The House by the Lake

by Thomas Harding

  In a letter home to his parents, penned in English, Hanns wrote:

  I passed Glienicke. House OK. Garden very verwildert [wild], and looks tiny, as the trees etc are so big, that it looks much more closed in and smaller. Meisel is still living in it. Windows now painted red instead of blue-and-white. Munks are still alive and neighbours.

  It would be decades before another member of the Alexander family would see the lake house.

  15

  MEISEL

  1946

  WITH WILL MEISEL and his family remaining in Austria, Hanns Hartmann was in charge of Edition Meisel. This was the first time that the creative director was able to run the business as he saw fit, without interference from his boss. Having re-established contact with his deputy, Paul Fago, who had remained in Berlin during the last months of the war, Hanns set about rebuilding the company.

  First, he had to deal with the new Allied bureaucracy. Much like their Soviet counterparts, the British authorities had no sooner arrived in Berlin than they began assessing and then licensing the businesses operating within their sector. Licences could be granted, however, only if a business owner could be shown to have no connection to the Nazi Party.

  On 7 June 1945, the West Berlin council sent a letter, typed on thin pink paper, to Hanns Hartmann.

  Dear Mr Creative Director,

  Hereby I allow you to reopen the Edition Meisel in Wittelsbacherstrasse 18 under your personal management, as well as the Monopol and Echo Editions. Clearly the former owners cannot be in any way directly or indirectly involved in the company or have any kind of influence on the artistic decisions.

  With the company now officially permitted to do business, Hanns Hartmann and Paul Fago rebooted the operation. They contacted Berliner Rundfunk, the radio station which was broadcasting from the British sector, suggesting that they play the company’s back catalogue. Then, taking advantage of the relationships developed before the war, they reached out to the music halls and other venues that had begun to emerge. Within a few weeks, with a trickle of orders coming in, it felt as if they were back in business.

  As he made his way around Berlin, reconnecting with old friends and colleagues, Hanns Hartmann came to the attention of the Soviet authorities. Now in charge of the city’s eastern sector, and believing that the arts were important to both building morale and political education, the Soviets asked Hanns to rebuild the Metropol Theater which had been bombed in 1944. While the theatre was being restored, he was told, the company could rehearse at the Colosseum which had served as a hospital during the war and was also in the Soviet sector. In return for helping out with the Metropol Theater, the Hartmanns were provided with new accommodation in East Berlin.

  A few weeks later, impressed by his efforts, as well as his unimpeachable record, the Soviets asked Hanns to head the German Audit Committee, which would assist the occupying powers in their denazification of the arts.

  The term ‘denazification’ was first devised in 1943 by the US military as part of their post-war planning to reform the German judiciary. Over the next few years it evolved into a more general programme of removing the Nazi Party’s influence from the German population. At the war’s end, over 8.5 million Germans, more than 10 per cent of the population, were members of, or affiliated to, the Nazi Party. As well as pursuing and prosecuting the Nazi high command, and those deemed to have committed war crimes or profited from slave labour, the Allies sought to purge Germany of National Socialist ideology, and rid the country of all remnants of Nazi rule – statues, symbols, street names and any organisation that had been connected with the party.

  Following the occupation of Berlin, the implementation of denazification varied considerably between the four occupying powers. The Soviets chose to promote their own communist ideology rather than educate the population about their responsibility for war crimes. The Americans, by contrast, initially vowed to vigorously investigate every potential supporter of the party. It quickly became clear that the American approach would be impossible; the number of potential suspects was simply overwhelming.

  In the end, the Americans chose to follow the British and French who were embracing a more pragmatic approach, zeroing in on the most egregious personalities along with those who wished to retain positions of responsibility. A hierarchy of guilt was established: Exonerated, Followers, Lesser Offenders, Offenders and Major Offenders. The Major Offenders – men such as aviation minister Hermann Göring, or Josef Kramer, the concentration camp commandant – would be dealt with at the war crimes trials that year in Belsen and Nuremberg. The exonerated were released. Those in the intermediate categories would be investigated and, if found guilty, punished using a variety of methods, ranging from imprisonment to being banned from holding public office or being forced to carry out manual labour.

  As part of the denazification process, millions of Germans were asked to fill out a Fragebogen, or questionnaire. This six-page document – which was soon hated by the Germans – was then reviewed by a panel of inspectors, and if warranted, the subject of inquiry would be called in for questioning.

  Early in August 1945, Hanns received a Fragebogen, which he completed on behalf of Edition Meisel1. The company had been founded in 1926, he wrote, and it was owned one hundred per cent by Will Meisel. Yes, he conceded, Will Meisel had been a member of the Nazi Party, but he ‘had no role in government’, none of the company’s works had been used by the government, and nor was their content ‘fascistic’. He said that the company could resume normal business as soon as the city’s printing presses were operating again, and provided a copy of Edition Meisel’s catalogue including a list of their well-known composers.

  As to the future, he said, ‘together with famous new authors, our plan is to set up programmes for German theatres and to write new plays. In addition we hope to sell and play foreign pieces.’ There was no mention of the Jewish composers who had been attached to the company before the war. Of the eleven questions to which Hanns Hartmann had to respond, his only ambivalent answer was to number 9. Asked ‘Which of the works cannot be played because of fascist or militaristic or racial tendencies?’, he replied, ‘None of these have tendencies, but some have to be checked and until then they will not be used.’ On 29 August 1945, Hanns submitted the completed questionnaire and then, hearing nothing back from the British authorities, assumed that his answers had been satisfactory and returned his attention to the day-to-day issues facing business.

  Over the next twelve months, Hanns endeavoured to balance his work for Will Meisel with his responsibilities to the Soviets. This proved difficult, however. While working to rebuild the Metropol, he experienced intolerable interference from the Soviets. With the memories of a dictatorship meddling in his artistic life still fresh in his mind, Hanns discussed the matter with his wife. All he says of this matter in his private memoirs is that he decided to ‘leave Berlin for political reasons’.

  The problem was that Hanns was now well known to the Soviet authorities. If the Hartmanns left for the British, American or French sectors, the Soviets might track them down and arrest them. In the previous months, there had been cases where the Soviet security police had crossed into western Berlin, snatched a suspect and dragged them back into the eastern sector. Already, a number of Berliners had been detained by the Soviet authorities and accused of espionage and, worse, connections with the Nazi Party. Those found guilty had been sent to the camps and had not been heard of since. Hanns wrestled with how best to escape the city.

  In early autumn of 19462, having determined that it was safe to return, Will and Eliza Meisel left their ‘Austrian holiday home’ with their two sons, arriving back in Berlin on 15 September. With their office building destroyed and their apartment still in ruins, they moved into the house in Groß Glienicke, located as it now was in Soviet-controlled eastern Germany.

  Soon after his return to Berlin, Will Meisel met Hanns Hartmann. Explaining his predicament with the Soviets, Hanns said that he and his wife
would shortly be leaving. As such, he could no longer continue managing the company. While Will remained banned from ownership, pending his denazification process, Paul Fago would take over the helm. The two men said their goodbyes and promised to stay in touch.

  A few days later, on 1 October 1946, Hanns and Ottilie Hartmann lined up at the border crossing in the Soviet sector carrying only a few belongings. Through his contacts, Hanns had secured false papers in the name of ‘Mansfeld’. When it was their turn, they handed their travel documents to the guard and, after a cursory inspection, they were waved through. Relieved, the Hartmanns crossed into western Berlin and headed directly for the station. There they purchased a ticket to Hamburg, which lay deep in the British zone in north-western Germany, and boarded a train. From Hamburg they travelled to Cologne3, where soon after the British appointed Hanns as director of North-West German Radio.

  Now that the Meisels were living once again at the lake house, Will wrote to the Groß Glienicke Gemeinde, or parish council, asking if he could purchase the land underneath the house. The Gemeinde administration had been established soon after the Soviets had taken over the village and was made up of individuals who had no previous affiliation with the Nazi Party or the landlords, the Schultzes. Since the Gemeinde was in charge of local affairs, it was also responsible for the village’s land reform programme. As tenants, Will and Eliza Meisel were still deemed eligible and, in return for a small fee, the transaction was complete. Finally, the Meisels owned both the land and the buildings of the lake house.

  With Hanns Hartmann having fled Berlin, Will Meisel set about retaking control of his business. First, he decided, they must repair the building at Wittelsbacherstrasse 18 in Wilmersdorf, intending to use the location as both an office and a home. Next, he wrote to the British authorities asking that he be allowed to manage Edition Meisel. The response was clear and firm. In a letter from the Berlin council to the Information Control Unit (Theatre and Music Section), dated 21 November 1946, it was written that the company should continue to be run by Herr Fago, ‘until the successful denazification of Mr Meisel’.

  Frustrated by the intransigence of the British, Will informed Paul that he would be officially running the company. In the meantime, Will would continue his efforts to clear his name.

  By the summer of 1947, the repairs were complete and the Meisels moved back into their home at Wittelsbacherstrasse 18. They were now too busy rebuilding their shattered lives to spend time in the countryside. Once or twice they drove out to Groß Glienicke to check on their property, but the village was difficult to reach, given the terrible roads and the Soviet and British checkpoints along the way. The post-war shortages had also made petrol prohibitively expensive.

  By October 1947, two years after the war’s end, the British denazification efforts had been proven only a partial success. More than 2.1 million cases had been examined by the British4, resulting in 347,000 people being dismissed from their jobs and 2,320 people being prosecuted for providing false answers on their Fragebogen. Per capita, these figures were far lower than in the American zone5. In response, the British authorities passed Ordinance 110, transferring the responsibility for the denazification process from the British to the German authorities. As a fail-safe, ultimate control remained with British commissioners, who could intervene in cases when they felt it necessary.

  With millions still awaiting denazification, it was clear that the system could never catch up. By now, more concentrated on the emerging Soviet threat than worried about former Nazis, the British, French and American occupying powers agreed to rush the outstanding cases through the courts. These remaining cases were to be tried through summary proceedings6, leaving insufficient time to investigate the accused. As a result, many of the judgements of this period had questionable judicial value. It was also decided that no new denazification cases were to be initiated from January 1948 onwards. Only ongoing cases would proceed to trial.

  On the morning of 25 June 1948, Will Meisel entered Schlüterstraße 45, off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin, the same building that had previously housed the Reich Chamber of Culture, and where its commissioner, Hans Hinkel, had held his offices. Now it was occupied by the Intelligence Section of British Information Services Control. They had two main tasks: handing out licences to artists, actors and musicians, and overseeing denazification Spruchkammern, or tribunals. Will was here for the latter.

  The Spruchkammern were run by twenty-two German staff and their remit had been defined in a four-power directive: ‘Concerning the Removal from Office and Positions of Responsibility of Nazis and Persons Hostile to Allied Purposes.’ The Spruchkammern’s decisions were subject to Allied ratification, but in practice were seldom overturned.

  The lift had not worked since the days of Hans Hinkel, so Will walked up three flights of stairs before entering an elegant, wood-panelled room filled with rows of chairs facing a large table. The chamber was almost empty – there had been so many of these denazification hearings that they hardly awakened interest anymore. Eighteen months earlier, in December 1946, this same room had seen Wilhelm Furtwängler, one of Germany’s most famous conductors, undergo his own denazification trial. Despite his close association with the Nazi Party, Furtwängler had been exonerated and allowed to return to work7. Will Meisel hoped he would achieve the same outcome. To do this, he would have to demonstrate that he had been a Mitläufer, a nominal ‘paper’ member of the party, and had never supported its beliefs. It is worth noting that during his trial in the 1930s, Robert von Schultz had to prove the opposite: that not only was he a member of the party, but he also adhered to its ideology.

  Furtwängler’s tribunal had been overseen by the Americans, with the assistance of two Germans, from the German Audit Committee, including its chairman, a certain Hanns Hartmann8. Will Meisel knew, however, that his former creative director was no longer in Berlin and, distressingly, would not be appearing as a witness in his trial.

  On the stroke of ten, the six commissioners walked into the room9, including the forty-year-old chairman and former communist, Alex Vogel110. Also present were six witnesses, including Paul Fago. The chairman opened the proceedings by explaining that Will Meisel had been a member of the Nazi Party, had therefore been banned from running the company, and had now applied for reinstatement. He then invited the publisher to present his case.

  Will Meisel started by providing a summary of his career, establishing his company in 1926, building up the music catalogue and then working on various films. The Nazi rise to power on 30 January 1933 had been a total ‘surprise’, he said, and that, three days later, Edition Meisel had been blocked from the radio because 80 per cent of his catalogue was made up of Jewish composers. He was known in the Ministry of Propaganda as a ‘Judenknecht’, he reported, a slave to the Jews, and he had ‘suffered a lot’ for that.

  He described his Nazi Party membership as an ‘unfortunate step,’ adding that he had joined the party to ‘protect my business and the rights of the Jewish authors’. At this point Vogel interceded and said, ‘In terms of business it was a fortunate move.’

  Will was quick to counter that ‘with hindsight, it was not the right thing to do’, adding that after losing his Jewish financial director in 1935 he had hired Paul Fago, who was a Freemason, a proscribed organisation at that time. Later that year he had taken on Hanns Hartmann, whose wife was Jewish. Will said that he tried to help Frau Hartmann emigrate to England, and when they failed at this, he ‘made good weather’ with the Ministry of Propaganda, allowing Hartmann to retain his position, despite having a Jewish wife. He went on to say that when things became politically turbulent in Berlin, during the ‘times of Jewish discrimination, the Hartmann couple had often slept in my private flat or in the company house in Groß Glienicke. In short, until the end of the war I did everything to save the Hartmanns.’

  Vogel pushed him on this point. ‘Have Herr Fago and Herr Hartmann given statements on this?’ Will replied11, ‘No, not in this
manner.’ The court was clearly puzzled by these omissions. Why, if he had been so helped by Will Meisel, had Hartmann failed to give a positive testimony? This was particularly odd, since Hartmann was a highly credible witness.

  Worried that he was losing the panel, Will described how he had helped other Jews, first mentioning the estate agent who had found the lake house for his family back in 1937. ‘I knew the property manager Herbert Würzburg,’ he said, ‘who was of Jewish descent, and I supported him until 1943 with money and food coupons. I also supported the Jewish composer Harry Waldau, commissioning him to produce work until he was taken away in 1943.’ No one mentioned that the sixty-seven-year-old Harry Waldau and the forty-four-year-old Herbert Würzburg had been rounded up in Berlin, and transported to the gas chambers of Auschwitz.

  In order to prove that he was not directly connected with the Nazi regime12, Will now called on former colleagues to testify. While it was common at such tribunals to call character witnesses, their testimonies were commonly known as Persilschein, or whitewash certificates, and were often discounted as unreliable by the judges. The first to take the stand was the music publisher’s former lawyer, Reinhold Walch. Holding up the 1938 letter that Will had written to the head of the Reich Music Chamber, Hans Hinkel, Vogel asked the lawyer if he was involved with his client’s attempt to purchase aryanised businesses. It was he who had pushed Meisel, Walch responded, as he had ‘thought it was a good idea to buy those businesses’. Pointing out that this attempt to purchase Jewish properties had taken place only a few days after Kristallnacht which had terrorised Germany’s Jewish population, Vogel then asked the lawyer if he thought he had ‘given a good tip’. Walch replied, ‘Yes.’

  As part of the trial record, Will Meisel had been asked to submit an up-to-date copy of his Fragebogen, copies of which were included in the court papers. In question 121, Will had been asked, ‘Have you or any immediate member of family ever acquired property which has been seized from others for political, religious, or racial reasons?’ Will had said ‘No’. To question 123 – ‘Do you administrate Jewish properties which have been aryanised?’ – he had again said ‘No’. Finally, when asked to list the properties that he owned, Will had written that, in addition to his properties in Berlin, he ‘owned a wooden house in Groß Glienicke which he had purchased from Dr Alexander in 1936’. Of course, Vogel and his fellow commissioners didn’t know that the lake house had been aryanised in 194013, since those records were buried in the Gestapo archives, to which they had no access at the time.