At the Olympic Concert, the Berlin Philharmonic is premiering the musical medalists. The concert begins with Strauss’s “Olympic Hymn,” performed, so to speak, out of competition. The 20,000 members of the audience won’t find any other such famous names on their concert programs. The majority of reputable contemporary composers are boycotting the Olympics for political reasons; other refuse to write works for mass spectacles. Thus only nine of the forty-nine Olympic nations have even taken part in the music competition. The international jury consists largely of Nazi flunkies, augmented by the Finnish composer Yrjö Kilpinen and his Italian counterpart Francesco Malipiero, and their preferences are hardly surprising. All three medals for vocal works are given to German composers. In the symphonic category, the Bavarian Werner Egk takes gold, while silver and bronze go to Italy’s Lino Liviabella and the Czech Jaroslav Křika. No medals are awarded for chamber music. That simplifies things. There’s little foreign presence to disrupt this festival of German self-congratulation.
The concert concludes with Paul Höffer’s choral piece “Olympic Oath.” The final note has hardly faded when Carl Diem leaves his seat and hurries off. His chauffeur is waiting, with the engine running. They race at near-record speed down the Avus motorway to Pfaueninsel island, where Joseph Goebbels’s Olympic party is already in full swing.
* * *
*
The figure of the day is 320,000 or, to be more precise, 320,000 reichsmarks (800,000 dollars). That’s the cost of the party Goebbels is throwing in the name of the Reich government on Pfaueninsel island. Two comparisons suffice to illustrate the value of that sum in 1936. Two-thirds of all German taxpayers earn 1,500 marks or less this year, making 320,000 marks the equivalent of 213 annual incomes. Or in different terms, Goebbels is spending the average monthly worker’s wage of 118 marks on each of his 2,700 guests. No official figure will ever be released for how much Germany is spending on hosting the 1936 Summer Games. As the American ambassador William E. Dodd and others note, the overall sum must be enormous. But nobody dares ask that question publicly.
Goebbels’s go-to man for festivities is Benno von Arent, a trained costume designer, self-educated architect and hard-core Nazi. Hitler too appreciates Arent’s work and regularly contracts him for special projects such as the design of new diplomatic uniforms, which are covered in so much kitschy gold ornamentation that they are also being used in operettas like Zar und Zimmermann and Die Fledermaus. Hitler loves them. Since early 1936, Arent has enjoyed the pompous title “Reich Set Designer,” an appellation gleefully mocked by salt-of-the-earth Berliners.
For Goebbels’s festive finale to the Olympic Games, Arent has come up with a superlative party backdrop intended to transform a small island in the River Havel southwest of Berlin into an exotic, fairy-tale realm. To allow guests to reach their destination without getting their feet wet, a company of engineers have built a pontoon bridge across the Havel. Once they set foot on the island, invitees are welcomed by pages entirely dressed in white who show them the way to the party. The first views are lovely. Thousands of butterfly-shaped lamps decorate the treetops, bathing the tree trunks in muted green. In the center of the island is a clearing, where the party proper is being held. Martha Dodd will later recall festively decorated tables, rivers of wine and a menu with never-ending courses of expensive delicacies. An orchestra plays classical music melodies, and dancers perform atop a raised platform, one of several stages. For later in the evening, Goebbels has engaged the popular bandleader Oscar Joost and his swing orchestra who usually play in the luxurious Eden Hotel.
Joseph and Magda Goebbels personally welcome their many guests of honor, including Martha Dodd and her father William, who is revolted at having to shake Goebbels’s hand and relieved not to be seated at the hosts’ table. The guests also include the young actress Lída Baarová and her boyfriend, the actor Gustav Fröhlich. Goebbels has met Baarová briefly once or twice in his capacity as propaganda minister, which includes responsibility for films. Tonight the two will become better acquainted, and Goebbels will shower Baarová with compliments. Within a few weeks, he’ll be head over heels in love with her.
Chips Channon calls Goebbels’s party “the last of the fantastic entertainments, and in a way the most impressive, though it lacked the elegance and chic of Ribbentrop’s and the extravagance of Göring’s.” By this point in the Olympic festivities, it’s no longer easy to wow one’s guests. The high point of the evening is a gigantic midnight fireworks display. At first the guests marvel at the pyrotechnicians’ skill and admire the spectrum of colors in the nighttime sky. But as the spectacle goes on and on—Dodd and Channon both put its duration at a half an hour—the crowd grows uneasy. The endless massive explosions remind many of the guests of artillery fire. Finally, the din comes to an end with a gigantic concluding boom that turns the nocturnal heavens blood-red. It’s hard to image a clearer statement by the German government that after the end of the Olympics the period of political moderation will be over.
EXCERPT FROM THE DAILY INSTRUCTIONS OF THE REICH PRESS CONFERENCE: “From the individual local state offices, newspapers will receive guidelines about their concluding commentaries on the Olympic Games. As a general principle, it is announced today that there should be neither any hysterical exclamations of triumph nor any diminishment of German successes. The achievements of all countries are to be honored equitably. If Germany leads the final medals table ahead of the United States, it should be pointed out that Germany will do everything possible to maintain the success it has achieved without the medals being used as a way of displaying German arrogance. Comparisons to German achievements at previous Olympic Games are permitted.”
During the closing ceremony of the Olympic Games a cathedral of light is projected into the evening sky. “Never have I seen a show so minutely planned into the very last detail.” Credit 16
Sunday, 16 August 1936
REICH WEATHER SERVICE FORECAST FOR BERLIN: Partly cloudy skies, warmer weather continues. Dry with slight, swirling breezes and some early morning fog. Highs of 25°C.
Bad news for Leon Henri Dajou. The sale of the Quartier Latin has fallen through at the last minute. Actually the two parties had agreed on all the details, and the deal was supposed to be completed today, but the two buyers, Max Apelt and Bruno Limburg, got cold feet. All the notary can do is to communicate the withdrawal of their offer. It’s possible that Apelt and Limburg have been tipped off about the investigation of Dajou for various cases of money smuggling. Perhaps they were unsettled by Dajou’s insistence that the not inconsiderable purchase price of 60,000 reichsmarks (150,000 dollars) be paid in cash. Whatever the reason, Dajou’s situation has taken a dramatic turn for the worse. His plan to flee Germany has failed—so what will become of him and his establishment? It is imperative that he keep his nerve. Dajou decides, for the time being, to continue running his business. As a Nicaraguan citizen, he tells himself, he’s safe, and he’ll be able to handle Customs Secretary Schulz, who has summoned him for questioning on 20 August. If the worst comes to the worst, he can ask one of his regular customers, Berlin Police President Wolf-Heinrich von Helldorff, to come to the rescue. What Leib Moritz Kohn alias Leon Henri Dajou doesn’t realize is that the money-smuggling suspicions are no longer his main worry. The Gestapo is hot on the trail of his Jewish past.
DAILY REPORT OF THE STATE POLICE OFFICE, BERLIN: “The 241st Police Precinct reports that at 10 a.m. on 16 August 1936, civilians found 250 Communist hate pamphlets in Forestry Sections 12, 13 and 17.”
* * *
*
Thomas Wolfe has just finished breakfast when there’s a knock at his door and Heinz Ledig comes in. Wolfe is in a hurry. He doesn’t want to miss the start of competition at the Olympic Stadium, and he should already be on his way. He goes to the sink, which is installed in his room’s wardrobe, opens the doors and turns on a light. While he brushes his teeth and shaves, Ledig stands at the window, staring down at Kurfürstendamm.
>
He will be heading to Tyrol with Thea Voelcker for a few days, Wolfe tells his friend while energetically scrubbing his teeth. Tyrol? Ledig looks at Wolfe incredulously, as if to say: why would you take a person like that to northern Italy? The accusing glare reminds Wolfe of the unbearable looks his mother used to give him as a child. He’s met up repeatedly with Thea in the past few days, Wolfe adds with a hint of rebelliousness. She’s really very nice, and he’s looking forward to the trip with her to the Alps. “So you’ve forgotten your irritation at the ‘pig’s face’?” Ledig wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. Wolfe is impulsive and quick-tempered, and such a remark is bound to make him flare up. So he doesn’t say anything at all. He senses that Wolfe is trying to come up with a harmless excuse for the trip, but that there’s really another reason why his friend wants to get out of Berlin.
Ledig puffs on his cigarette and blows the smoke up toward the ceiling. He’s trying to get away from the bloody Nazis, Wolfe suddenly exclaims. He’s had so many beautiful and fascinating experiences in the past two weeks and at the same time heard so many terrible stories that he needs time to process his thoughts. He has to sort things out, work them through, Wolfe says. Maybe he’ll put his experiences of Berlin into one of his books.
Ledig is electrified by the idea. “You must tell zese dret-ful people vhat zey are…” he urges Wolfe. “I haf a little fantasy…Ven I feel bad—ven I see all zese dret-ful people valking up and down in ze Kurfürstendamm and sitting at ze tables and putting food into zeir faces—zen I imagine zat I haf a little ma-chine gun. So I take zis little ma-chine gun and go up and down, and ven I see one of zese dret-ful people I go—ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!” Wolfe has to laugh at the idea of his haggard little mate Ledig carrying out a bloody massacre on Kurfürstendamm. But Ledig is deadly serious. He can’t write books, and the machine gun only exists in his imagination. As a writer, Wolfe himself possesses a more effective weapon of self-defense, Ledig continues. But he must be careful. Ledig warns him not to say anything that will anger the Nazis.
Wolfe stares at his friend in disbelief. It’s now his turn to be disapproving, since for him resistance and appeasement are mutually exclusive. “A man must write what he must write,” he says portentously. “A man must do what he must do.” Ledig lights his umpteenth cigarette of the day and takes several deep drags before declaring, “You are one big fool.” Ledig crosses the room, sits down, stands back up again. He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray, only to immediately fish the next one from the packet. “You can write everysing you need to write wizout zese Party people coming down on you,” he says. “You do not need to mention zem. And if you do mention zem, and do not say nice sings, zen ve can no longer read you, and you cannot come back.” Ledig asks Wolfe if he wants the Reich Writers Chamber to ban his works. Of course not, the writer answers. He loves Berlin and wants to come back again, often. “You and I and all the friends we know…” he promises, “we’ll sit together drinking, we’ll stay up all night and dance around the trees and go to Aenne Maenz at three o’clock in the morning for chicken soup. All of it will be the same.” But Ledig knows that he has failed to convince his friend to censor himself—and that nothing will ever be the same again. He looks at the clock and tells Wolfe that he needs to leave now if he wants to get to the Olympic Stadium in time. Then he stubs out his latest cigarette and say to Wolfe with a sad smile: “Vell, zen, you must do vhat you must do. But you are one big fool.”
* * *
*
William Edward Dodd has had enough of the Olympics. The U.S. ambassador may have only returned to Germany a week ago, having missed the first seven days of the spectacle, but ever since he’s been back, his life has consisted of nothing but appointments and receptions. Professor Dodd would much prefer to be poring over his history books. The social and diplomatic duties attending the Games are a nightmare. Unlike André François-Poncet, he feels revolted whenever he has anything to do personally with the Nazi leadership. The antipathy is mutual. Whereas Hitler has nothing bad to say about the French ambassador, he considers “old Dodd” nothing short of an “idiot.” Dodd would like nothing better than to avoid the Nazis entirely, but that’s impossible for a diplomat—to say nothing of the American ambassador to Germany. So Dodd has gritted his teeth and gone to various Olympic festivities, called upon Ribbentrop and Göring, and yesterday attended Goebbels’s party. The memory of the fireworks still makes him feel queasy.
The Olympic closing ceremony today is another diplomatic chore. Around 1 p.m., Dodd gets in a limousine waiting in front of his villa with his wife and his daughter, Martha. In his diary, he describes seeing countless flags of Germany and other nations as the car makes the 7-mile-journey from Tiergarten park in central Berlin to the Olympic Stadium. Dodd estimates that 100,000 SS and SA men line the route in tightly packed rows. After arriving at the Olympic Stadium, the Dodds take their seats at the front of the diplomatic box. Other ambassadors and foreign VIPs like Sir Henry Channon and his wife Lady Honor Guinness are already there. Hitler is expected to appear shortly in the “Führer’s box” overhead.
Although Hitler has no official function on the final day of the Olympic Games, he’s still the center of attention. As he enters the arena, the so-called Führer pennant is raised. Dodd is chilled at the sight of over 100,000 people taking to their feet to salute one individual. After Hitler sits down, the last athletic chapter of the XI Summer Olympic Games commences: the finals of the equestrian events.
The German team is leading the competition, thanks in no small measure to First Lieutenant Konrad von Wangenheim. Yesterday, the 26-year-old and his horse Kurfürst fell during the eventing, and Wangenheim broke his left collar bone. Despite the painful injury, he got back in the saddle and finished his ride. Understandably, doctors have advised Wangenheim not to compete in today’s jumping, but he’s having none of their advice. A gasp goes through the stadium when the spectators see him with his shoulder in a sling sitting atop his horse and riding out into the course. At first everything goes smoothly, but just after the halfway point, the scene takes a dramatic turn. Kurfürst falls while going around a sharp bend and lies on the ground, motionless. Many of the spectators fear that the horse has died. But suddenly the gelding regains its feet, and in accordance with the rules Wangenheim gets back in the saddle without help and completes his ride. This coup de main wins the hearts of the crowd and seals the gold medal for Germany.
There’s only one person in the stands who refuses to join in the admiring applause. “For hours we watched the competitors, saw the humiliation of England, in a field where she surely ought to excel, and witnessed the German and other countries’ ‘victories,’ ” Chips Channon confides in his diary. It’s not Britain’s day, with the equestrian team earning only a meager team bronze in the eventing. Disgusted, Chips begins paying more attention to the athletes’ interactions with the Führer than to the action down below. “As each horseman rode into the arena, he smartly saluted Hitler, who always lifted his hand in return. We saw him all the time in the distance and he seemed amiable and enjoying himself.”
Konrad von Wangenheim’s heroism is a gift to the Nazi propaganda machine. Newspaper writers immediately begin composing paeans to the young man’s “willingness to sacrifice,” “comradely spirit” and “courageousness.” These are all qualities that Hitler expects to find in Germany’s soldiers. By this point, he is already determined to go to war.
* * *
*
12-Uhr-Blatt newspaper announces the setting of a new record: Berlin’s public transport system, the BVG, has serviced almost 62.6 million passengers in the past twenty days.
* * *
*
Werner Finck is an actor and a cabaret artist, but for Joseph Goebbels he’s tantamount to an enemy of the state. For years Finck’s plays on words have infuriated the propaganda minister, even though Finck avoids voicing open resistance to the Nazi regime. His gift for seemingly accidental, passing remarks ma
kes Goebbels see red. Earlier in his career, with his face the very picture of innocence, Finck regularly took to the stage of the Katakombe, the cabaret theater he himself founded, to poke fun at the Third Reich and its representatives. Humor can be a particularly effective weapon.
“As far as proof of Aryan identity is concerned, I’ve always—knock on wood—had good luck,” ran one of Finck’s routines. “The only exception was a family member of mine from medieval times, a squire named Lewinski. Fortunately the church in his parish burned down, and no disadvantageous information survived.” In another routine, he told the audience that he had planted an oak tree in honor of Hitler and was very satisfied at how it had grown. “A couple of months ago, it was very small,” Finck said. “A bit later is was knee-height, and now I’m up to my neck in it.”
Jokes like this went too far for Goebbels, who in 1934 had the Katakombe closed and Finck arrested and sent to the Esterwagen concentration camp, where he was confined along with the left-wing journalist Carl von Ossietsky and the Social Democrat Julius Leber. But fortune smiled on Finck. In early July 1935 he was released at the behest of Hermann Göring, although he was prohibited from working for a year. “Back then, I involuntarily had a lot of free time,” Finck later recalled. “What was I to do? I got married.” Finck’s ban on working elapsed just as the Olympic Games started. The cabaret artist is enormously popular in Berlin, and the Nazis want to profit from that. Finck is allowed to write a daily column entitled “Short Olympic Conference” about everyday life in Berlin for the Berliner Tageblatt newspaper.
Berlin 1936 Page 18