Berlin 1936

by Oliver Hilmes

  Thomas Wolfe has arrived in the stadium, accompanied by a pretty brunette. Wolfe met Martha Dodd, the daughter of the American ambassador to Germany, when he was in Berlin last year. Martha has been living with her parents in the German capital for three years. William Edward Dodd, her father, is an intellectual—a renowned historian and university professor—but not a seasoned diplomat. After a number of candidates had declined President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s offer to take over the U.S. embassy in Berlin, the choice fell to Dodd, who had studied in Leipzig, spoke fluent German and was a great admirer of German culture. Ernst von Salomon, who worked for Dodd at the embassy, has quipped: “Across the pond he’s considered one of the world’s leading experts on German history—pre-1870, that is.” It’s hardly a disservice to Dodd to term him a last-ditch diplomatic solution. He felt much the same way himself. Instead of coming to Berlin, he would have vastly preferred to stay on his small farm in Virginia and write his multivolume history of the American South.

  Twenty-seven-year-old Martha accompanies her father on social occasions. She enjoys hosting parties and receptions in the embassy, which always attract a colorful array of journalists, artists, military officers, diplomats and secret service agents. Much to her father’s dismay, Martha has a reputation of being open to advances from the male sex. Her lovers are said to include dubious figures like Rudolf Diels, the first head of the Gestapo, as well as Hitler’s friend and the Nazi Party’s foreign press secretary Ernst “Putzi” Hanfstaengl. It was he who arranged a meeting between Martha Dodd and Hitler in Berlin’s Hotel Kaisershof. “Hitler needs a woman,” Hanfstaengl told her. “And Martha, you are that woman!” But Martha felt differently. Instead of getting involved with Hitler, she started a passionate affair with Boris Vinogradov, the first secretary at the Soviet embassy.

  On this Wednesday evening in August 1936, Wolfe and Martha Dodd take their places in the diplomats’ box, to which the ambassador’s daughter has access. William Edward Dodd is returning from a trip to the United States and won’t be back for a few days. Without her paternal chaperone, Martha is hanging all over her “Tommy,” as she calls the writer. Wolfe seems to have no objections. Martha, he will later joke to a friend, fluttered around his groin like a butterfly. And for the moment, he seems to have forgotten all about his Valkyrie Thea Voelcker.

  It’s Wolfe’s first time in the Olympic Stadium, and he’s overwhelmed by it all. He tells Martha Dodd that it’s the most perfect and beautiful arena he has ever seen. From his seat, Wolfe has a prime view not only of the sporting competitions but also of the more elevated Führer’s box. If he cranes his neck slightly, he can make out Hitler fidgeting in his seat. The little fellow to Hitler’s left, Wolfe thinks, must be Joseph Goebbels. The man in the white suit sitting behind the Führer, Martha Dodd says, is Reich Sports Leader Hans von Tschammer und Osten. And who’s the old guy with no hair? Wolfe asks. That’s Theodor Lewald, and he’s the chairman of the German Olympic Organizing Committee. Wolfe can’t help staring at Hitler. Then the loudspeakers announce the start of the next event, and he turns his attention back to what’s happening in front of him.

  Two Americans, two Dutchmen, a Swiss and a Canadian are competing in the final of the 200-meter race. Again the spectators fall completely silent and you can hear the proverbial pin drop. Then the starting gun fires, and immediately a cheer goes up. Jesse Owens takes an early lead and maintains his advantage until the home stretch. He breaks the tape at the finish line 4 yards ahead of his compatriot Mack Robinson. The entire stadium anxiously waits for the winning time. After a few seconds, the speaker intones: 20.7 seconds—a new Olympic record. Wolfe jumps from his seat and cries out in celebration. His jubilation is so loud, his enthusiasm at Owens’s third gold medal so primeval, that people sitting nearby start to stare, half in fear and half in amusement. With the Führer’s box only a few yards away, Hitler, too, can hear Wolfe’s joyous whoops. Martha Dodd watches Hitler rise, bend slightly over the balustrade and search with furrowed brows for the miscreant. Wolfe is a giant of a man anyway, and you can’t miss him now, standing in the diplomats’ box. For a few seconds the two men’s gazes meet. Hitler glares at the writer as if to punish him with his eyes, but Wolfe couldn’t care less. “Owens was black as tar,” he will say later, “but what the hell, it was our team and I thought he was wonderful. I was proud of him, so I yelled.”

  The president of the International Olympic Committee, Henri de Baillet-Latour, at the Reich government’s official reception at the Berlin State Opera. “The Olympians look like the directors of a flea circus.” Credit 6

  Thursday, 6 August 1936

  REICH WEATHER SERVICE FORECAST FOR BERLIN: Gradually settled conditions as westerly winds die down. Temperatures remain cool, and skies increasingly overcast. Possible light showers in the afternoon. Highs of 18°C.

  The usual hustle and bustle is already underway on Kurfürstendamm when Thomas Wolfe draws back the curtains of his hotel room and opens the window. He loves it when the noise blows into the room like a breeze. Every city has its own sound. Berlin is different to New York, and New York different to Paris. Wolfe possesses a fine ear for urban acoustics, such as the sounds of the three trams that pass by the hotel every few minutes. As Wolfe stands at his window, watching the cream-colored tramcars, it occurs to him that they are almost silent. Every now and then sparks crackle on the wires above, but that’s it. The cars glide along the tracks as though part of a model railway set. There’s nothing like the din created by American streetcars. Everything works perfectly in Germany, he says to himself with a smile: “Even the little cobblestones that paved the space between the tracks were as clean and spotless as if each of them had just been gone over thoroughly with a whisk broom, and the strips of grass that bordered the tracks were as green and velvety as Oxford sward.”

  If Wolfe leans only slightly out of his window, he can see the terrace of the Alte Klause, a popular watering hole and restaurant right next to Hotel am Zoo. He’ll be meeting Heinz Ledig there in the afternoon for a couple of drinks. The new day in Berlin can get underway. Wolfe takes a deep breath as if to inhale something of the big city. There’s a knock at his door. Wolfe shuts the window and calls out, “Come in!” It’s the same procedure every morning. After a couple of seconds the door opens, and a room waiter pushes a gently clinking service trolley into the room. “Good morning, sir!” he says. The young man speaks in the firm voice of someone who’s proud that he knows a couple of words of English, even though his German accent brings a smile to Wolfe’s face. Politely bowing, the waiter transfers a plate, a coffee cup, silverware, a serviette, a pot of hot chocolate, a basket of rolls and croissants, and butter and jam from the trolley to Wolfe’s table. The young man must have practiced these moves quite a lot: he always positions everything in exactly the same place. The serviette and silverware are in their appointed spot to the right of the plate, the bread basket is in the middle of the table, and next to it is the hot chocolate. It would never occur to him to place the rolls to the right of the plate or position the jam where the butter is supposed to go. The whole procedure only takes two minutes, and always concludes with a polite “If you please, sir.” The waiter leaves the room as unobtrusively as he had entered it. Just before he closes the door he says, “Dank you ferry much, sur,” which never ceases to amuse Wolfe.

  He has finished breakfast and his morning toilet routine and is getting ready to leave the hotel, when he comes across the newspaper that Ledig gave him the day before in Café Bristol. Flipping through it, he finds the interview, but before he can start to decipher the German text, he can’t help but mutter “Sweinsgesicht.” He’s appalled: Thea Voelcker’s portrait makes his face look like a pig’s—and upset as he is, he doesn’t realize that his German now sounds as amusing as the waiter’s English a short while ago. In a foul mood, he makes his way over to the Alte Klause, where Ledig is already waiting for him. Normally Wolfe always has a friendly word for the lady at reception and the bellboy
who holds the door open for him. But today he passes by in stony silence. America is not amused.

  In front of the Alte Klause, Wolfe scans the people sitting on the terrace, locating Ledig after a few seconds. Wolfe asks him whether he’s seen Voelcker’s sketch. Before Ledig can answer, he blurts out that in the considered opinion of his mother, he’s the best-looking one in his family. How dare that blond woman depict him like that? He has no interest whatsoever in seeing the Valkyrie again. Gesticulating and cursing loudly, he drags Ledig by the hand in front of the reflecting glass of a shop window and asks: “Do I have a Sweinsgesicht?” Ledig would love to calm his friend down and reassure him that no, he doesn’t have a Sweinsgesicht. He’d love to agree that the sketch is a bad likeness and that the blond woman is a poor artist. Last but not least, he’d love to point out that they shouldn’t overdramatize the situation, that it’s only a drawing and that the interview, in which Wolfe cut a good figure, is the main thing. But Mr. Wolfe doesn’t want to hear any of this. Suddenly, he starts blaming the Gestapo: yes, he is convinced that Himmler or some other sinister figure must have forced Voelcker to depict him in such an unflattering fashion. You couldn’t put anything past the Nazis, Wolfe rants. Maybe they’re blackmailing Thea? Now Wolfe’s mood changes completely. Poor Thea, he wails. What have they done to her? Wolfe insists that she be invited to the party Rowohlt is throwing tomorrow in his honor. Ledig promises that she will be, shaking his head as he does. He’s used to Wolfe’s mood swings, but this rapid-fire back and forth is too much for him.

  As if that wasn’t enough, Wolfe now wants to go to Potsdam with Ledig and his girlfriend. He’s never been to Potsdam, Wolfe says in a stentorian tone, and today’s the perfect day for a trip. So off they go. But the trip turns into a disaster. “He was in inner turmoil, and he took it out on us,” Heinz will recall. “He showed no interest in anything, and in the end he asked us why we had dragged him along to see all this austere royal Prussian pomp.”

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  *

  Whenever the National Socialists want to impress a foreign guest, they put him up at the Hotel Eden. The establishment on the corner of Budapester Strasse and Nürnberger Strasse is one of the most luxurious and expensive places to reside in Berlin. The formal five o’clock tea on the rooftop terrace, where dance bands from Germany and abroad play their tunes, is legendary. There, waiters in white tuxedos serve tiny triangular cucumber sandwiches and opalescent cocktails. There’s a minigolf course on the terrace too. Dancing or playing minigolf high above the roofs of the surrounding houses is the height of cosmopolitan swank in the summer of 1936.

  Sir Harry Channon and his wife, Lady Honor Guinness, who arrived at the Eden yesterday, have just left their suite. The couple are the guests of Hitler’s foreign policy adviser Joachim von Ribbentrop, who is sparing no effort to spoil them. Channon has even been assigned a personal aide-de-camp as well as a limousine with a ranking member of the SA for a chauffeur. Channon and his wife are very susceptible to such expressions of thoughtfulness.

  Sir Henry—his nickname is “Chips”—is no ordinary visitor. Born in Chicago, he distanced himself from America at an early age and pledged his loyalty to the British Empire. He’s been a British citizen since mid-1933. In 1935 he was elected to the House of Commons. The Tory politician also dabbles in writing. His biography of the Wittelsbach dynasty, The Ludwigs of Bavaria, was even translated into German and garnered positive reviews. The aristocrat is a man of culture and education, and a polished, intelligent conversationalist, full of charm and wit. Some people dismiss Channon as a perfumed dandy and a lounge lizard—an impression that’s not entirely false. His marriage to Lady Guinness, twelve years his junior and from the Irish brewing dynasty, is probably nothing more than a smokescreen. It’s a safe bet that Sir Henry is homosexual.

  “Chips” isn’t the only influential Englishman who’s accepted Ribbentrop’s invitation to the Olympic Games. Press magnate Harold Harmsworth, owner of the Daily Mail and the Daily Mirror, his competitor Max Aitken, owner of the Evening Standard and the Daily Express, and the highly decorated General Francis Rodd have all taken up residence in the Eden. The presence of these Englishmen in the German capital reflects Hitler’s political ambition. The Führer dreams of an alliance between London and Berlin. Hitler not only wants to drive a wedge between the British and the French, he also hopes to gain the necessary leeway to carry out his plans for expansion in eastern Europe. The winds seem to be blowing in his favor. A number of British Conservatives are pleading, in the aftermath of the Depression and in the face of the crisis in Spain and the incipient civil war there, for a rapprochement with Germany. And one of the leading Germanophiles on the Thames is Sir Henry “Chips” Channon. It’s no wonder that Ribbentrop has rolled out the red carpet for him and his wife.

  As a so-called appeaser, Channon is the polar opposite of Robert Vansittart. The 55-year-old Sir Robert, nicknamed “Van,” has served as permanent undersecretary of state for foreign affairs and is regarded as one of the most influential British diplomats. He is utterly mistrustful of the Third Reich. For many years, Vansittart has warned against Hitler, arguing that he is not a man to be trusted and that he will plunge Europe into war sooner or later. It is therefore considered a great coup that Ribbentrop has been able to lure Vansittart and his wife, Sarita, to the Berlin Olympics. No one had reckoned with that. Paris views the Vansittarts’ visit with great concern.

  Officially Lord and Lady Vansittart are on a private holiday. Cecil, her son from a previous marriage, is an absolute sports fanatic, Sarita states in an interview, and was particularly keen on coming to the German capital. What’s more, the trip is an opportunity for her to see her sister Frances, the wife of the British ambassador to Germany, Sir Eric Phipps. Whatever the reasons given, Van’s fourteen-day visit to Nazi Germany has enormous political significance. He may be officially on holiday, but the diplomat is meeting for personal talks with Hitler, German Foreign Minister Konstantin von Neurath, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Göring and Ribbentrop. Vansittart sees his counterparts from the German Foreign Ministry, receives entrepreneurs and journalists, visits the Olympic Stadium and attends numerous receptions and parties. The Vansittarts’ presence in Berlin is the political talk of the town.

  This afternoon, Sir Robert is scheduled to meet Goebbels. The propaganda minister is initially skeptical about his visitor. “He was an overly nervous gentleman who was clever but not particularly energetic,” Goebbels will write in his diary. “We still have a lot of convincing to do with him, but without doubt he can be won over. I worked on him for an hour.” At the end of their meeting, Goebbels was sure, Vansittart had been “deeply impressed…I enlightened him.”

  Hitler’s chief ideologue, Alfred Rosenberg, claims to have been told extraordinary things by Vansittart: “Along with all Britons, he’s very angry about the Negroes from the United States, as they’re also putting the English to shame at the Olympics. I laughed and asked: ‘Why do you have these “racial prejudices”?’ With good reason Vansittart has always been and is still considered our enemy. Catholic and Francophile. Now, because of Spain, this smug gentleman seems to have some doubts about the wisdom of his views. I tried to get something out of his wife concerning rumors of Jewish ancestry. When she too bitterly complained about the black runners from the United States, I said that they represented a general danger for the USA: a pool of reserves for the Communists. And that the Jews would finance this black, Communist revolt. I was astonished when she answered: ‘You’re right.’ ”

  Is this a case of trickery? Is Vansittart flattering his hosts? What is certain is that Sir Robert is genuinely impressed by what he sees in Berlin. The organization of the Games, the athletics field with its many newly constructed buildings, the athletic achievements of the German team, the brilliant receptions and the many expressions of regard, large and small, make quite an impression on the diplomat. “These tense, intense people are going to make us look like a C nation,” Vansittart wr
ites in a confidential report. Of all the Nazi leaders, he gets along best with Goebbels. “I found much charm in him—a limping, eloquent, slip of a Jacobin, ‘quick as a whip,’ and often, I doubt not, as cutting,” opines the diplomat. Vansittart also believes that Goebbels is a calculating fellow and thus someone with whom Britain can negotiate. “My wife and I liked him and his wife at once.”

  The Nazis are at great pains to portray their regime as peace-loving and reliable. This illusion is so seductive that Vansittart begins to question his original stance. Perhaps he’s been wrong about Hitler? What if the leaders of the Third Reich aren’t really warmongers? Vansittart is pensive—and in this respect what Goebbels and Rosenberg write about the visitor from Britain is true. The regime’s elaborate charm offensive seems to be paying off. But then there’s an incident that allows the British diplomat to see through the carefully constructed façade. Vansittart and Ribbentrop are having lunch. They chat, eat, drink and discuss the possibilities for future cooperation. But in the middle of the conversation, Ribbentrop seems to lose control of himself for a couple of minutes and blurts out what he really thinks. Vansittart will describe this moment as follows: “He remarked on one occasion that ‘if England doesn’t give Germany the possibility to live,’ then there would eventually be war between them, and one of them would be annihilated. I was wise enough not to ask him what he meant by it.”