Thinking Small: The Long, Strange Trip of the Volkswagen Beetle

by Andrea Hiott

  In part because they both shared unique relationships with Hitler, Ferdinand Porsche and Albert Speer did not get along. Despite their common interest in the motor car, the two men aggravated each other to no end. After the unexpected death of Fritz Todt, a friend of Porsche’s and an engineer he had respected greatly, Speer took over Todt’s job as minister of armaments and war production with a fervor to put some order into a Nazi war machine he felt was chaotic and out of hand. And that meant, in his opinion, reining in men like Porsche.

  The facts around Todt’s death were blurry and Porsche might have suspected Speer was complicit in it somehow; in any case, he didn’t like the young man and they had very different ideas about what was important during the war. Speer was concerned with efficiency. Porsche was not. And their very different energies seemed to collide any time they were in the same room. Speer was especially annoyed at the way Porsche and Hitler dreamed up crazy transportation ideas together and pored over ideas for the German tanks that Porsche was commissioned to design, one of which was a supertank called the Maus that proved almost too fat to move. According to Ferry, it was Speer who took Porsche to see his first group of concentration camp prisoners, men who were laboring at breaking stones in a quarry. Speer then turned to Porsche and warned him that if he wasn’t careful, that’s where he’d end up. But Porsche was no better with Speer, always hesitating and delaying orders he did not like, doing what he wanted to do rather than what he was told. And it certainly must have annoyed Speer that Porsche seemed to have somehow escaped Hitler’s control. Porsche was one of the only men in Germany at the time who seemed safe from Nazi punishment. As historians Hans Mommsen and Manfred Grieger would later write:

  With the success of a sleepwalker3 Porsche succeeded to a great extent in staying aloof from the chronic power struggles between the satraps of National Socialism, and, admittedly backed by the unarguable respect he enjoyed from Adolf Hitler, he was able to maintain a largely independent stance. His unorthodox manner, his relaxed and never subservient way of dealing with the Party notables, his international renown as a motor car designer, and his spectacular success in racing car construction, gave him an exceptional position within the regime, which in some respects allowed him to break ranks from time to time.

  As always, Porsche seemed to be operating in a different universe, concerned only with his own very specific plans. Speer found Porsche’s ideas of war juvenile and hated having to witness conversations such as the one where Porsche told Hitler that he should put an end to the war because the country was short on fuel, as if it were as simple as that. There was also the time when Porsche told Hitler, very seriously, that it would be better if only small men were put into the tanks, because then he could make the tanks smaller. Hitler apparently found this comment rather charming and went out of his way not to embarrass Porsche, saying “I think you have a very good idea there, Professor …”4 and explaining to others in the room that it was a known fact that short people tended to be very courageous, and citing Napoleon as an example. It’s no stretch to imagine that Speer would rather have left the room than listen to such talk. And there was also the fact that Speer was still a young man, and thus thought that Porsche, who was now approaching his late sixties, was far too old to have official power.5 Speer believed that no man over the age of fifty should be in a position of management, and he tried very hard to implement this rule. Speer eventually became so annoyed with Porsche and his age and inefficiency that he “promoted” him to “Reich Armaments Councilor,” to get Porsche out of his direct vicinity, never mind that Porsche was now the head of an organization that did not really exist!

  In 1942, Porsche was sixty-seven years old, and it had become clear that the war would not be ending anytime soon and that his beloved car factory would not be producing any Strength through Joy Cars as had been promised and planned. Instead, the plant would be rearranged to produce vehicles and armaments for war. It was a chaotic mix of projects: fuel tanks, airplane wing repairs, mines, bazookas, and (perhaps more notably) 20,000 V1 flying bombs. Porsche was also commissioned to turn his designs for a People’s Car into wartime vehicles of various sorts, some of which were tough-guy Beetles with big wheels and raised frames, others that were more like jeeps and known as Kübelwagens or Bucket Seat Cars. The lines for Porsche’s original cars were finally taken down and a second assembly line was set up for Kübelwagen production. This vehicle had an engine of 25 hp and a body that was redesigned to provide more ground area while remaining lightweight. It looked more like a jeep than a Bug, a pumped-up version with bigger wheels and a tougher spine. These gutsy little pug-nosed vehicles had the same air-cooled engine design and chassis as the People’s Car and they were a hit among both the Allied and Axis armies by the end of the war. The Volkswagen factory would eventually produce more than 66,000 of them. In addition to the Bucket Seat Cars, Porsche also6 revamped the VW design and made an amphibious vehicle that could either move through the water like a boat or drive over dry land. These strange creations were called Schwimmwagens and they were completely waterproof, with retractable propellers. In 1943, production of the military versions of Porsche’s design accounted for 41.5 percent of factory sales, pulling in a total of 93 million RM out of the 225 million RM the factory made that year.

  Having worked on wartime projects for Austria in the First World War, it was not an unfamiliar mode for Porsche. But this time he had many more responsibilities and was constantly traveling between his company in Stuttgart, the factory in Wolfsburg, and numerous other factories and cities that required his presence during the war. His offices and workshop in Stuttgart grew considerably, employing hundreds as they tried to keep up with airplane, tank, and automotive design demands. Because Ferdinand was kept so busy with his wartime designs, it was his son-in-law, Anton Piëch, who, in 1941, took over as head of the Volkswagen plant in The Town of the Strength through Joy Car, moving with Louise to the little Porsche hut on the Klieversberg hill, so Porsche himself was around less and less as the factory retooled itself for war.

  As the war progressed, Heinrich Nordhoff was removed from his executive position in Berlin and made the director of Opel’s nearby Brandenburg truck plant. Brandenburg, less than an hour from Berlin, was a town of castles with an old Prussian heart, and the Opel truck factory there had come into existence under Nazi patronage and in large part through Nazi behest. Because it was connected to the United States, Opel’s main factory was not trusted enough to be given any of the main tasks, such as building tanks, airplanes, or weapons for the war. But it was a primary source of wartime trucks. Now Heinrich had to deal with as many Nazi elites as Porsche did, including Hitler’s old automotive friend Jakob Werlin. In addition to his job as an official director of the factory in The Town of the Strength through Joy Car, Werlin had also become a member of the SS and carried the title of Generalinspektor des Führer fuer das Kraftfahrwesen—he was Hitler’s automotive inspector, more or less, and that meant factory heads like Nordhoff had to please him when he came around to inspect the plant. Werlin made his rounds to all the car companies, ensuring all things were “working toward the Führer.”7 Nordhoff8 also found himself having to work with Goering, often referred to as the second most powerful man in the Nazi Party, because (thanks to the Four Year Plan) Goering was the official manager and administrator of every industrial company in Germany. And Opel’s truck factory had a special place in the eyes of Goering since it had been built under his watch.

  Even before coming to office, the Nazis had planned to put Opel back into German hands, and as the war progressed, it looked as if they had succeeded. General Motors declared Opel a tax loss and for a time the factory was indeed completely under Nazi control. At the plant, Nordhoff was given the new title and rank of Wehrwirtschaftsfüher, or War Economy Leader, a standard title for someone in his position but a term that would later prove very difficult to explain. Nordhoff still refused to join the Nazi Party, but even so, he was working directly for the Na
zi machine. Since Brandenburg was less than an hour from Berlin, at first Charlotte and the girls stayed where they were while Nordhoff commuted back and forth. But as his hours grew longer and ever more tedious, he was eventually forced to take an apartment in Brandenburg and see much less of Charlotte and his girls.

  Nordhoff was now immersed in the midst of an ugly world. In 1943, in a letter to Charlotte, he celebrated their wedding anniversary from afar with melancholic thoughts: “The future looks dark,”9 he wrote. “I long for a time when we are free to live in our own way, when a better life will begin for all of us and we can raise our girls to be happy and competent citizens in this world.” People working with him would later say that Nordhoff experienced an “inner emigration” during these years. He was as diligent as ever about his work, but there was a part of him that seemed to have simply gone away.

  During Nordhoff’s first year at the Brandenburg factory, the war seemed to be going well for Germany, but by 1943 it would all turn around and Hitler’s winning streak would disappear. Soon, conditions all over Germany would begin to deteriorate, even more quickly than they had improved when Hitler had come to power. And Hitler’s health would experience a steep decline; he would grow less and less social, no longer wanting to see or speak to the German people, claiming he was waiting until the tide turned again so he could give them better news.

  He did seem to believe the tide would eventually turn. And neither he nor Porsche had yet given up on the idea of their People’s Car. Even when Hitler was holed up in his mountain retreat (the Berghof near Berchtesgaden), isolated from the destruction he was causing in the world, the Strength through Joy Car was still part of his daily life. Hitler didn’t drink, but he liked to have nightly tea sessions—tedious and uncomfortable hours for the others who were present, but seemingly enjoyable for him. At one such late-night session in 1942, Hitler sketched the People’s Car for everyone present and spoke once more about “the great designer” Ferdinand Porsche. “He is a real genius,”10 Hitler said, “even though he seems so modest and self-effacing.” According to a secretary of Hitler’s who was nearly always nearby, Hitler drove around the country11 near the Berghof in a Volkswagen. It was a “specially made cabriolet with black paint and leather upholstery. Apart from the Führer and his chauffeur, only his valet and Blondi ever traveled in it.” Blondi was Hitler’s dog; she was always by his side, even in the bunker. And the special Volkswagen had been a birthday gift from Ferdinand Porsche.

  It’s hard to say why the old designer had such an effect on Hitler, but he was always sure to take care of Porsche. Once, when Porsche had to go to the front lines to see how the Panzers were performing in action, Hitler insisted that he use the Führer’s official pilot and aircraft. “Let the generals fly in the regular planes,” Hitler said, “I have many generals but only one Porsche.” Porsche was also the only person in authority who did not have to wear a uniform at the time—by 1942 everyone was wearing a uniform—and he was the only man who did not address Hitler as “the Führer.” Ferry would later say that he sometimes felt as if Hitler considered himself Porsche’s son as well. In Ferry’s own words, “at most a half-dozen men12 in all of Germany dared to speak their minds openly before Hitler, and my father was one of them … The situation, in fact, was in some respects as though my father were also Hitler’s father.” But such a comparison can only go so far. After all, out of a desire to get back to making his car, Porsche suggested numerous times that Hitler should end the war, and it’s extremely doubtful Hitler ever gave that idea even the slightest bit of thought.

  Factory workers and staff living together in the cramped barracks in The Town of the Strength through Joy Car. (photo credit 23.1)

  By 1943, The Town of the Strength through Joy Car had all but been abandoned by those who had founded it. None of the men who had started the town were able to give it much attention or care now. In fact, it was hard to say that a town even existed at all: Construction had been abandoned when the war started, and much of the area was still a giant building site. Trees had been cleared, but nothing had been erected to fill the space. Materials and supplies were left abandoned in piles. Roads ended abruptly into the grass, leading nowhere. Aside from a medieval castle tucked into a nearby grove of trees, the only structural presence in the area was that of the towering brick factory, rising out of the emptiness and mess. The workers lived together in overcrowded dorms around it, and clusters of their makeshift barracks dotted the surrounding landscape. Only the sweet and fully finished area of the Steimker Berg, with its white thatch-style houses and idyllic tree-lined estates, gave the sense of something civilized, but those homes were occupied mainly by Nazi and SS men. Whatever experiment had been attempted with the project of The Town of the Strength through Joy Car, it was beginning to look like it had horribly failed.

  The use of forced labor spread quickly throughout Germany as Nazi forces captured ever more foreign towns and brought people back from them to work in their German plants; this was a common practice during the Second World War, not only for Germany but also for the Allied countries. Nationalities were scrambled and mixed in factories all over the Continent during that time, though in Germany and the Soviet Union, the conditions were especially brutal. After 1942, nearly all German plants, including those owned by General Motors and Ford, relied heavily on forced labor for work. None of the factories would have been able to produce the wartime weapons and transportation that were needed had they not. After all, Germany had already been at full employment in 1938, and for wartime, the country needed millions of additional workers.

  The Volkswagen factory was no different: In fact, the Volkswagen factory, having never had a full staff to begin with, was even more in need of foreign help than most. Likewise, because the town and the factory were a direct project of the Nazi Party, the factory experienced an even greater extent of Nazi presence and control. The Gestapo had its own office there. Everyone in charge was part of the Nazi Party. And there was an additional policing force called the Werkschutz that patrolled the plant and the housing compounds and barracks, keeping a close eye on the workers—especially the foreign ones—and operating as an instrument of punishment and surveillance, ensuring no one could escape. Beatings and brutality were commonplace, and for any workers who dared to rebel, including the Germans, there were “reeducation camps” where, according to the reports of the workers, torture was the norm.

  The average amount of staff in German companies during the war that were forced laborers was 30 percent. Because of its unusually high lack of labor from the beginning, at the VW factory during the height of the war, 80 percent of the staff was forced. Indeed, foreign prisoners of war were, to a large degree, the factory’s first real employees. The town that Hitler had hoped to be a model industrial city for Germany was in reality perhaps one of the most mixed and international areas in the country, but violently and involuntarily so.

  Slave labor is not a horror the Germans invented—the world knew it long before the Nazis, and today there are still millions of forced laborers in the world. But forced labor in Germany was brutally tied to the tragic ideas of race and class that Hitler and his party had been trying to prove. Hitler’s Mein Kampf13 was often read over loudspeakers, and Nazi officers imposed public humiliations on Eastern laborers who were deemed a lower “breed.” For example, in June of 1940, 300 young Polish women were among the first forced laborers brought to the plant, many of them having been randomly plucked from their homes with no time to say goodbye or pack. Some did not even have shoes when they arrived. To make it clear to all the other workers that the women were from Poland—a country that was seen as full of volkspolitische Gefahren (contaminating influences)—the women were immediately given patches of the letter “P” to sew onto all their dresses.14

  There were many Soviet prisoners of war brought to work at the factory too. They had “SU” patches sewn to their clothes, and of all the prisoners, they were treated the worst. Many Soviet prisoner
s of war never made it to work at the factory but died from malnutrition, outbreaks of typhus, and other diseases, not to mention the mass shootings that sometimes took place in camps outside the factory grounds.

  For other nationalities, classification was more fluid: The Italians who were also working at the plant, for example, were treated well so long as Italy was fighting on Germany’s side; but once they united with the Allies, they were treated as traitors. One Italian prisoner at the Volkswagen factory, Cesare Pilesi, would later tell of the day he burned his foot15 on purpose by holding it to the red-hot wall of a stove. He was very sick, and burning himself was the only way he could think to get taken off the relentless winter construction work.