My Battle Against Hitler

by Dietrich von Hildebrand,John Henry Crosby

  Our edition also features new material never before published. Of greatest importance are new passages taken directly from the handwritten manuscript of the memoirs, as well as extensive passages, featured in the chapter, “Escape from Vienna,” derived from unpublished outlines and sketches by von Hildebrand. One particularly precious source we present is a previously unpublished letter of Michael Braunfels, von Hildebrand’s nephew, to Alice von Hildebrand describing his role in helping his uncle and aunt leave Vienna on the night of March 11, 1938.

  John Henry Crosby is translator of the memoirs as well as author of “A Fateful Decision,” “Who Was This Man Who Fought Hitler?,” and “Escape from Vienna.” William Doino and David Mills helped in crafting the many passages that introduce and strengthen the narrative flow of the memoirs. John F. Crosby is the principal translator of von Hildebrand’s essays (with help from the team of translators mentioned in the acknowledgments), author of the brief introductions that accompany each of the essays, and his son John Henry Crosby’s indispensable intellectual and editorial partner.

  PART I

  THE MEMOIRS

  1921

  In early December 1921, von Hildebrand went to Paris, “with high expectations,” to attend a convention organized by the philosopher and politician Marc Sangnier (1873–1950). Sangnier had become famous for seeking to reconcile Catholicism with the French Republic, and more broadly Christianity and Democracy, in part as a counter to working-class movements that were overtly anticlerical. Sangnier hoped to reevangelize young men by proving Catholicism was sympathetic to their social and economic needs. He also sought common ground with non-Catholics.

  At first, the Christian-Democratic movement he started, Le Sillon (The Furrow), won many devoted followers, including numerous bishops. But when it began to advocate new ideas, not yet approved by the Church, Pope Pius X intervened to close the movement in 1910.

  Sangnier’s response to “the destruction of his life’s work” is described by von Hildebrand in great detail. Despite the suppression of Le Sillon, many of Sangnier’s ideals about the laity, social justice, ecumenism, and society were fulfilled by Vatican II’s teaching. One of his greatest admirers was Pope John XXIII, who called the Council.

  Arriving in Paris, von Hildebrand was met at the train station and brought to the headquarters of the Young Republic League, the political party Sangnier had founded. There he met Sangnier, “this great and noble Catholic”—words similar to those Pius X had used, even as he closed down Le Sillon—and several of his followers at breakfast.

  The spirit of love of neighbor and of Christian warmth, which suffused the milieu, made an overwhelming impression on me. Everything was very simple—typically French coffee, served in a bowl and strongly flavored with chicory, along with a piece of bread—yet I was received as an old friend. The spirit was one of simple togetherness and collaboration. I was delighted.

  Marc Sangnier had founded a movement which was the first Catholic movement in France to be established on the footing of the Republic. French Catholics and all of the French bishops were Royalists of a decidedly conservative stripe. Drawing on an encyclical of Pope Leo XIII,1 in which the Holy Father declared that the Church took a neutral stance toward questions of monarchy and republic, he had founded a religious movement which he called “Le Sillon,” meaning “Furrow.” The purpose of the movement was to bring about a deep religious renewal, and with it a truly Christian spirit.

  “Sillon” was the very antithesis of the “Action française.” A predominantly conservative and nationalist movement, the “Action française” valued the Church primarily as a cultural entity, viewing “Catholic” as equivalent to “Latin,” whereby the “Esprit Latin” was naturally equated above all with the spirit of France. The anti-Semitism which had manifested itself in such a dreadful way in the Dreyfus Affair*1 continued to exist in the “Action française.” In contrast to all of this, “Sillon” was filled with a supranational spirit, free of all anti-Semitism, concerned with social issues, seeing the Catholic Church as the mystical body of Christ, filled with a truly deep Catholic spirit and an obedient and loyal love of the Church.

  Late in the evening, Sangnier often went to the basilica of Montmartre with his followers where they spent the night in prayer and religious song. Along the way, he gave them talks on religious subjects. A spirit of boundless readiness to be of service to each other, a joyful, loving, selfless collaboration filled this movement, which quickly spread all over France and soon numbered many young priests and seminarians. “Sillon” represented a real religious springtime and as such became a great and profound center of formation in true Christian living. Sangnier, who came from a very affluent family, had given a great portion of his fortune to this movement.

  The bishops—who were all conservative and royalists at the time—took a suspicious, not to say hostile, stance toward “Sillon.” Added to this was the occasional silly and exaggerated statement made by a young and enthusiastic seminarian. The bishops turned to Pope Pius X, to whom they painted an unfavorable image of “Sillon.” Being the time of the struggle against modernism, it was not difficult to portray a movement as dangerous. Pius X wrote a letter to Marc Sangnier in which he called upon him to subordinate his movement to the respective local bishops.

  This would have been the end of “Sillon,” since the bishops would have wanted to reshape everything. Pius’ letter was a terrible blow for Sangnier, yet he offered a wonderful and unique example. A quarter of an hour after he had received the letter which destroyed his life’s work, he dissolved “Sillon” and wrote a letter to the Holy Father in which he said, “This is the most beautiful hour of my life, for now I can show how much I love the Church and that I do not want to serve her as I wish but as she wishes.”

  He proceeded to found a political movement called the Young Republic League, which, since officially it was purely political, did not need to be placed under the bishops’ control. Yet the deeply Catholic and profoundly Christian spirit continued to exist in this political movement. Everything in the League’s house in the Boulevard Raspail gave evidence of this.

  Out of this supranational Catholic spirit, Sangnier had called for a peace congress to which for the first time he had also included Germans as warmly invited guests. He was a great and noble personality. In his presence one felt the tremendous warmth of his heart, the fire of his spirit, his unwavering faith in his ideals. And he also had the immense charm of a Frenchman, a delightful wittiness. He was an orator of exceptional ability, one of the best I ever heard. I was deeply impressed by him, especially after I had heard his entire story, which made the image of his personality emerge with greater liveliness and clarity. He was a great and devoted son of the Church, a heroic crusader against nationalism and all prejudice, a generous and captivating human being. I felt a real love for him and we were entirely of one mind.

  Among the Germans who had been invited were two priests. One was Fr. Metzger from Graz, where he led a religious, pacifist movement called the “White Cross.”*2 He was originally from Swabia. The other priest was the founder of the German Catholic Association for Peace, a vicar from Ehingen an der Donau.*3

  Fr. Metzger was a striking personality. Someone later said to me of him that he was a mixture of saint and extraordinarily talented businessman. What predominantly struck me was that, while filled with a heroic religious fervor, he had something of the sectarian in his vegetarianism and his radical opposition to alcoholism. He was very kind and friendly, addressed me with the familiar “Du”*4 a little too quickly, and amazed me by his enormous talent for organization.

  During the congress I was utterly appalled to read in a German newspaper an incredibly tactless article about Marc Sangnier. At the very moment when, burdened by great difficulties and attacked from all sides, he dared to invite Germans to Paris and to make this extraordinary friendly gesture to Germany, there appears in a German Catholic newspaper an article in which he is portrayed as a dubious Cat
holic, having been recently censured by Rome.

  I was beside myself with rage and when I met a German journalist by the name of Alfred Nobel,*5 I said to him, “which tactless blockhead wrote this article?” Unfortunately he was himself the author and naturally I had made in him a mortal enemy. It was not long before I would feel this directly.

  There were many sessions—smaller gatherings as well as public presentations—at which lectures were delivered by well-known French personalities. During one of the smaller discussions—even so, all of the delegates and many French attendees were present, in all a group of perhaps fifty—a lady from Berlin called out to me in a side room where I was engaged in a private conversation, “Please come. The situation is getting very tense. Perhaps you can be of some help.”

  As I approached the table, I heard a Frenchman attacking Sangnier for having invited Germans, saying, “These Germans are not really anti-nationalists and pacifists. I have only to ask them whether they will admit that Germany is responsible for the war and then you will see how their nationalism prevents them from making this admission.” At this I stood up and said, speaking in French, “It would not be sincere on my part to answer this question, for I do not know the Russian archives, I do not know the historical antecedents of the war, and I am not in a position to find out about these things. Besides, the question itself can have different meanings. But if I had the opportunity to get informed and if I saw that Germany was at fault, I would not for a moment hesitate to say so. I am not a nationalist in any sense of the word and so I would feel no inner resistance to admitting it.”

  Thereupon the man arose and said, “Very well, then I will put another question to you. Your answer will clearly demonstrate whether you are honest. If you say that you are not a nationalist, then what do you think about the German invasion of Belgium?”*6 I stood up again and said, “That was an atrocious crime.” Thunderous applause greeted my words. I continued, “I have no problem in admitting that it was a dreadful crime. For I am first a Catholic, then a Catholic, and yet again a Catholic, and so on and on.” Again, thunderous applause.*7

  Afterwards people congratulated me and a senator from Brussels said to me, “You are a good young man from a family of bad reputation” (“Brave jeune hommo d’une famille de mauvaise réputation”). But above all I was surrounded by the followers of Marc Sangnier, all of whom congratulated me. Sangnier was very happy about what I had said, yet I saw in Nobel’s face how outraged he was. I was soon to experience his revenge. Metzger, who was murdered by the Nazis in 1944, as well as the chaplain from Ehingen, however, were entirely in agreement.

  As I returned to Munich the next morning and reached our house in the Maria-Theresia Strasse, I found Gretchen in a state of great agitation, for my name was mentioned throughout the German press as one who had committed a kind of high treason for having announced in Paris that Germany alone was guilty of the war. An inquiry had also come from the university: I was immediately to clarify the truth of this charge. The faculty was largely composed of German nationalists who would have preferred to drive me away from the university.

  All this had been brought upon me by Nobel through his deliberately false report—I had, after all, explained that I could not take a stance toward this question since I was not educated on the prior history of the situation. For condemning the invasion of Belgium no one could reproach me; after all, Cardinal Faulhaber*8 had done so too. But of course, as a sworn enemy of nationalism, the nationalists were from their perspective right to hate me.

  In any case, I was completely occupied with composing for the press and, in a separate document, for the university, an exact account of the facts and with refuting Nobel’s misrepresentation. I also received a letter from the president of the Catholic Academic Association, Wilhelm Bergmann, in which he wrote to me, “Since to date you have been the chairman of the commission for relations with foreign countries, I would ask that you send me an exact account of the events in Paris.”2 This was clearly disavowal of me and a kind of implied removal from the commission. I sent him my statement to the press with a note that this should settle the affair. I did not in any way go into the possibility of being removed from the commission.

  * * *

  *1 A reference to Alfred Dreyfus (1859–1935), a French Jewish officer unjustly convicted in 1894 on alleged charges of treason.

  *2 Max Josef Metzger (1887–1944), priest who later founded Una Sancta and was executed by the Nazis as an opponent of National Socialism.

  *3 Probably Fr. Franziskus Stratmann, OP (1883–1971), cofounder with Fr. Metzger of the German Catholic Association for Peace.

  *4 The form of “you” reserved for family and friends.

  *5 Probably Alphons Nobel, later chief editor of the Augsburger Postzeitung.

  *6 On August 4, 1914, at the very beginning of World War I.

  *7 Belgian neutrality was protected under the Treaty of London (1839), to which England, Austria, France, Prussia, Russia, and the Netherlands were signatories. Von Hildebrand’s repeated profession of his Catholic identity would have been an obvious and poignant allusion to the fact that this treaty was signed “In the name of the Most Holy and Indivisible Trinity.”

  *8 Michael von Faulhaber (1869–1952), archbishop and later cardinal of Munich and Freising.

  1922

  In the years following World War I, Germany experienced enormous political and economic turbulence. In June 1922, the German foreign minister, Walter Rathenau (1867–1922), was assassinated. “Words cannot express,” says von Hildebrand, “how deeply this latest political assassination upset me.”

  Once again the devilish countenance of German ultranationalism smirked at me, which had already so deeply shaken me at the time of Erzberger’s*1 murder. Once again I felt the increasing barbarization of morals. I remember crying out to Gretchen, “I no longer want to remain in this awful country! I want to leave Germany!” Almost as bad as the awful deed, not to mention the attitude of the murderer, was the perception of the murder by broad segments of the public.

  On the occasion of Eisner’s*2 murder by Count Arco,*3 it was still possible to find mitigating factors, namely the fact that Eisner was a usurper who had toppled the Bavarian monarchy through a revolution and made himself head of state. Even though he did not create a dictatorship, he did permit dangerous elements to take root and systematically pursued his aim—against the will of the people—of attacking the Church and imposing a radically socialist spirit. Arco could in good faith view himself as murdering a tyrant, as carrying out the people’s will. Of course, his action was morally questionable and problematic, yet it was not a typical case of criminal political murder.

  But the case of Erzberger was different. He had done nothing to harm anyone, had for years served as a legitimately elected member of the Reichstag, and had become minister in a constitutionally legitimate manner, governing without even the faintest hint of a dictatorship. He had done much to his credit and was a noble man of conscience. It was thus impossible to find any mitigating factors for his murder. And those who killed him, Tillesen and Schulz, embodied a spirit totally unlike that of the pious and conscientious Arco. Their words, “The pig must be slaughtered” betrayed the depth of the awful, base, petty, and criminal spirit that animated them. The fact that they were motivated by an ugly nationalism and that they viewed themselves as heroes only made their dreadful act of murder all the worse.

  I was terribly upset by what even Catholics said to me, at the time. “The ordinary man on the street is not upset by this murder,” I would hear, “for he sees how many people died in the war. How can one more death really matter?” As if the decisive factor was not the murder itself! On one occasion a Catholic—a priest, I fear—said to me, “This won’t stir up the people. They’ll say, ‘one Jew more or less is of no consequence.’ ” I was deeply upset by this moral value blindness and the loss of any sense for the horror of murder, which had permeated German public opinion.

  The resp
onse of Chancellor Wirth*4 to the death of his friend and colleague in the Federal Ministry was quite forceful. Expressing his indignation at a session of the Reichstag, which had immediately been convened, he uttered his famous words: “The enemy stands to our right.” Wirth was correct inasmuch as the murderous spirit that had led to the assignation reigned above all in ultranationalistic circles. But one could reasonably question whether the term “right” could be applied to these circles without qualification. In any case, the problem did not stem from the monarchists and from circles who were conservative in the best sense of the term. Rather, it came from those animated by the spirit of Ludendorff*5 and by a wild anarchism tainted with strong sympathies for a Greater Germany.*6 It came from the forerunners of National Socialism who could hardly be called “right” in the traditional sense of the term.

  On the other hand, the tremendous danger of Socialism and Communism had not yet been overcome. Just three years before we had had the Socialist Republic in Munich, and in 1922 there had been heavy fighting against the Communists in Essen. Wirth’s articulation thus perhaps oversimplified the situation too much. But I was still happy because he took a strong stance against the murderous spirit of these assassinations and expressed an attitude so different from the one I often encountered in the public.

  I still remember walking with my beloved and revered Nuncio Pacelli*7 and Don Mario. This took place shortly after the murder of Rathenau and I spoke with him about what Wirth had said. He was very unhappy about Wirth’s statement because he found the notion of “right” far too vague. He rightly emphasized that one could not allow one or more political murders perpetrated by those on the far right to diminish the danger of Communism and to allow us to forget all the atrocities being committed from that side.