Still, he did make a couple of political observations. “Hitler seems so popular here, as Mussolini was in Italy, although propaganda seems to be his strongest weapon,” he wrote in Munich. Following the Rhine to Cologne, he added: “Very beautiful as there are many castles along the way. All the towns are very attractive, showing the Nordic races certainly seem superior to the Latins. The Germans are really too good—it makes people gang against them for protection…” A year later, his father, Joseph Kennedy, was appointed ambassador to Great Britain, where he quickly gained a reputation as an envoy with pro-German leanings.
Because of his father’s views, it’s easy to read more into John Kennedy’s brief diary entries than they merit. At a minimum, however, they demonstrate the sense of innocence—and ignorance—of many young Americans who visited Nazi Germany in this period.
A year later, in 1938, John Randolph and his wife, Margaret, spent the summer traveling through Europe before returning to his job as an assistant professor of mathematics at Cornell. Unlike Kennedy, they pinched their pennies, staying at youth hostels and biking whenever they could. Randolph’s observations from Germany, where they spent almost all of June, are filled with minute details: the cost of their lodgings, meals and bike rentals, the exact times of the trains they caught, their panic when a suitcase went astray. Also, there are the standard exclamations about the tourist attractions. “The trip up the Rhine from Koblenz to Bingen was wonderful,” he wrote. But there are only a couple of the most tangential allusions to politics, and it’s clear that the Randolphs were oblivious to most of what was happening.
“The morning was nice and bright,” he noted on June 6 in Heidelberg. “All the people and all the swastikas were out in full color.” After arriving on their bikes in Tübingen, he wrote:
“Of all things, we had a private room in a house of the Hitlerjugend and even so paid only one RM [Reichsmark] for two of us. The room had two very nice cots, two little stands, a table, a chair, a large clothes chest, and a telephone. Very nicely furnished with painted walls and ceilings (white) hard wood floors, and large window. The whole hostel was especially built in 1935 and is modern and nice in every way.”
Randolph appeared to believe that the country they were visiting, like their room in the Hitlerjugend house, was nice in every way. When they happened to be caught in an air raid drill in Munich, he dismissed it as “not very interesting.” A German engineer Randolph met on their trip wrote to him in December 1938, angered by what he construed to be anti-German propaganda in the United States. “You realize don’t you that in Germany there is not a single unemployed, and no man that goes hungry in winter or freezes, and this is not so for any other country except Italy which is also under state’s direction. In Germany order and discipline rule. You were here yourself and saw it.” Nothing in Randolph’s diary or papers suggests that he paused to question those claims. He had simply skimmed the surface of Germany and returned as uninformed as when he arrived.
One factor that encouraged such blindness was how, when it came to people-to-people contact, young Americans found Germans friendly and welcoming. After his first summer in Germany in 1936, Howard K. Smith had returned to a job as a reporter for the New Orleans Item, but then felt the lure of Germany again the following summer. Eager to continue his investigation of that country’s political system, he hitchhiked to save money and was surprised to find how easy it was to get around that way. “I simply draped a small American flag over my single bag and those simple, friendly people stopped every time,” he recalled. “The friendliness, the overwhelming hospitality of Germans to foreigners—and especially to Americans—was phenomenal.” Smith believed the impressive performance of the American athletes in the Olympics a year earlier was one reason why “Americans appeared to be the German people’s favorite foreigner.” With that kind of a welcome, many visitors comfortably remained innocents abroad, missing most of what was happening around them.
Yet there was nothing innocent about Nazi Germany by then, especially in 1938. It was a year punctuated by three major events: the Anschluss, Munich and Kristallnacht. The first and second of those events—the annexation and occupation of Austria in March, and then British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s and French Premier Edouard Daladier’s agreement to allow Germany to seize the Sudetenland from Czechoslovakia—represented major triumphs for Hitler, transforming his Greater Germany rhetoric into reality and setting the stage for the Drang nach Osten (“Drive to the East”). The third, the attacks on Jewish businesses and homes all over Germany on November 9 and 10, marked a dramatic escalation of Hitler’s anti-Semitic policies.
Those American reporters who had already spent considerable time in Berlin were, as a rule, stripped of most illusions about the new Germany—and some had been sounding the alarm about the country, its rulers and their intentions for quite some time. William Shirer was certainly in that category. But as he marked his third anniversary in Hitler’s Germany in August 1937, he found himself without a job, the victim of his news agency’s cutbacks. He then received a telegram from Salzburg asking if he’d come for dinner at the Adlon Hotel. It was signed “Murrow, Columbia Broadcasting.”
Shirer had only a vague recollection of the name, but he certainly knew the company and its radio broadcasts. When he met Edward R. Murrow, the European manager of CBS, and they had ordered their martinis at the Adlon’s bar, Shirer was struck by Murrow’s handsome face. “Just what you would expect from radio,” he noted in his diary. But he also found him disarmingly sincere: “Something in his eyes that was not Hollywood.” As soon as Shirer passed a voice test, Murrow called to say he was hired.
As the new CBS correspondent, Shirer was supposed to make Vienna his base instead of Berlin. Although his Berlin days were far from really over—he would return there soon enough—Shirer and his Austrian wife, Tess, were relieved to be leaving the German capital in the fall of 1937. Summing up their three years there, he wrote in his diary on September 27: “Personally, they have not been unhappy ones, though the shadow of Nazi fanaticism, sadism, persecution, regimentation, terror, brutality, suppression, militarism, and preparations for war has hung over all our lives, like a dark, brooding cloud that never clears.”
And exactly as Howard K. Smith had described those foreigners who had acquired a real understanding—and sense of horror—about what they were witnessing, Shirer was increasingly alarmed by how oblivious most of the outside world still was about Hitler’s Germany. “Somehow I feel that, despite our work as reporters, there is little understanding of the Third Reich, what it is, what it is up to, where it is going, either at home or elsewhere abroad… Perhaps, as the Nazis say, the Western democracies have become sick, decadent, and have reached that stage of decline which Spengler predicted… Germany is stronger than her enemies realize.” Exasperated, he recalled his futile attempts to convince visitors of those dangers. “How many visiting butter-and-egg men have I told that the Nazi goal is domination!” he wrote. “They laughed.”
Shirer reserved special scorn for the drop-in journalists who took Nazi protestations about their peaceful intentions seriously. “When the visiting firemen from London, Paris, and New York come, Hitler babbles only of peace,” he wrote. “Peace? Read Mein Kampf, brothers.” And he concluded what he thought was his farewell diary entry from Berlin “with the words of a Nazi marching song still dinning in my ears: Today we own Germany, Tomorrow the whole world.”
Stationed in Vienna as Hitler ratcheted up the threats and pressures aimed at forcing the Anschluss with Austria in March 1938, Shirer watched the takeover unfold with sorrow and frustration. At 4 a.m. on March 12, he wrote in his diary: “The worst has happened… The Nazis are in. The Reichswehr is invading Austria. Hitler has broken a dozen solemn promises, pledges, treaties. And Austria is finished. Beautiful, tragic, civilized Austria! Gone.” But his frustration also stemmed from his inability to report the story on CBS; the Nazis would not permit him to broadcast. And his mood wasn�
�t improved by his family situation: he was worried about Tess, who was still in the hospital recovering from a difficult Caesarean birth of their daughter two weeks earlier.
Although Shirer knew Austria well enough not to romanticize it—he observed how Austrian anti-Semitism “plays nicely in the hands of the Nazis”—he was still startled by how quickly many Austrians not only accepted but embraced their new rulers. After his daily visit to the hospital to check on Tess and the baby, he emerged from the subway at Karlsplatz to find himself swept up in “a shouting, hysterical Nazi mob” marching through the city. “The faces!” he wrote. “I had seen these before at Nuremberg—the fanatical eyes, the gaping mouths, the hysteria.”
As the crowds sang Nazi songs, he spotted a group of policemen looking on in evident good humor. “What’s that on their arm? A red-black-white Swastika arm-band! So they’ve gone over too!” And then there were the immediate attacks on Jews. “Young toughs were heaving paving blocks into windows of the Jewish shops,” he wrote. “The crowd roared with delight.”
Dropping in at the Café Louvre, the hangout of the foreign correspondents, he found his colleagues in a state of high excitement, rushing back and forth to the phone to call in the latest reports and rumors, while other regulars were saddened, even close to tears. Emil Maass, an Austrian-American who had worked earlier as Shirer’s assistant, stopped by his table. He had posed as an anti-Nazi before, but now he didn’t just walk in—he strutted in, as Shirer noted. “Well, meine Damen und Herren, it was about time,” Maass announced with a smirk. Then he ostentatiously turned over his coat lapel, revealing a hidden swastika button, unpinning it and repinning it on the outside of his coat. Two or three women shouted, “Shame!” And a Major Goldschmidt, whom Shirer described as a Catholic who was also half-Jewish, got up from his table. “I will go home and get my revolver,” he declared.
After another futile attempt to arrange a broadcast from Vienna, Shirer took Murrow’s advice to fly to London. It wasn’t that simple, though. As night turned into morning and he set out for the airport, he observed the proliferation of Nazi flags flying from houses. “Where did they get them so fast?” he wondered. At the airport, all the seats on the London flight were taken. “I offered fantastic sums to several passengers for their places. Most of them were Jews and I could not blame them for turning me down,” Shirer wrote. But he succeeded in getting on the flight to Berlin. From there, he found a prompt connection to London, where he could finally make his broadcast.
“This morning when I flew from Vienna at 9 A.M. it looked like any German city in the Reich,” he told his listeners, describing the Nazi flags hanging from most of the balconies and people in the streets greeting each other with Nazi salutes and shouts of “Heil Hitler!” “Arriving in Berlin three hours later I hardly realized I was in another country,” he added. The transformation of Austria was already complete. As for Shirer, he was more than ever convinced that Hitler was only beginning his march of conquest—and that the outside world urgently needed to wake up to the danger.
But that was hardly the prevailing view at the time. Other Americans came to radically different conclusions. Former President Herbert Hoover embarked on a trip to Europe in February 1938. After visiting several other countries—France, Belgium, Switzerland and Czechoslovakia—he went to Germany. His aim was to bolster his credentials when he held forth on key international issues. In particular, he wanted to strengthen his case that the United States needed to stay clear of “entanglements” abroad.
In Berlin, U.S. Ambassador Hugh Wilson told him that Hitler wanted to meet him. Initially, Hoover balked, explaining that he was traveling as a private citizen. Besides, according to his friend Samuel Arentz, Hoover told Wilson that he had been inclined to believe “that Hitler was actually a front man for a group of the brains who were actually running the Nazi party and everything it was doing.” But Wilson pressed him to reconsider, especially in light of his own inability to get to see Hitler. Hoover finally gave in.
Wearing a khaki jacket with a swastika, Hitler greeted the American visitor at the Chancellery on March 8. As they talked, Hoover concluded that Hitler was well informed on issues such as housing, foreign exchange rates and international trade. But according to Arentz, a few key words would set Hitler off and “all of a sudden [he] would jump to his feet and just went to raving talk—tantrums—that showed he was crazy.” Those words were “Jew,” “Communist” and “democracy.”
At one point, Hoover claimed to have interrupted Hitler, declaring, “That’s enough; I’m not interested in hearing your views.” He told Arentz that if Hitler would face an American jury “there wouldn’t be any question about him being declared insane.” Nonetheless, neither Hoover nor Hitler appeared to take serious offense at anything the other said, and the American emerged with a revised view of the German leader. He no longer believed he was merely someone else’s puppet; he could see that he was a force in his own right.
The next day, Hoover had lunch with Goering at his “hunting lodge” east of Berlin, a lavish complex full of tapestries, painting and sculptures. Greeted by sixteen costumed trumpeters, the American was brought up short by the life-sized bust of a woman placed as a centerpiece on the table where they were having lunch. “Yes, that’s solid gold; that’s my first wife,” Goering told him. Knowing about Hoover’s background as a mining engineer, his host pressed him to tell him his views of Russia’s mineral resources. The American gave an optimistic account, telling Arentz later that he’d prefer to have the Germans go east rather than west if they were planning any action in the future.
After Germany, Hoover continued his European journey, visiting Poland, Latvia, Estonia, Finland and Sweden. On a final stopover back in England, he spoke with the press. While he acknowledged “many menaces to peace,” he asserted that he did not “believe that a widespread war is probable in the immediate future.” Back in New York, he summed up his views in a speech to the Foreign Policy Association on March 31. Between his meeting with Hitler and that speech, Hitler had completed the annexation of Austria, but that had not altered Hoover’s opinion about the need for America to avoid getting caught up in any new European war. Such a conflict, he said, would “have all the hideous elements of the old religious wars.” His conclusion: “If the world is to keep the peace, then we must keep peace with dictatorships as well as with popular governments. The forms of governments which other peoples pass through in working out their destinies is not our business.”
Hoover’s message was the direct opposite of Shirer’s. Yes, the situation in Europe was dangerous. And, yes, while Hoover believed Germany was not yet ready for military action, he privately conceded that it could take that step later—in all probability, targeting the East. But for him, this was an argument for leaving Hitler’s Germany to its own devices, not for issuing a wake-up call aimed at mobilizing Western nations, including the United States, to try to stop him. He came to Germany with that conviction, and left Germany with his beliefs not only intact but reinforced. Not even his face-to-face encounter with Hitler, complete with tirades and tantrums, could shake his conviction that the only rational American response to the new Germany was, in effect, a shrug of the shoulders.
Jacob Beam was still short of his twenty-seventh birthday when he arrived in Berlin in February 1935 to take up his assignment as third secretary in the U.S. Embassy, with responsibility for reporting on the country’s internal affairs. He would spend a total of five years working in the German capital—“a longer period than can be claimed by any other American official,” as he wrote in his unpublished manuscript about that period.
Despite his youth, Beam was well prepared for his post. His father was a German professor at Princeton, where the younger Beam studied as an undergraduate before continuing his education at Cambridge. Working in the Geneva consulate when he got word of his pending assignment to Berlin, he made a point of seeking “instruction” from Edgar Mowrer, the Chicago Daily News correspondent who ha
d been forced out of Germany in 1933 and was then based in Geneva. “He gave me introductions to representatives of the old regime as well as anti-Nazi dissidents who were to be approached by a cut-out,” Beam recalled. “He even furnished me with a list of women to be avoided.”
While acknowledging that many of those contacts were not representative of the new Germany, he insisted they were still “the most knowledgeable and influential Germans to whom I could have access.” Among them were ardent German nationalists, often from aristocratic families, who considered themselves far superior to the country’s new rulers. “Although cold and severe in their demeanor, they had a code of justice which abhorred Nazi excesses, particularly the mistreatment of the Jews,” he wrote.
Several of these nationalists had American wives. When IBM’s boss Thomas Watson came to visit the company’s German subsidiaries in the summer of 1937, he hosted a large dinner at the Adlon Hotel. Among the guests was Beam, who found himself seated at a table with Norman Ebbut, the Berlin correspondent of the Times of London, a gauleiter (Nazi district leader), and the Count and Countess Seherr-Thoss from East Prussia. The daughter of the former American ambassador to France Henry White, Muriel White had married Hermann Seherr-Thoss in 1909; she was also the sister of one of the diplomats stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. Beam and Ebbut witnessed her exchange with the gauleiter as the dinner was ending.
“Is it true that the Party sometimes rewards deserving Jews by making them honorary Aryans?” she asked.
When the gauleiter conceded that this happened on occasion, the countess followed up with a line that she must have been mulling over for quite some time. “Can you tell me then how I could become an honorary Jew?”
Hitlerland Page 27
