Despite my difficulties and growing disillusionment with the school, I really enjoyed some events, especially the bus trips to Munich to visit its museums and art galleries. On these visits, we saw mostly traditional works of art, and the guides told us, “The German works of art are the best.” They viewed the French and Spanish artists in the galleries as secondary to ours.
The German paintings and sculptures were considered so good because they represented the German ideals of beauty and social values. The paintings featured large men with bulging muscles either armed for the hunt, a dog by their side, or attired in draped classical garb from ancient Roman times with garlands on their heads. The women were beautiful, had long blonde hair, and were often accompanied by a throng of children.
On one of our trips, the guide was a wounded soldier with one crutch who had been an art professor. As he told us about the high quality of the German paintings compared to those of other countries, I wondered if he was speaking from his heart and education or reciting the party view of art, which he was supposed to do as part of his job. But whatever his reasons for speaking as he did, his admonitions had little effect on the boys.
As we continued through the museum, the guide denigrated the modern painters, telling us about the decadence of Munich’s Blaue Reiter movement, which featured such well-known painters as Paul Klee, Wassily Kandinsky, Gabrielle Munter, Franz Marc, and August Macke. “They are all so abstract; they show no understanding of realism,” he told us. “They ignore all of the principles that have been developed over the centuries in the classical tradition.”
Yet while the guides disparaged these works, and later Hitler claimed the artists were decadent for their lack of realism, the Nazis later sold these paintings, along with other artworks, to Switzerland to obtain money for the war effort. In this way the artworks were saved for posterity and were not burned, and now these paintings are revered for their contribution to the abstract arts movement. Still, despite the guide’s criticism, at least we saw the French impressionist paintings, since the Nazis were fond of using them as an example of the decline of Western art.
Ironically, when we returned to school after seeing a mix of traditions and our teachers asked us to discuss what we saw, most of the boys said they liked the French impressionists the best. They said they liked the vibrancy of the colors, and the sense of vitality and excitement in the art. But the teachers didn’t like our choices. When we described our impressions of the trip and what we found most interesting, one teacher went on the attack when a student said he preferred the impressionists. Immediately, the teacher glared at him and told him what he, other teachers, and party leaders thought was wrong with this art.
“How can you say you prefer this artwork? It’s too abstract. There is no subject. The colors jump all over the place.” The teacher’s rant went on and on, denigrating not only the art, but also the student, for daring to like it. In short, our teachers considered this modern art a disgrace; they hated it because this art opposed the party line, which favored only realism. Still, after each trip, we discussed the art we had seen and what we liked or didn’t like and why, though after such attacks, the students who liked the impressionists increasingly kept their opinions to themselves and claimed they preferred German realism, though I sensed that they kept their real opinions to themselves, for fear of being attacked for not embracing the Nazi Party line about art.
Besides visiting galleries and museums, we went on other bus trips to Munich. Our teachers took us to see operas, particularly those by Wagner, who was a great favorite of Hitler, because the powerful beat of his music brought to mind images of majesty and marching men and because he celebrated German myths and history. We saw Parsifal, The Valkyrie, and the whole Ring Series, featuring Wotan and the golden treasure in the river. We also saw Tristan and Isolde, a great love story with the inevitable triangle. Tristan falls in love with Isolde, but she is promised to the noble king, whom she doesn’t love.
We went to see plays as well. We saw Goethe’s Faust, and some now long-forgotten plays that praised Hitler’s great accomplishments. One example was The House on the Border, a propaganda piece that portrayed the Russians as arch villains whom the Germans eventually discovered, arrested, and blew up or otherwise destroyed. Even though most of the plays we saw were propaganda, extolling the Nazis’ achievements, we never said anything to complain. It would be too dangerous, just as we knew we couldn’t say anything to criticize any government policy.
Yet, within limits, we could give our opinions of the art, music, or theatrical performances we had seen because our trips to Munich always ended with a discussion of these works. These discussions took place in a small hall, where the walls were decorated with pictures of Nazi heroes. We sat in a circle with our teacher, who led the discussion. We could freely criticize the overacting and obvious plots, though we could not criticize the themes or message of any of these works. But the teachers thought it was fine when many boys said they found it difficult to sit through hours and hours of Wagner operas. For example, when one boy complained, “The costumes and makeup of the heroes is so exaggerated! I felt like laughing!” the other boys laughed in agreement. The teachers probably had trouble sitting that long themselves.
Nevertheless, despite our all knowing the limits of acceptable criticism, some boys presented controversial viewpoints within certain limits, such as saying they liked the French paintings. However, as much as I held opposing views, I held back sharing my view, afraid of further cementing my position as an outsider. I didn’t want to say anything to further this reputation because I still craved acceptance.
When some boys did express controversial viewpoints, as when they admitted to preferring French paintings, this often sparked a lively discussion with other boys who supported the Nazi school of realism. Nevertheless, as long as we were discussing works of art, these comments became more acceptable, so to this limited degree, the boys could share their real reactions and feelings, even if at odds with the mainstream. Of course, they couldn’t criticize Hitler, the regime, or anything in the art pieces that suggested problems with the rules. But they could share their differing opinions about color and the lack of form and representation in modern pieces, and that’s what they did.
My disillusionment with the school continued to grow because of its military and sports emphasis, along with my conflicts with the upper-level students. Though the school was not characterized as a military school, we had extensive military training. We always marched in formation, with all students in uniform, organized by classes arranged in order—the older students first, the younger students behind them. We also learned to load carbines and shoot them during our athletic training.
But I was clearly not cut out to be a soldier. When we shot at bull’s-eyes, I generally missed them. Being a lousy shot contributed to my dissatisfaction with the school, giving my fellow students yet another reason to tease me. The teachers tried to help by stating in class that teasing was wrong, but it was a lost cause. The other boys still teased me each time I failed.
I was likewise poor at throwing the deactivated hand grenades that we threw after pulling a small string at the neck of the grenade. If it were real, this pull would have triggered an explosion about fifteen seconds later. The Americans called these grenades “potato mashers,” since they looked like the egg-shaped wooden rollers used in a kitchen to mash potatoes. While I could readily prepare to launch the grenade by pulling the string, as did the other students, I couldn’t throw it as far as they could, which would be a disadvantage to any soldier confronting the enemy on the battlefield or in the trenches—yet another black mark for me.
I also became disappointed because the teachers didn’t recognize what I was good at. While the teachers were friendly and well educated, all having a university education, they didn’t talk to me individually or encourage me, as they did with many of their favorite students. Their lack of responsiveness was very different from my experience at the Friedr
ich Wilhelm Schule, where the teachers often singled me out for being a good student by praising me in front of the class and recognizing my good test results. Sometimes they cited me as an example of what a good student should be. By contrast, the teachers at the Adolf Hitler Schule paid little attention to me, while praising the students who excelled at sports in front of the class because at Sonthofen, academics were secondary to excelling through physical prowess. At Sonthofen, I was a good example of how not to be. And I suppose I missed the attention my good grades used to earn me.
Another nail in the coffin that turned me against the school was the attitude of the upper-level students toward me and toward others in my class as well. Each class had about twenty students, and we were separated from students in the higher grades, since we had no classes together and roomed in different dorms. Furthering this separation, the school had a strict hierarchy, and the upper-level students bossed us around, criticizing our marching and other skills. They even started fights from time to time, in which an upper-level student would challenge one of the lower-level students to a fight and then beat him up. Any little infraction might set them off. They might think some lower-level students didn’t show enough respect to them or the teachers or that we didn’t walk fast enough. They might pick on any little thing. Whatever the reason, picking on us was an excuse to show their superior stature and strength. Very few upper-level students tried to help us, and they did not behave like true comrades. How much more productive it would have been to show us the correct way to do something we had done wrong or to encourage us to do better, but they never did. Since they were so hostile to us, we sought to avoid them as best we could, by not initiating a conversation with them or avoiding areas of the campus where they hung out.
Still another reason I disliked the school was that, aside from Wolfram, four months after my arrival I still had not made any close friends, and my relationship with Wolfram had become strained because of my comments questioning the Nazi regime on our skiing trip. I still felt very much the outsider, due to my bookishness and lack of athleticism, although I enjoyed my classes, especially science, history, and poetry.
But even the classes I liked helped to set me apart, since science and history seemed too academic, while a preference for poetry was not likely to be popular in a school where all things athletic and military were considered the highest pinnacle of success. Had the term been used back then, I might have been described as the quintessential “nerd” or “geek,” without the cliché that term carries today of the computer genius who makes millions. Back then, war and fighting to achieve power and world domination were glamorized; so that’s what the Adolf Hitler School emphasized, along with honoring those students who fit this fighting machine ideal.
Wolf (left) and Hansi (right), at around fourteen and thirteen years of age.
Finally, I was disappointed with the school because it was only a boys’ school, so I had seen no girls since I had arrived. Now that I was a teenager, I was interested in meeting girls for the first time in my life. But we had no way to meet them, since we were not allowed off campus. We certainly couldn’t have a drink at a local bar and meet girls there. It would have been very risky to sneak off campus from our dorms. The teachers were very strict about following the rules and walked through from time to time to check that the students were in their assigned rooms, so only rarely did anyone try to leave at night. In the rare case that someone did get caught sneaking out, the punishment was typically staying in the classroom after hours and cleaning the room. If someone was caught more than once, the punishment could be expulsion. So like most students, I didn’t take the risk. There was too much to lose. I didn’t even want to think what my parents would say if I were caught breaking such an important rule.
War with Russia
While we were isolated in the school from much of the war news and got a one-sided version, featuring the battles that Germany won, the school administration and teachers couldn’t keep us isolated after Russia entered the war and the Germans began fighting on the Russian front. Now the threat of the war escalating became very real, and we began to learn that German battle losses were increasing along with the number of Germans killed in these battles. Even so, when it actually happened, the invasion came as a shock.
I learned about the German invasion of Russia on June 21, 1941, about four months after I arrived at the school, when I woke up to the heavy footsteps of our group leader, one of the older boys, who was on morning duty. It was earlier than usual, around six a.m., and the sound of doors opening and closing down the hall was unusual too. Unsure what to do, my three roommates and I sat listening and waiting for instructions. Finally, after about ten minutes of waiting, our door opened and our group leader stood at our door dressed in his full black and brown uniform. “Up, up and get ready!” he announced. “This morning German troops have entered Russia.”
We looked around at each other dumbfounded. At this point we only knew that the war in Poland had ended with the Poles surrendering to the Germans, and that France had capitulated to the Germans, though we didn’t know on what terms. Moreover, we still didn’t know about the camps where Jews, Gypsies, the mentally ill, homosexuals, and even Jehovah’s Witnesses, were being enslaved, tortured, starved, and killed. Nor did we know that the Germans treated any prisoners of war, who were mainly Russians, in a similar way. We were also kept in the dark when a few soldiers visited our school and told us that terrible things were happening in the camps without giving any details. They were not allowed to return to talk to us any further, for at this time it was considered treason to say anything negative about the regime.
Erwin Dettbarn’s regiment, circa 1938/39.
Colonel Erwin Dettbarn (right) awarding the Knight’s Cross, circa 1939/40.
Erwin Dettbarn’s regiment, circa 1938.
Erwin Dettbarn (second from left, seated) with fellow officers, circa 1939/40.
It was stunning news to hear about the invasion. The war had seemed so far away before. But the attitudes among the students toward the invasion were drastically different. Some students were enthusiastic on hearing that Germany had invaded Russia, since they felt that the war would now last long enough for them to fulfill their dreams of becoming a famous submarine captain or fighter pilot. Some boys were elated because they saw the invasion as Germany’s greatest moment. They were certain victory was just a few months away, resulting in the enemy being defeated on all fronts.
By contrast, many other students were distressed by this turn of events. Especially upset were those with relatives in the army because they knew the army would be the first to enter Russia. They also knew that any battle in Russia would be difficult because of Russia’s harsh, cold, and desolate terrain, and its huge army, causing their relatives to be in greater danger. Some boys, including me, even ducked under the blankets to hide our tears. I was especially upset because I knew my father, a colonel in the Wehrmacht, would be one of the first to go. And so it was.
A few minutes after hearing the news of the invasion, everyone rushed across the hallway and entered the bathrooms, where we showered, brushed our teeth, and carried out our usual bathroom routine. Soon after we finished, we assembled again, fully dressed in our uniforms, in the hallway and marched in military formation, class by class as usual, to breakfast in the big dining room.
On the way, I saw a black sky and heavy clouds being chased by the wind, which rustled the leaves of the trees. The ominous darkness and rustling trees made me think of a poem by Walter Flex, a popular German poet and historian who lived from 1871 to 1917, when he died in Estonia during World War I. We had read his history of the Thirty Years’ War at the Friedrich Wilhelm Schule, and his poem spoke of the dangers of war. It began,
Wild geese flying through the night
With piercing cries towards the north
Unsteady flight. Be careful. The world
Is full of murder.
As we marched to breakfast, the German invasi
on of Russia filled me with dread, though most people thought this invasion would mean the end of the war in a matter of months, with Germany victorious and the hated and feared Russians subjugated. But I felt differently, since I had always been something of a pessimist about fighting wars generally. Also I believed my father would inevitably go to the eastern front, which he did, with disastrous results.
For now though, I said nothing about my concerns, not wanting to seem like a coward, afraid to participate in or support the fight. Instead, I simply joined the other students as we marched into the huge dining hall, which was now filled with the boys talking excitedly to each other about the war, while the school staff set out the plates and cups on saucers. As usual, we marched to our assigned tables and chairs, while the other students did the same, since as in most school dining halls, the boys sat with their own classes at the tables, which were lined up in rows. Accordingly, I took my assigned seat at the table where everyone always sat at the same place. This seat had been assigned the first week of classes, and subsequently we could never choose where or with whom we sat.
Now at breakfast, the invasion changed everything else. Instead of discussing the adventure books we had read surreptitiously under the covers late at night with little concern for events on the eastern front, we shared our thoughts about the invasion. I said little, except to mention that my father would probably be sent to the front. There was a general air of elation and fear. On the one hand, our teachers had programmed us to expect success and to trust Hitler’s military decisions. So a lot of boys excitedly said things like, “This is the beginning of the end of Russia!” and “We’ll show them what a real army can do.” But a few boys were nervous since any war has uncertainties, and I was sad and pessimistic because I knew my father was headed to the front, though I tried to push away my fears of what could happen to him.
From School to War: Growing Up in Hitler’s Germany (Contemporary Nonfiction) Page 7
