My Battle Against Hitler

by Dietrich von Hildebrand,John Henry Crosby

  About six hundred students were present, of which very few belonged to the humanities division. They wanted to beat me up. Instead, they were greeted by the police who forced them out of the hall with batons. The students began singing “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” and the Horst-Wessel Lied, but they were driven out of the university, where they then dispersed. Baron Stein then announced the new location for my lecture and that entry would be limited to those invited by me and those in the division of humanities.

  None of the protestors were allowed to enter, though a few Nazis, who were in this division, did manage to enter. These were the same students who, disappointed and enraged, had then stormed out of the lecture. They had expected me to deliver a highly political lecture, which would have given them the chance to protest. My purely philosophical remarks bored them, of course, all the more so because they surely did not understand a word of what I said.

  My debut at the University of Vienna was thus very tumultuous. But I was happy I had insisted that the lecture take place. I decided to ask several young men, who were members of a legitimist student organization and friends of Franzi, to attend the actual opening session of my class, which took place three weeks later. This was to protect me against any further harassment, unlikely as this seemed following the failure of the first demonstration.

  It was just after this inaugural lecture that I traveled with Ludi to Rome. The evening before our departure, I had a lengthy discussion with Berliner, whom I met with Ludi in a café. Berliner began by reiterating what he expected from my information-gathering mission to Rome. Apparently he had great respect for the Church—as a moral and spiritual force, though for him the Church was, of course, a merely human institution. But because he considered the Church to be a great power, it was very important for him to know from reliable sources what the climate of opinion was in Rome toward National Socialism, including what people there saw as the likely future of Nazism. At the same time, he hoped that I would inform key people in the Vatican about Austria’s situation.

  Having discussed the trip, I broached the subject of the Ständestaat and its financial difficulties. I hoped to be able to convince him to contribute 600 schillings per month. This was too much, he countered: the most he could put at our disposal was 480 schillings per month. He understood how vital the continued existence of the journal was for the struggle against National Socialism, and so was ready to do something for it. But 480 schillings per month, around 5,700 annually, was the maximum. Even so, I was very relieved to secure his pledge.*4 The next day, Ludi and I made the journey to Rome.

  Just before or after his trip to Rome, the referendum in the Saarland was held. The Saarland was a small area to the southwest of Germany, administered from 1920 to 1935 by France. Many opponents of the Nazis had fled there. Ninety-one percent of the population voted to join Germany.

  Schuschnigg had decided to defend Germany’s right to the Saarland. This disastrous decision was in part motivated by his “national” sentiments toward Germany. The Saarland was inhabited by Germans, by people who spoke German; thus Germany was well within its rights to demand that these Germans belong to Germany, at least, so Schuschnigg thought. Instead of seeing that the National Socialist regime was Germany’s greatest enemy, and that it was fortunate for Germany if Germans there were living outside of the Third Reich, Schuschnigg allowed himself to be blinded by the notion of a national German state—for an Austrian, a particularly unfortunate error.

  Schuschnigg also mistakenly believed that by making a friendly gesture toward Nazi Germany, i.e., by improving relations between Austria and Germany, he could bring Germany to recognize Austria’s independence. This was a catastrophic error and a compete misjudgment of Hitler’s mindset. Any concession in dealing with such a person only serves to whet their appetite, without in any way changing their stance toward the one making the concession. It is in fact typical of the mindset of totalitarian states, such as Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia, that they make their plans completely independent of the conduct of their opponents. It does not matter whether a country approaches a totalitarian state under friendly or hostile colors; it has absolutely no influence on how the totalitarian state will treat the other.

  Suddenly we noticed that all the newspapers in Austria began expressing hope that the Saarland would vote to be incorporated into the Third Reich. I had no intention of joining this chorus, and we made very clear in our journal our conviction that the people of the Saarland, assuming they were even able to vote freely, would vote for their independence from the Third Reich. Even if they do not vote for incorporation into France, at the very least they would oppose incorporation into the Third Reich. Such a vote would have been of greatest significance, for it would have shown the world that the Nazi regime is not a true representative of the German nation.

  Just at this time, we received a submission for the Ständestaat on a neutral theme from Minister Ludwig, who was clever and smooth-talking. I had to accept it, of course, as I could hardly reject an article from the Minister of the Press, from the man who at any moment could censor us. Being far cleverer and more adept than I at detecting things going on beneath the surface, Klaus immediately grasped Ludwig’s plan: he wanted to publish an article promoting the Schuschnigg position on the Saarland just before the referendum. To prevent this and to protect our journal from being forced into “capitulation,” we did the typesetting on Wednesday instead of Thursday, as usual.

  That Wednesday, Schuschnigg delivered a political speech in the presence of an invited audience. I too had been invited. Upon arriving, I ran into Ludwig, who greeted me very warmly. He thanked me for accepting his article in our previous issue. Then he said, “Here, I have another article for you. I’d ask you to include it in the upcoming issue.” I had no doubt that this was the article which would cause our journal to “capitulate” on the Saarland question. I replied, “I would have been delighted to publish your article, but the typesetting has already been finished. I really have no way of getting it into the upcoming issue.” He was very disappointed.

  Of course, as the referendum was already next Sunday, he did not give me the article for the issue being typeset next week. Once the referendum was over, the article no longer had any significance, as it would cease to be timely. I do not know if Ludwig ever noticed that we had called his bluff and outwitted him, or if he believed that the typesetting had been completed sooner than usual.

  Schuschnigg’s speech was in many ways depressing. While it made clear that he was a noble person, with the best of intentions, it also revealed that he was politically clueless and burdened by German nationalist sympathies and ambiguous ideas about the brotherhood of blood.

  At the end of his lecture, he read a letter that had been sent to him by a German. Written with great warmth, the letter praised Schuschnigg and sent him best wishes for the New Year. The author of the letter was clearly an opponent of National Socialism, who therefore looked to Austria and its struggle against National Socialism with great hope and yearning. But Schuschnigg, who was apparently very happy about the letter, said, “I don’t know whether the sender is a National Socialist or not. Regardless, the letter shows that it is possible to get along with a German.” I could hardly believe my ears!

  When he should have recognized that the letter came from someone who, filled with hope, saw him as the diametrical opposite of National Socialism, that clearly this was someone unhappy about the Nazi regime; when he should also have felt compelled to carry on the uncompromising struggle against National Socialism for the sake of many unfortunate Germans; and when through this letter he should have been strengthened in this struggle, all Schuschnigg could take from the letter was that it was possible to get along with a German (by which he really meant with a National Socialist). The effect was to encourage a certain optimism, as if to say, “Really it isn’t so bad, we can find a modus vivendi.” I began to be increasingly concerned with the politics of Schuschnigg following this lecture.<
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  Von Hildebrand now returns to recollections of his trip to Rome, which took place in early 1935.

  My strongest recollections from this visit are of the audience I had with Secretary of State, Cardinal Pacelli. I had not seen him in a very long time, perhaps even since 1925—so not in ten years. After his previous guest had left, Pacelli came to the door where he greeted me with his charming, kind smile, saying, “E come va, e come va?” (“How is it going, how is it going?”)—this repetition being especially typical of him. As in the past, I was again completely enchanted and delighted by his unique personality. He first asked me how I was doing, and I answered his questions.

  Then I began to speak. “Do you know, Your Eminence, that there was a moment in Germany of the kind that only comes around every three or four centuries, a moment in which millions of Protestants and Socialists would have converted had the bishops in Germany spoken a completely uncompromising “non possumus” toward National Socialism, had they built up a wall against National Socialism and called its crimes by name, had they uttered a total anathema?” He replied, “Indeed, but martyrdom cannot be commanded from Rome. It must come about spontaneously.”

  And then he said to me, “What do you want, when even a good friend of yours is enthusiastic about Hitler?” I knew to whom he was alluding, namely Baron Cramer-Klett.

  So I said, “Yes, and what is worse is that even a friend of Your Eminence, Baron Cramer-Klett, has become enthusiastic for Hitler.” He replied, “Yes, he is the one I had in mind.”

  When I told him about all the terrible deeds done in the name of National Socialism, he said, “You’d be amazed at what I said in my letters to Nuncio Orsenigo*5 I laid it out in black and white. If it comes to a break in relations with Germany, I will publish these letters.” To which I exclaimed, “When will this blessed day come?” Naturally, we spoke to each other in Italian. As I described the situation in Austria, he said, “Indeed, Chancellor Schuschnigg is a courageous person.”

  Before leaving, I said to him, “Eminence, what does the future hold? How will things develop with National Socialism?” He replied, “It looks very serious; it will get bad if the moderate forces within National Socialism don’t gain the upper hand.” “Oh, don’t say this, Eminence!” I cried out. “The moderate elements are the most dangerous. Far better that we have people like Rosenberg,*6 who drop their masks and openly reveal the absolute incompatibility of Nazism with Christian faith, than those who confuse and mislead Catholics by concealing their attack on Christ. It is not a question of moderate or radical. National Socialism in its very substance is filled with the spirit of the Antichrist.” To this he replied, “Yes, you are right. Racism and Christianity are utterly incompatible, like fire and water. There is no room here for peace, there can be no bridge.”

  I was very pleased to hear him speak this way. Upon receiving his blessing, I departed. I was with him for perhaps an hour. Naturally we spoke of many things, but unfortunately this is all I can still remember in any detail. I was satisfied because I could see that he recognized the absolute incompatibility between National Socialism and the Church. But I also could see the incredibly complex and difficult situation of the Church, which had to consider the twenty-five million Catholics in Germany.

  Von Hildebrand had a very high regard for Eugenio Pacelli, papal nuncio to Germany (1917–1929), cardinal secretary of state (1930–1939), and Pope Pius XII (1939–1958). He always believed that Pacelli’s anti-Nazi stand merited praise.

  The second interesting visit I made was to Monsignor Kaas. We had on various occasions criticized him in the Ständestaat. One time, in response to a rumor that he had been transferred to South America, we even expressed our delight that his dangerous influence would come to an end. Paying him a visit was not a pleasure. But I think it was actually Monsignor Kaas who had expressed the desire that I come.

  He began speaking to me as I was still at the door, and before I could even say a word of greeting. He burst out, “You are doing me a grave injustice. I’m in no way guilty for the position of the German Center Party.” And then he began a desperate apologia in which he heaped all the blame on Brüning while presenting himself as a clear opponent of National Socialism. I no longer remember all that I said to Monsignor Kaas, or whether I brought up the telegram he had sent congratulating Hitler on his birthday in April 1933. At any rate, it was an unpleasant conversation. He did not convince me, but then I was in no position to judge whether his accusation of Brüning had any merit. In general, however, his conduct smacked a little of “qui s’excuse, s’accuse” (“He who excuses himself accuses himself”).

  Upon returning to Vienna, one of my first orders of business was to meet with the chief of the secret police, Mr. Weiser.*7 He had expressed the desire that I pay him a visit. I was very curious to find out what he wanted from me, and since, because of my trip to Rome some time had passed since he had initially asked me to come, I hurried to see him as soon as possible.

  As I entered the room and introduced myself, he said to me, “How do you feel?” He was a very intelligent-looking Sherlock Holmes type, with strong, clear features and a calm and expressionless face. I did not understand what he was getting at, but answered, “I feel very well.” He proceeded, “You know, as chief of the secret police, a political murder would be very unpleasant for me.” Of course, I immediately understood his allusion. “Indeed,” I said, “that would be extremely awkward for me as well.” He replied, “We have our spies, of course, who find out what is going on in the Nazi underground, things about which you could hardly be aware. We know that it has been decided to get rid of you. You must therefore take special measures to protect yourself. Is your name listed on the door of your home?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “This is a great mistake,” he continued. “Not only must your name disappear from your door, it should not even be listed in the telephone book or address directory. Do you receive people at home who you do not know?” “Yes,” I said, “refugees from Germany often come to me. Naturally, I always receive them.”

  He replied, “This is a great mistake. Any Nazi can present himself as a refugee. You cannot allow anyone into your home if you do not know exactly who they are. You cannot receive anyone alone unless they are very close friends. Someone must always be present as a witness. A favorite trick of these people is to force a chloroform mask over someone’s head and then to suffocate them. By the time your wife happens to come into the room and find you, the murderer will long be gone. You also cannot ever get into a car if you do not know exactly who is driving, nor can you ever go alone to an appointment arranged by telephone, unless you can determine with certainty that the voice on the phone is that of a friend you know well. Be on guard for anyone who might be following you, or when someone appears at your home behaving suspiciously. As soon as you notice anything of the sort, please notify me immediately.” Finally, he said, “It could be that they will be content to put out your eyes instead of killing you.”

  I thanked him profusely for his warning. Naturally, it made a certain impression on me, but I cannot say it even crossed my mind to withdraw, that is, to give up my political activities to avoid danger.

  Though I am fearful of physical dangers, I was not afraid; I was not intimidated by what Weiser had said. I had the consciousness that I was conducting a struggle willed by God, and this gave me an incredible inner freedom. On the other hand, Weiser’s words had a very unsettling effect on poor Gretchen, when I later recounted them to her. From then on she lived in great anxiety over my life, even accompanying me to my classes, despite the fact that there was no particular danger along the way, nor would she have been any protection in an assassination attempt.

  As I already described, a group of legitimist students attended my first class to protect me in the event of any demonstrations by Nazi students. But there were no further demonstrations and the course proceeded in a calm and matter-of-fact way. The actual number of attendees was satisfactory (my b
odyguards came only the first time and not as participants in the class). There were perhaps twenty-five students.

  I had gotten to know various musicians while I was in Vienna, perhaps through Klemperer. One of them was Krenek,*8 whose opera Jonny spielt auf I had heard in Munich. Now Krenek had composed an opera called Charles V, regrettably on an atonal basis. He had completely immersed himself into the world of the Church through the libretto, which he had written himself. He was a Catholic, though he had lost his faith and now was coming back to the Church. Naturally this drew me to him greatly, while his interest in me was probably motivated by the fact that he was seeking contact with Catholics.

  I often visited him, and he would play for me passages from his Charles V and try to win me for atonality. In this he did not succeed. On the contrary, I regretted the fact that he, whose talents one could not deny, had committed himself to atonality. The text of the piece was very good. Krenek’s political orientation was excellent. He was a stimulating and interesting human being, and my interaction with him was enriching. Sometimes he would write something for our journal.

  The other musician I got to know was Wellesz,*9 a Jew who had become Catholic. He was assistant professor of music history at the University of Vienna as well as a composer. He was hardly of Krenek’s stature, yet he was far more conceited and convinced of his talents. Through good connections, he had managed to get an honorary doctorate from Oxford, which no German musician since Haydn had received. He told me this with great pride, while mentioning a letter in which someone had said to him, “You write history and you make history.”

  Krenek and Wellesz became attendees of my evening discussions. Krenek also introduced us to a friend of his, Dr. Willi Reich. He was a music critic, and I liked him very much as well. He had a great love for the Church and was very drawn to Catholicism. Later, he asked me to bring him to a priest since he wanted to convert. But this was much later.