My Battle Against Hitler

by Dietrich von Hildebrand,John Henry Crosby

  On one occasion, we were invited for tea at the home of Alma Mahler-Werfel.*10 There we also met Alban Berg, the atonal composer, who had written, among other things, the opera Wozzeck. He struck me as very unostentatious and modest, but also earnest and dignified. There was a nobility in the expression of his face. I still remember how in the conversation about Nazism, Franz Werfel spoke critically about Wagner, whereupon his wife exclaimed, “Hands off my gods—Alban, come to my aid in the defense of Wagner!” Naturally, my contributions to this discussion went exactly in the same direction. I was happy about Mrs. Mahler’s love and reverence for Wagner, and especially about Alban Berg’s stance toward Wagner.

  I met several other people at this tea. I particularly remember a completely unique and angelic figure, the daughter of Alma Mahler from her marriage to the architect Gropius. She was about twenty-two. There was something unbelievably pure and kind about her. This purity was especially conspicuous considering the milieu in which she had grown up, both in regard to Alma and also to Mahler’s daughter Anna (whose married name was Zsolnay). This girl possessed something extraordinarily pure, otherworldly, gentle, and kind.*11 One could not but love her. I am sure this visit did not take place any later than the winter of 1934/35.

  It must also have been around this time that a Hungarian by the name of Thewrewk-Pallaghy visited me.*12 He was an ardent legitimist and knew several archduchesses. He was an assistant professor of history and also held a post in the Hungarian Ministry of War in Budapest. His political orientation could not have been better, and he was also a pious Catholic.

  He invited me with great urgency to give a lecture in Budapest which he wanted to arrange under the auspices of an institute for foreign affairs. My trip to Hungary was also to include a visit to the Benedictine monastery in Pannonhalma, where the abbot, who knew my books, had warmly invited me to spend several days. All this was very appealing, and I told Thewrewk-Pallaghy that in principle I would like to come to Budapest to speak there, which pleased him greatly.

  I had been invited to give a lecture in Salzburg about Emperor Charles on the occasion of his death anniversary (April 1). The invitation came in the name of various legitimist groups in Salzburg. Since the death of Dollfuss, I had become increasingly active in legitimist circles. The more I became disappointed by the political orientation of Schuschnigg, the more I saw only one real solution for Austria’s independence in the long term, namely the return of the Habsburgs, i.e., of a constitutional monarchy.

  The new Austrian constitution, now that Dollfuss was no longer alive, did not seem to have a future. It had been robbed of its soul, and there was no longer any hope that it would take the form that Dollfuss would surely have given it. In the hands of Schuschnigg, it became something formal and empty. A constitutional monarchy, on the other hand, which would gather all true Austrian patriots, which would definitively banish all talk of a greater Germany and all Anschluss-ideals, a monarchy in the spirit of Emperor Charles, this I thought would be the true antithesis of National Socialism and of all German nationalism.

  For this reason, I focused more and more on these circles and spoke increasingly at legitimist gatherings. There were also many Jews among the legitimists, so that I was often invited to speak before an exclusively Jewish audience of legitimists. My relentless struggle against all forms of anti-Semitism made me extremely popular in these Jewish circles. Often I would begin my lectures with an absolute condemnation of anti-Semitism, adding, “I condemn anti-Semitism with all my heart because I am a Catholic. Anti-Semitism and Catholicism are absolutely irreconcilable.” My words would be greeted with thunderous applause.

  My lecture, which took place in the evening, proceeded splendidly. It was well attended and I was very much “in form.” The theme was very near and dear to my heart and allowed me to connect the true mission and nature of Austria with a treatment of the saintly figure of Emperor Charles. The lecture was a great success and a source of great joy for me.

  Upon returning to Vienna, I learned from Hefel*13 that they wanted to move into the apartment where we were living at the Stephansplatz in the fall of 1935. We had foreseen this possibility, and it was the condition under which they had made the apartment available to us. This meant that we had to move before the summer holiday, and so we began searching for a beautiful and suitable apartment. Naturally, if at all possible we wanted to stay within the Inner City, i.e., in the First District of the city of Vienna, which architecturally is by far the most beautiful.

  It was not until late June, or even early July, that we found a suitable and very beautiful apartment in the Palais Cabriani located on Habsburgergasse, and we moved at the end of July. The Palais was a very beautiful Baroque building—probably from the beginning of the 18th century—far more beautiful than the house where we lived by St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Of course, we lost the magnificent view of St. Stephen’s, but on the whole our new surroundings were architecturally much more beautiful.

  In the course of May 1935, I received the official invitation to lecture in Budapest from the institute devoted to issues of foreign affairs. This made me happy because I was very interested in getting to know all the people whom Thewrewk-Pallaghy had told me about, and because I was attracted to the Hungarian milieu as a whole. I was also happy for the opportunity to fight the Nazis in Hungary and to lend support to the cause of legitimism.

  On the other hand, in light of what Weiser had told me about the intention to eliminate me, a trip to Hungary, where, unlike Austria, the Nazis could move about freely and without restraints, did pose a certain risk. The Nazis would often wait until a politically undesirable person was traveling and then do away with them. So I resolved to take Franzi along with me as a bodyguard.

  But Franzi’s protection did not suffice for Gretchen. Without even the slightest mention, she wrote a letter to Schuschnigg describing the danger I faced. “Surely, Herr Kanzler,” she wrote, “you are in far greater danger, but you are surrounded by detectives who can protect you, while my husband is completely vulnerable. Now that he is going to Budapest, he is especially in need of protection.” That, anyway, was the gist of her letter. It was somehow typical of Gretchen’s character. She was by nature reserved and reluctant to step into the foreground or to make any special demands. Yet if it was a matter that affected someone else, especially me, and if she became outraged or felt impelled to intervene, she could suddenly become very courageous and even quite sharp in her manner. It is true that she had to act in the moment, for once she reentered her normal rhythm, she no longer had the strength to assert herself in this way. I departed for Budapest with Franzi without knowing anything about Gretchen’s intervention.

  As we arrived, Baron Thewrewk-Pallaghy was at the train station to greet me. He was accompanied by a man I did not know. He introduced himself as a detective by the name of Del Medico. I was quite surprised that a detective should come to pick me up. But then I concluded this was perhaps a standard precaution when a politically controversial figure like myself came to speak publicly in Budapest. Del Medico was a very nice and friendly man. He told me that he had been assigned to accompany me everywhere and that I was not permitted to go anywhere without him. We went straight to the hotel.

  Del Medico brought us to our room but first carefully inspected everything, the closet, under the bed, etc., to make sure that a bomb had not been hidden somewhere. Having found nothing suspicious, he allowed us to enter. I believe this took place the evening before I was scheduled to give my talk. I no longer recall how long we stayed in Budapest, but so many events took place that it must have been two or three days. I do remember that after dinner Del Medico brought us back to our room. Having once again checked carefully, he told us that we could not leave the room until he came to fetch us the next day. Indeed, our room was to be locked from outside. This greatly displeased me, as I wanted to go to mass the next morning and Del Medico told me that he would only come to get us at 9:00 a.m. By then it would be too late to att
end mass. I suddenly felt that I was a prisoner. I could not conceive of a satisfactory explanation for my predicament. Only when I returned to Vienna, where Gretchen told me about her letter to Schuschnigg and showed me a copy, did I finally understand why I had been so carefully guarded in Budapest.

  The next morning, as Thewrewk-Pallaghy drove us to see the cathedral and the royal palace, Del Medico noticed a car that seemed to be following us. He became concerned and had our car stopped. As he strode toward the other car, he signaled for it to stop as well. It turned out to be harmless tourists and not at all the assassins Del Medico feared.

  My lecture took place in the afternoon. It was held in the parliamentary building, where I was warmly greeted and escorted in by Bersewicki, the old president (then about eighty years old) of the institute on foreign affairs that had invited me. Quite a crowd had come, above all many legitimists, retired generals, and aristocrats. My lecture was warmly received. Speaking in this setting, which still embodied so much of the old Habsburg monarchy, I felt transported into a beautiful cultural atmosphere. This trip to Budapest granted me a much richer contact with Hungary, which has its great charm, than I had experienced in the summer of 1934 when I had visited with Marguerite.

  I still remember going to a Hungarian restaurant that evening. Again, Del Medico entered first to search for anything that might be suspicious. Only after he had completed his inspection was I allowed to enter.

  I also paid a visit to Fr. Anton Schütz, who had come to see me in Munich and who was so enthusiastic about the afternoon gatherings I had hosted. He had been the confessor of the famous Archbishop Prohászka.*14 But I was deeply disappointed when I saw that Fr. Schütz, from whom I expected so much, sympathized with the Nazis. He urged me to write purely philosophical books and to give up the journal. I was appalled, but none of my arguments succeeded in convincing him otherwise.

  Thewrewk-Pallaghy took me to meet a very talented journalist who edited a journal. I met him on the last morning of my stay in Budapest on Margaret Island. His name was Eugen Katona. The actual publisher of the journal was Count Széchenyi.*15 I think it was only later that I got to know Széchenyi when he came to see me in Vienna; on this trip to Budapest I was not yet acquainted with him.

  Katona struck me as a very likeable person, and we had a very animated conversation. He was of course an opponent of Nazism, yet he made a point of saying that he was attracted to the revolutionary and dynamic aspects of National Socialism. I objected vigorously by showing him that there was nothing natural or organic about National Socialism as a movement, which in no way deserved to be called “alive,” but that the pressure of brutal terror had given rise to a purely artificial conformity.

  I did not have to convince him of the Antichrist in National Socialism, nor of its diabolical immorality. Being a pious Catholic, he already saw this clearly. Yet at the time he was clearly still somewhat under the influence of trends in the youth culture, which greatly overrated dynamic movement as such. Katona would later be completely freed of these ideas.

  Back in Vienna, von Hildebrand and his wife were invited to dinner at the Kraliks with others from the humanities division at the university.

  This was the evening I made the acquaintance of Moritz Schlick.*16 He greeted me very warmly, in no way disguising his delight that I was now a member of the faculty—his words, I think, were “that a man of your political orientation is joining our faculty.” Philosophically, Schlick and I could not have been further apart. Every one of the bland and insignificant philosophers in the department was closer to me in philosophical regard than Schlick. And yet it was only Schlick who greeted me in a cordial and friendly way.

  This was how much a person’s political stance took precedence at that moment, when the real line of separation was one’s bearing toward National Socialism. It was this question which determined whether someone was seen as friend or foe. This flowed from the fact, first, that a person’s stance toward National Socialism was not just a question of politics but of first principles. But then it was also a matter of extraordinary immediacy.

  These two factors gave the question a priority over all the other points of difference and commonality that otherwise played a role. I felt closer to a believing Protestant who was an unambiguous opponent of National Socialism than I did to a Catholic who was a Nazi. I even felt a greater solidarity with Schlick than I did with a philosopher who had been “infected” by Nazism, despite the fact that Schlick was an atheist who belonged to the most awful philosophical school, and that I considered everything he taught to be totally false and extremely harmful.

  As the general conversation touched variously on occurrences in Nazi Germany, the other professors limited themselves to neutral observations. Only Schlick expressed his full agreement with my clear condemnation of what had happened.

  It must already have been this year that Kestranek*17 came to visit me. An attendee of my classes in Munich, he had impressed me by his warmth, his faith, and his intellectual openness. I was very happy to see him again. Of course, he was a strong opponent of Nazism and an ardent admirer of Dollfuss. He had read my book on Dollfuss with great enthusiasm. Kestranek held my father in esteem and was himself a sculptor, I think. He was part of a circle in Munich to which Theodor Haecker*18 also belonged, along with various other young people. I never learned exactly why, but he was always saying that he needed to go back to Munich. Clearly he had some spiritual mission there that he cared about deeply.

  Kestranek was in many ways very close to me. Our mutual understanding was especially good. Among those I knew at the time, very few had his degree of interest in intellectual questions. It was always a special joy when he came to visit.

  I have not yet said enough about the Scottish Abbey*19 which played a great role in my life. There was above all Abbot Peichl,*20 a fine man, whom I knew from the very start of my Vienna years and with whom I was on particularly good terms. He was a noble and spiritually refined man and a very edifying monk. He had carried out a Benedictine liturgical reform in the Scottish Abbey that had not at all been easy to achieve. One really had him alone to thank for the beautiful liturgies and the deeply monastic spirit of the abbey. His political views were very good and he was completely untainted by any form of anti-Semitism.

  I have already mentioned Father Richard Beron*21 from the Abbey of Beuron. He had led rehearsals for the laity to participate in the choir which sang, that is, made the responses, at the solemn mass. Over time, however, his political stance became very unfortunate. I think it was only in the fall of 1935 that he suddenly declared—in contrast to his previous position—that National Socialism was inexorable, that it represented God’s will, regardless of whether one welcomed it or not, that Nazism must now come to Austria, and that it was senseless to resist as I was doing. For various reasons I wanted to avoid reaching a breaking point with him.

  In complete contrast, the political orientation of the Franciscans in Vienna was excellent. The head of the community was a German priest who was a particularly radical opponent of National Socialism and an enthusiastic reader of my journal. But the other Franciscans too, some of them from Germany, were also completely clear in their total rejection of National Socialism.

  I must say that the stance of the Franciscans and the spirit which imbued their political views was immensely consoling and encouraging for me. There were a host of people who viewed my rejection of National Socialism as exaggerated and who perceived my sharp tone as un-Austrian. Even many Austrians whose political views were relatively good found my stance too abrupt and not in keeping with Austrian sensibilities.

  Even my old friend Count Paul Thun raised objections to me along these lines. My unrelenting principled stance was perceived as typically German. The Austrian, by contrast, was supposedly much gentler and not so rigidly insistent on principle. This was very painful for me because I liked Count Thun very much, and because I suffered a great deal under this tendency, which represents a particular danger
for my beloved Austrians. But it was also painful to see that even noble Austrian patriots like Thun did not grasp the full magnitude of the Nazi horror, that they did not completely comprehend the danger which threatened Austria, indeed, which threatened it more every day.

  But my afternoon discussions and the journal had drawn a large circle of aristocrats who completely shared my stance against National Socialism. One of these was a very fine man, Count Heinrich Waldstein, along with his wife.

  Around this time, Gilson came to Vienna where he was to give a lecture on Dante. I no longer recall the setting in which he spoke, whether under the auspices of the Kulturbund, or perhaps organized by the French embassy. In any case, he visited us for tea. He spoke rather pessimistically about the political situation, saying, “I don’t know whether I will speak again next year at the Hochschulwochen in Salzburg. After all, who can say what will have become of Austria by then.” This distressed me greatly. But I was immensely happy to see him again and to build on the contact we had begun in Paris in 1933.

  His lecture was very interesting, even if his thesis struck me as rather strange. He argued that Dante was the first to shatter the unity of the Middle Ages: that Christian unity to which everyone felt connected, even when they belonged to various countries; that Christian unity which everyone assumed and which found its political expression in the realm of Charlemagne. Dante’s De Monarchia, according to him, set the disintegration in motion with his theory of the two swords. The experience of unity among Christians everywhere was no longer taken for granted as before. Knowing Dante too little, I could not form an opinion on the matter. But as a great historian of philosophy, I assumed that Gilson surely had good reasons for presenting such a thesis.