The Young Hitler I Knew

by August Kubizek

  Although paying respect to the two masters, Adolf and I sided with Bruckner because we preferred his music; it also helped that he was Austrian. Adolf said that Linz should be home to Bruckner in the same way that Bayreuth was home to Wagner: the Linzer Tonhalle, as he called his nearly complete design for the new edifice, should be dedicated to Bruckner’s memory.

  Besides the symphonies of the classical masters, Adolf took great delight in hearing the works of the romantic composers Carl Maria von Weber, Schubert, Mendelssohn and Schumann. He was keen on Grieg whose piano concerto in A minor he found enchanting. He regretted very much that Wagner had only worked for the operatic stage so that one only ever got to hear overtures to individual operas in concert halls. In general, Adolf had little enthusiasm for instrumental virtuosos, although he never missed individual solo renditions such as Mozart’s and Beethoven’s piano and violin concertos, Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in A minor and, above all, Schumann’s piano concerto in A minor.

  These frequent concert visits began to unsettle Adolf, but for some time I could not understand the cause. Any other person would have been satisfied with just hearing the performance. But not Adolf. There he had sat in his free seat in the auditorium letting Beethoven’s glorious violin concerto in D minor wash over him and was happy and contented but yet – when he counted the attendance, maybe 500 people – he had to ask himself: ‘What about the many thousands of people who have not been able to hear this concert?’ Surely there would be not only amongst the music students, but also amongst the artisans and workers very many who would be delighted, as he was, to have free or easily affordable seats to a concert hall and there listen to immortal music. And here he was thinking not only of Vienna, for in the capital it was relatively easy for people to go to concerts if they wanted to, but the small towns in the provinces. From his experience of Linz he knew how poorly it was provided with cultural institutions. That would have to change: concert-going must no longer be the preserve of the privileged few. The free ticket tided him over, and to that extent he profited from it personally, but the system would have to be discontinued in due course.

  Such thinking was typical of Adolf. Nothing could happen around him that did not fit into the global view. Even pure artistic experiences such as going to a concert awoke in him the realisation of a problem which affected everybody, something to which the ‘ideal state’ as he dreamed it could not remain indifferent. The ‘storm of the revolution’ would tear down the gates of art, closed hitherto to so many – ‘social reform’, even in the area of enjoying music. Of course, many young people of the time thought as he did, and his protest against the privileged layers of society as regards artistic interests was by no means unusual. Societies and organisations existed for the express purpose of bringing art to the masses, and many fought hard and with visible success, but it was Hitler’s approach that was unique. While others were happy to take each day as it came in their pursuit of the goal, Adolf scorned their well-intentioned but inadequate methods and strove for the total solution wherever such a thing could be realised. At the time when he first announced a project, it was for him already reality in the making. Typically, he was not satisfied simply to advocate a policy; he had to work the thing out in all its fastidious detail as if he had received ‘orders from above’ to do so. When finished the policy was thus pregnant on the mental plane and required only the word of empowerment for its implementation.

  During the time I knew him, this word of empowerment was never spoken, and it was for this reason that I considered him a denizen of a fantasy world, even if he had convinced me by argument of the reasonableness of a policy. He was certain that it was he who would in due time issue the single word of empowerment enabling the hundreds and thousands of different plans filed in his mind to be set out and accomplished. He spoke of it rarely, and then only to me, because he knew that I believed in him.

  In the past when he had seized upon a particular idea and had worked on it thoroughly and expertly, another listener would interject, ‘Yes, but who is going to pay for it all?’ In Linz, I had been guilty of raising the point thoughtlessly myself simply because it was obvious. In Vienna I had grown more circumspect and avoided asking where the funding was supposed to come from. Adolf considered the question irrelevant and his response to it varied. In Linz it had been ‘the Reich’, an answer which I felt was inadequate. In Vienna he was more to the point with ‘businessmen will be needed’, although it might happen that he would give me shorter shrift with: ‘You probably won’t be consulted, because you understand nothing of it,’ or even shorter, ‘I think that is something that is best left to me.’

  The first warning that a new policy was in the offing would be a keyword which cropped up during a monologue or debate, a special term which he had never used previously. In the period when he was not yet clear in his own mind where it was leading him, the term might be modified. This happened in the weeks of his frequent concert-going when he began to speak of ‘this orchestra that tours the provinces’. I thought that there actually was such an orchestra in Vienna, since he spoke of it as though it actually existed. Then I discovered that the ‘mobile orchestra’ as he had now become accustomed to call it (the word ‘tours’ had something of a bad connotation) was a figment of his imagination, and shortly afterwards, since he never did things by halves, we had ‘the mobile Reichs-Orchestra’.

  I was roped in, of course, and I remember clearly that our joint planning ended with ten touring orchestras so that even citizens living in the remotest inaccessible reaches of the Reich could be treated to Beethoven’s violin concerto in D major and other such delights. One evening when he held forth in detail about the orchestra I asked him why he was getting so involved in a musical project when his ambition was to be an architect. The answer was short and to the point: ‘Because for the time being I have you.’ This meant that for as long as I remained by his side, he would draw on my advice and experience as an orchestral conductor of the future. I was flattered by this, but when I asked whom he had in mind to lead the orchestra he saw through me at once, laughed and replied, ‘Definitely not you.’ Serious again, he added that at the appropriate time he would certainly consider me for the post, but he had hurt my feelings and I informed him that even if he now offered I would have to decline the honour for I was anxious to be appointed to lead an orchestra that actually existed, and was not merely in his fantasies. This was enough to provoke an outburst of rage, for he would never tolerate people doubting the ultimate fulfillment of his ideas. ‘You would still be very happy for me to appoint you to lead it,’ he shouted.

  After this temperamental overture, the ‘planning’ could begin. I remember this particular plan very clearly because it involved my speciality and I was on much firmer ground when discussing the matter than I had been during his efforts to tack Wieland der Schmied on to Wagner’s repertoire. How thoroughly we approached our task can be seen from an altercation next evening over the Pedalharfe – the Louis XVI harp. Adolf wanted to have three of these very costly and extraordinarily heavy instruments. ‘Whatever for?’ I asked, ‘An experienced conductor would make do with just one.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ was the angry reply, ‘how will you play the Feuerzauber [from Die Walküre. Ed.] with only one Pedalharfe?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it in the programme.’

  ‘And if you were forced to have it in the programme?’

  I made a final effort to resolve the matter reasonably. ‘Look, a Pedalharfe costs 18,000 guilders.’ I thought that was bound to shift him off his high horse, from where he was defending his idea with such stubbornness, but I was wrong. ‘So what, just money!’ he cried, and that settled it, the mobile Reichs-Orchestra would be equipped with three Pedalharfen.

  When I reflect with what passion we argued about things which existed only in his imagination I have to smile. It was a wonderful time in which we got more worked up playing vague mind-games than over everyday realities. We ceased to be poor, sta
rving students and became great men of consequence for a while. Although I was surprised at the strength of his imagination for a dream world, an energy which he lacked for the real world surrounding him, naturally I did not suspect that these fantasies meant very much more for him than just a romantic way to idle away the time.

  I had myself often reflected on the fact that great orchestras could only be seen in the largest cities: Vienna, Berlin, Munich, Amsterdam, Milan, New York, for it was only there that they could draw on the pool of new talent for the first-class instrumentalists they needed. In consequence, only the populations of these great cities could hear the orchestras perform while those who lived far afield in villages and small provincial towns were denied it. Adolf’s Reichs-Orchestra was as brilliant as it was simple. Led by a gifted conductor, it would be of such a size as to be able to perform all symphonies and travel country-wide. When Adolf asked me how large it should be, I was proud that he should have consulted me rather than his books; I felt that he considered me to be a future conductor. I was therefore in my element. I remember how we spread all the plans and papers across the top of the grand piano – the table was too small – for Adolf wished to be informed down to the last minuscule detail about everything. This was the puzzling, noteworthy thing about him, the inexplicable contrast: he created a fantasy in thin air and yet tied down the whole thing to the last detail.

  The orchestra was 100 strong, a respectable body able to compete with other great orchestras on equal terms. Adolf was rather taken aback by the logistics. I explained that it required not only first-class instruments, but that the transport question was very important: the care in transit, comprehensive insurance, the archives of the repertoire for a hundred players, music stands, chairs. Any old chair simply would not do for a first-class cellist. At this he instructed me to obtain from the secretary of the orchestral society better details regarding the overall arrangements, from the Musicians’ Union the procedure on hiring musicians and, to cap it all, how one was to cost the project. I did as I was bid, and Adolf was satisfied with my report. The total cost was mammoth, but he dismissed it with a wave of the hand. There was some excitement about the uniform dress to be worn.

  I wanted something with a bit of colour in it, but Adolf was firm: it had to be black and elegant, but not striking.

  Transport remained a tricky problem, for in 1908 there were areas of the country where the railway had not penetrated. Motor vehicles, noisy and foul-smelling, had begun to roam the streets: we stood and watched them proceeding at their ‘murderous’ speed of ten miles per hour and wondered if they would be suitable for the mobile Reichs-Orchestra – undoubtedly they would greatly improve its mobility, but personally I was unsympathetic to the idea.

  So, the orchestra arrives to schedule in a town, decked out in bunting, to be greeted by the Bürgermeister. Where shall the concert be held? Very few towns had a hall large enough to host a 100-man orchestra and a large audience. ‘We should play in the open air,’ Adolf decided.

  ‘Concerts under a starry sky are very stimulating,’ I replied, ‘but you have to guarantee the starry sky for the duration of the performance. And besides that, you lose the acoustics.’ The whole endeavour almost collapsed on these facts. Adolf ruminated for a while, then he said, ‘There are churches everywhere. Why don’t we play in the churches?’ From a musical standpoint there was nothing against it. Adolf said I should find out from the church authorities if they would be prepared to make churches available for a travelling Reichs-Orchestra. There was absolutely no way I would do any such thing, but I said nothing and luckily Adolf forgot to ask me how my enquiries were progressing in that direction.

  We experienced serious difficulties about the repertoire. Adolf wanted to know how long the orchestra would take to be ready to perform a symphony. There was no reliable yardstick, and this annoyed him. Under no circumstances would he accept my opinion that the repertoire, if it had to be limited to German composers only, a matter on which he was adamant, should begin with Bach, Fuchs, Gluck and Händel, and always with individual works by Schütz. ‘So what did they do before them, then?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘There has never been anything else for an orchestral programme,’ I replied. ‘Who says so?’ he shouted.

  I explained to him calmly that he could rely completely on my assurance – unless of course he wished to take up the study of the history of music himself. ‘Well, I will,’ he answered thornily. This put an end to the discussions about the repertoire. I did not take his retort seriously, for the history of music is not an easy subject to study, and would divert him from his professional interests. Moreover, he knew that I was well up in it since I had attended lectures on the subject at the university, so I was astonished to find him next day engrossed in a thick volume with some such title as The Development of Music over the Ages which at least served to keep him quiet for ages. It did not satisfy him completely, and he sent me out to fetch the historical theses of Dr Guido Adler and Dr Max Grietz, which he read avidly.

  ‘The Chinese composed good music 2,000 years ago,’ he declared, ‘Why should it be any different with us? They had a definite instrument then – the human voice. Just because these learned men are groping in the dark for the beginnings of music or, better put, they know nothing about it, it does not mean that it didn’t exist, not by any stretch of the imagination.’

  With what thoroughness did my friend always go about a task. All the same, his predisposition to research a thing to its very depths often brought me to the verge of desperation. There would be no peace until he had exhausted every possible avenue and finally encountered the void, and even then he would put a question mark at its entrance. I can imagine how such an attitude would have made all the professors at the Academy cheerfully imagine strangling him.

  Finally he settled for opening the Reichs-Orchestra programme with Bach, progressing through Gluck and Händel to Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, after which would follow the romantic composers. Everything would be crowned by Bruckner, all of whose symphonies would be included in the repertoire. As for modern, and primarily unknown composers, he would go his own way in the choice. In any case he rejected out of hand the guidelines set by the Vienna music critics, whom he pitched into at every opportunity.

  Since the beginning of the Reichs-Orchestra project, Adolf had carried with him a little notebook in which, after every concert he visited, he would enter all details about the work, composer, conductor and so on, and follow it with his own opinion. The highest praise that any concert could receive would be his endorsement ‘will be included in the repertoire of our orchestra’.

  For a long period I was unable to shake off my attachment to the mobile Reichs-Orchestra. The gramophone had made its debut and, monstrous, scratchy device that it was, it had nevertheless opened the door to ‘mechanical’ music. Wireless was still in its infancy but it was already clear that gramophone records and wireless ensured that ‘performed’ music would serve the interests of the ‘mechanical’ music industry in due course. This was the basic question which concerned all people who truly loved the art, and was what my friend was trying to resolve with the mobile Reichs-Orchestra, bringing high-class symphony music directly to the people wherever they lived, not recorded on machinery.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Unmilitary Interlude

  One fine day – it must have been about the beginning of April 1908 – I received a letter. As Adolf never got any letters, I used to be discreet about mine to spare his feelings, but he noticed at once that this letter must have some special significance. ‘What’s the matter, Gustl?’ he asked sympathetically. I replied simply, ‘Here, read it.’

  I can still see how his face changed colour, how his eyes rook on that extraordinary glitter which used to herald an outburst of rage. Then he started raving.

  ‘You are not to register on any account, Gustl,’ he screamed, ‘You’re a fool if you go there. The best thing to do is tear up this stupid p
iece of paper!’ I jumped up and snatched my calling-up papers away from him before in his fury he tore them to pieces. I was so upset myself that Adolf soon calmed down. Striding angrily between door and piano, he immediately drew up a plan to help me out of my present predicament. ‘It’s not even certain yet whether you will be passed fit,’ he remarked more calmly. ‘After all, it’s only a year since you nearly went under with that bad attack of pneumonia. If you are unfit, as I hope, all this excitement will have been in vain.’

  Adolf suggested that I should go to Linz and present myself before the medical board according to instructions. In case I should be passed fit, I should forthwith cross the border into Germany secretly at Passau. On no account was I to serve in the Austro-Hungarian Army. This moribund Habsburg Empire did not deserve a single soldier, he declared. As my friend was nine months younger than I, he did not expect his call-up until the following year, 1909, but as was now evident, he had already made up his mind in this respect and was determined not to serve in the Austrian Army. Perhaps he was quite pleased to use me as a guinea pig and find out how his suggested solution would really work out in practice.

  The next morning I went to the director of the Conservatoire and showed him my conscription papers. He explained to me that, as a member of the Conservatoire, I was obliged to serve only one year, but he advised me that as the son of a businessman I should register with the Reserve. There I should only have to do eight weeks training and later on three further periods of four weeks. I asked him what he thought of the idea of my going to Germany to escape military service altogether. He was shocked by this unusual suggestion and advised me against it forcefully.