by Erich Topp
If you visit the Museo de Oro in Lima, or if you have marvelled at what little can still be seen of the ancient gold treasures in the Banco Central in Quito and Bogota, you learn to appreciate the loss all mankind suffered with the destruction of those precious objects of art and culture. The importance of the Inca hoard was soon overshadowed by the avalanche of silver that followed. By the middle of the seventeenth century, silver alone accounted for 99 percent of all metal exports from Spanish America. The silver Spain extracted from the New World in the first 150 years after Columbus was worth more than three times the value of all of Europe's metal reserves combined.
In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the "Cerro Rico" of Potosi (Bolivia) became the center of colonial commercial activity in South America. Over the course of 300 years Potosi was to devour 8 million human lives. Along with their wives and children, the Indians were uprooted from their villages and driven to the "Mountain of Silver." Of every ten natives deported to the icy heights of Potosi (16,000 feet), seven never made it back. For hundreds of miles around, the Spaniards combed the countryside in their quest for forced labor. Working conditions on the Cerro were utterly inhumane. Outside temperatures fell well below freezing, while inside the mountain the heat raged like an inferno. At night some 6,500 fires lighted the slopes of the mountain as workers took advantage of the updraft to purify the silver.
Within 6 miles of the mountain all vegetation ceased to grow because of poisonous gases in the air, deadly for fauna and flora alike. Suffering was worst inside the mines. Here the use of mercury to extract silver more efficiently produced toxic fumes that could not be vented properly and gradually poisoned the human body. Loss of hair and teeth along with uncontrollable nervous shaking were common symptoms. "Mercu- ried" victims dragged themselves through the streets begging for handouts.
Today Potosi (literally, "the mountain that quakes") is deserted. Burrowed into and gnawed up, as if attacked by a colony of termites, it stands as a silent memorial for other, similar events in South American history. The "Conquista" broke apart a civilization based on collectivism by destroying its leadership. But far worse than the excesses of war and conquest was the introduction of mining. It displaced populations on a massive scale and tore apart the old village communities. What remained were rootless remnants of a once coherent people, as unskilled workers little more than cheap fuel for the colonial economy.
Today I look upon these developments in a broader historical, economic, and social context. When the Spaniards arrived in South America they found themselves confronted by the mighty theocratic empire of the Incas, an empire stretching from Colombia to Chile and Argentina. Despite prolonged destruction, the magnificent culture and civilization of this people has left behind impressive testimony to its greatness. Among the evidence that has reached us one must emphasize architectural structures whose dimensions and attention to detail attest to a high level of sophistication; achievements in technology and engineering, such as irrigation systems and terrace agriculture, the remains of which we saw ourselves; transcontinental highways; and, not least, art objects of high value. In Lima's museum one can still look at hundreds of skulls that show signs of trepanning by Inca surgeons and implantations of silver and gold plates. The Incas, like the Mayas, were great astronomers, able to measure time and space with remarkable precision.
No one can deny South America's wealth in terms of raw materials: oil in Venezuela and Ecuador; natural gas in Bolivia, in the Gulf of Guayaquil, and farther down the coast; copper in Chile; tin in Bolivia; rich fishing grounds off Peru and Ecuador. There have been many attempts to unite the continent politically to enhance its economic strength. The first such effort under the Incas miscarried. Indeed, the struggle between North and South, between Huascar and Atahualpa, made the region ripe for the Spanish invasion. Simon Bolivar's grand vision of a unified and centrally ruled continent could not be realized either. Greater Colombia disintegrated into five separate countries. The great liberator died a vanquished man, confiding to General Urdenata, "We shall never be happy, never!" Urdenata's great-granddaughter passed these words on to me. Bolivar enlarged on this comment in an address to the Venezuelan Congress:
Senores, we are neither North Americans nor Europeans. Already the Spaniards, to whom we trace our ancestry, carried in their veins a good measure of African, Arab blood. Our population has absorbed Indian elements. All of this is crucial. We respect the equality of all before the law; however, we should also be realistic enough to accept that mental and physical inequalities in our population force us in a brutal way to reflect on our situation.
Diary:
North America, February 26, 1935
We apprcach San Pedro, California. "All hands on deck!" A chilly breeze greets us above. Through the morning mist we hear distinctly the fog horn of the nearby lighthouse. Soon we can make out the contours of several battleships, vaguely at first, later more clearly. The flagship of the Pacific Fleet, along with several battleships, cruisers, and transports, has just returned from spring exercises. We are impressed by her massive superstructure and the odd masts that look like huge oil-drilling platforms. As we pass the entrance to the base we fire salute. Seaplanes take off and land around us. One of them is trailing a practice target. Then out of the fog emerge the shapes of torpedo-boats, and a little later the Pennsylvania, broad and plump in her design, from certain angles looking almost as wide as she is long.
We moor alongside a narrow pier, ahead and behind us the comfortable shuttle boats of the battleships anchoring offshore. Noisy loudspeakers direct the flow of boats and sailors. Ashore we see immense parking lots for the cars of the officers and enlisted personnel. Here every sailor who does not waste his money on drink has his own car.
What can you do in San Pedro? Not much. So we hop on the streetcar for Los Angeles, about an hour's ride. Along the way we pass the extensive oil fields of Long Beach. From a distance they look like a scorched forest with burnt-out tree stumps everywhere. Hundreds of drilling platforms testify to the vast oil deposits below the surface. Storage tanks and refineries hug the train tracks.
We reach the suburbs of Los Angeles with its ethnic mix of Chinese, Indians, Japanese, Negroes, and whites. Without a sense of direction we stroll about downtown. Every once in a while someone will stop and talk to us, ask a question, or take us along to some site of interest. This way we begin to learn more about the huge city. What we often refer to as the "Yellow Peril" finds a different explanation in this place. The Chinese are industrious and frugal. As cheap labor they are an important factor in America's social structure.
An elevator takes us 465 feet up to the top of the tower above City Hall. Now we see the entire city in all its magnitude. Suburbs stretch all the way to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Hollywood with its expensive mansions stands out like a green oasis. Toward the south, toward San Pedro, likewise a bewildering sea of houses as far as the eye can see, neatly cut up by streets that run parallel to each other and create a checkerboard pattern.
In the meantime dusk is settling over the city. The skyscrapers with their illuminated facades stand out against the dark sky. Wild neon lights are everywhere along the streets of downtown. Red and green letters chase one another on commercial buildings. Floodlights play their games and brighten Los Angeles's main street, Broadway. We did not see a single bicyclist. Instead there are long lines of cars wherever you look. At intersections they grow into veritable traffic monsters. The city seems tyrannized by this traffic, only signs like "Stop" and "Go" allow for some sense of order.
There are many German clubs and associations in Los Angeles. Someone is kind enough to invite us to the German Club. Its walls are decorated with pictures of German landscapes and the words of German toasts and drinking songs. But we are struck by the fact that the receptionist does not speak German any longer, and the waitresses, even though they wear Bavarian dresses, do not understand the German language. It's the same old song: Their grandparents had come
from Germany, their parents grew up bilingual. The young ones do not even know what part of Germany their grandparents lived in. During the war many were forced by public pressure to anglicize their names. Thus the United States shows a great capacity to absorb Germans in a short time. The picture is different in South America, where immigrants from northern Europe differ from the Mediterranean race and retain their unique way of life.
February 28, 1935
On my trip to Los Angeles today I became involved in a conversation with an American. First came the usual questions about Hitler and the economy of the Third Reich. He pointed out that Germany's educated circles would never recognize Hitler because of his lowly social origins. This kind of attitude had always been around throughout history, and America was no exception. For instance, Roosevelt enjoyed the confidence of the masses but not that of nation's leaders, especially in the economic sector. I replied by emphasizing Roosevelt's election successes and added that Hitler had almost 100 percent of the German people behind him. I tried to explain to him what Germany's real situation was like and that direct comparisons to the United States made little sense. Germany is searching today for her own identity and proper place among the nations of the world. Since nobody wanted to help her, she was forced to take matters into her own hands. Not surprisingly, this has provoked reactions from those who either envy or hate the Germans. These elements are very busy besmearing Germany's reputation. Sadly, they are also quite successful because they control the means to do so.
Then I told him about Germany's Voluntary Labor Service. In Germany one's career is not dependent on personal wealth but on one's character and accomplishments. My acquaintance then suggested that America, too, had labor camps where every worker was paid a dollar a day. It might not be much but certainly was better than being unemployed. At that point I decided not to pursue our conversation further, for it would have been impossible to tell this American who can think in only two dimensions-namely, comfort and business-about our ideals.
March 2, 1935
San Francisco. This is our official reception in America. A delegation of female students from the local medical school delivers a first welcome from the city in the form of a huge flower bouquet. The young women move about graciously in their blue capes, every once in a while lifting them to reveal the bright red lining underneath. An American band on the pier competes with ours for attention.
A motorcade is standing by to take us to the official reception at City Hall. Group after group is stowed away in the cars. The latter carry signs, "Visit of Cruiser Karlsruhe, " and most fly flags on their hoods-the American one, the black-white-red [the colors of the Reich], and the swastika flag. Convertibles are decorated with bunting in the national colors. Incidentally, the signs were soon removed, even though it was planned to retain them throughout the occasion. About halfway to City Hall, on Market Street, we are suddenly passed by our commanding officer. Escorted by two police motorcycles with their sirens howling, and at high speed, his car is moving unbothered through dense traffic straight across town. That was something new for us.
While waiting for the light to change at intersections we have to listen to many spiteful comments, but most faces are friendly. Our motorcade, too, is being escorted by policemen to forestall unpleasant incidents. On all newsstands you could read the banner headlines, "3 Beaten in German Cruiser Row." Immediately upon our arrival an unfortunate incident had occurred. A U.S. naval officer, who had been mistaken for someone of our crew, was attacked by two men with anti-German attitudes before the latter could be restrained by police. This was the kind of affair the press was likely to blow out of proportion.
Several hundred yards before reaching City Hall we leave the cars. Accompanied by our band, we march in parade formation the rest of the way while large crowds of people look on. A tiny group of female honor guards awaits us outside, apparently not unaware of how comical the whole situation really is. Under shouts of "Heil!" and "Long live Germany!" we move into the spacious, domed interior of the City Hall. Up on a platform the city leaders are assembled, also delegations from the U.S. Army and Navy. Various leading citizens extend their welcome to us and express their hope that our stay will be enjoyable, especially since so many preparations went into it. Many other Germans, placed in the galleries as well as next to us, also attend the ceremony.
March 12, 1935
We sail early in the morning. Only a few friends are there to see us off. The reason for our spectacular reception in San Francisco was that the mayor needs the votes of the 60,000 Germans here in the next election. The visit of our cruiser gave him a fine opportunity to buy their support. This interpretation seems borne out by the fact that not a single newspaper wrote about the official festivities given in honor of the Karlsruhe. Under similar circumstances, coverage of the visit of a French cruiser filled column after column in the papers. Nevertheless, we had a jolly good time, and many people were eager to make our stay as pleasant and exciting as possible.
March 15, 1935
Vancouver. The pier is filled with waiting people, but they do not wave. The city gives us a peculiar welcome. On its way to Moose Hall, where the German colony has organized a reception, our delegation meets angry crowds and vociferous protest. The police are barely able to escort us safely to the place. It reminds me of the situation in Germany just a few years ago.
We see faces tired out by life's hardships and distorted by deep hatred. This burning fury and hatred is the product of local press reports that characterize us as representatives of the Nazi regime, a political system allegedly responsible for the degradation of workers, for the brutal execution of innocent women, for the suppression of any form of humanitarian principles. This is how the press dictates public opinion here as it does everywhere, easily manipulating the unemployed laborers from the countryside who are being swept into Vancouver during the winter months.
March 17, 1935
I am on duty. The pier is crowded with people eager to come aboard and see the ship. All alongside the cruiser policemen have erected barricades to keep the people at a distance and to allow for an orderly flow of visitors. Through some misunderstanding the gates are opened and the crowd surges forward all the way to the ship. The guard on duty at the gangway is overwhelmed by the onslaught. Six more men are sent to assist him. Linking arms, we form a semicircle around the gangway and use all our strength to keep the crowd from surging ahead. The people keep up the pressure. Women faint, children cry and are passed forward, half crushed and with mortal fear on their faces. Our shoes and trousers are wet and soiled from the dirt. Canadian police try to help out, but with little effect. Finally the gangway is pulled back onto the ship, a section of the pier is cleared, and we try again to put down the gangway. But the crowd simply will not behave in a reasonable manner. People push and shove even worse than before, all trying to be the first on board. When the supports of the gangway threaten to collapse, orders are given to call off the visitation hours. Nobody is being allowed to come aboard.
April 1, 1935
We approach the Mexican coast. Acapulco Bay swallows us with its stifling heat. One more turn and the fishing village lies directly ahead. It is small, insignificant, boring.
Today's luxury resort-in 1935 we experienced it as a collection of pitiful huts.
April 2, 1935
Reveille at 4 A.M. We are to wear our special blue uniforms and take along a bag of provisions for the twelve-hour bus trip on seats without backrests.
The vistas are quite impressive. The driver, however, seems to have gone berserk. He takes the turns in the road in the wildest manner; it's up and down, up and down. Within minutes we cover differences in altitude of several hundred yards.
The country is empty and dead except for huge cacti and eucalyptus trees. Here and there we encounter primitive human settlements. They consist of huts thatched with reeds or straw to provide some protection against the cool nights. Young children play everywhere. The road is not paved, merely
covered with gravel. We have eight cars in front of us as we speed along, like a worm enveloped by a thick cloud of dust. At times the dust is so impenetrable that we cannot see anything on either side. It descends like a veil upon our special uniforms, the latter now reduced to trousers and shirts with sleeves rolled up. The heat is unbearable. Opening the windows does not seem to bring relief at all. Having passed Iguala, we are off to Taxco. The mountains become more rugged. The engines of the camiGns howl to meet the challenge. In front of the church in Taxco a lively market fair is under way. Hand-woven fabrics stand out with their brilliant colors. In no time we are surrounded by the local population and drawn into the milling crowd. Then a funeral procession passes by, the coffin carried by four men. Behind it is an entourage of black-veiled figures along with several guitar players. For a moment the people fall silent to honor the dead before the hustle and bustle of the market resumes as if nothing has happened.
At last, after some 280 miles on the bus, we reach Mexico City. What comes next sounds almost like a fairy tale. That same evening I can finally take a bath, followed by a long-prepared, excellent dinner, and then it's off to bed in my own guest house in the backyard. The Germans here seem to compete with one another to render our impressions as pleasant as possible. I am staying with the von Kugelgen family, a name that is certainly not unfamiliar in Germany. He is a physician, she is from Hamburg, nee Countess Holk.
On April 4, on our way to the pyramids, we drive along an old dam once built by the Aztecs on a lake that is now dried up. Years ago the government advertised this project as a means to gain fertile land for agriculture. In reality they were after the treasure of the Aztecs, which according to tradition had been dumped in the lake. They never found the treasure, nor did they ever bring the land under cultivation because of an alleged lack of chemical fertilizers. The city still suffers terribly from the saltpeter dust the winds carry off from the dry lakebed.
