragic times and . . . I think it is better if my name does not appear.”

  “Could you not tell me, at least, who shot that young man?”

  “I am sorry,” replied Monsieur G, “but I cannot answer that question. Moreover, I cannot understand what interest all this has for you.”

  I felt more and more convinced that he had done the deed himself, or that he was, anyhow, one of those who did it. I got up and took leave of the Frenchman, on the pretext of an appointment that I would miss if I did not go at once.

  But the thought of that young hero pursued me. I imagined him telling me, from beyond the gates of eternity: “Why are you so grieved because of me? Did I not die the very sort of death you envy? And am I not happy, by the side of Leo Schlageter and of Horst Wessel, forever?”

  I remembered it was the 9th of October 1948, exactly forty-one years after the day Horst Wessel was born.

  And I recalled in my heart those two lines of the immortal Song:

  Comrades whom the Red Front and the Reaction have shot,

  March in spirit with us, within our ranks!

  * * *

  I met a few other spec
imens of the Allied forces in occupied Germany: one or two more Frenchmen in Baden-Baden and in Koblenz, and a handful of Britishers before and during my trial. The Frenchmen, who did not know who I was, were either typical representatives of France’s official opinion like Monsieur G, or else, equally mediocre but less conscious Democrats: people who really did not care two hoots what happened to the world as long as they, and their wives and children, were all right and could get meat and wine every day and enjoy a cinema show once a week. These only hated war because it upset their insignificant little lives, and also because, one must admit, it is a dangerous game. They were “against Nazism” only because they had been taught that it was “the cause of the war.” In fact, they did not care for any “ism.” They cared for themselves, and felt uneasy in the presence of anyone who cared for something greater. Such people always do.

  The Britishers with whom I came in touch—Military Intelligence officers, police officers, one or two members of the English governing staff of this prison, and the policewoman in whose charge I was on every one of my journeys between Werl and Düsseldorf—all knew who I was. I could therefore speak freely to them. I asked practically the same question to all: “You say you fought six years to make the world a safe place for the free expression of the individual—‘freedom of conscience’ as you call it. You fought us—you say—because we refuse to admit that the law should express the will of a majority of individuals won over by free propaganda. Why then do you deny us, now, the right to propagate our views, nay, the right to express ourselves as National Socialists? Why do you persecute us?”