A Stranger in My Own Country (22 page)

I listened to these comments in dumbfounded silence. I had no idea this was coming. Had I foreseen such a thing, I would never have
accepted the commission. I had set out to create a character for the actor Emil Jannings to play; helping the Party's propaganda effort was emphatically not part of the plan!

But this is not what I said to my two listeners. I reminded them how unpopular the author Fallada was with the Party, how he had almost been banned completely once before as a result of
Jailbird
.
¹²⁹
To continue the story in the way the Minister was proposing, I would inevitably have to introduce characters who were Party members, show SA men fighting in the streets, depict the workings of Party organizations and incorporate debates between Communists and Nazis. Now if an undesirable author such as Fallada were to write this story, describing Party figures and extolling their struggles, that would unleash a storm of protest from the entire Party that would not only sweep me away, but also kill off the entire film project. I reminded Jannings of the hordes of ‘Nazi hacks' waiting in the wings, who were far better qualified than I to write such a story, and who undoubtedly had a lot more personal experience than I did as veterans of many a roughhouse and many a Party meeting. Both Jannings and the director Froelich could see the sense of what I was saying, and Jannings promised to try and get an early meeting with the Minister. He mentioned that Dr Goebbels had expressed a wish to make my personal acquaintance, and asked me if I wouldn't like to come along to the meeting and put my objections in person. I declined with a shudder. I could cope with living under a shadow and being an undesirable author; but to fly so close to the sun of Dr Goebbels' favour seemed to me to be inviting the fate of Icarus.

The answer that Emil Jannings brought back to Fallada, the Minister's answer to his objections, was short and to the point, leaving no room for misunderstanding: if Fallada still doesn't know where he stands on the Party, then the Party knows where it stands on Fallada!

I'm not given to grand gestures before the thrones of tyrants, and it's not my style to get myself killed for no reason, when it doesn't help anyone and merely harms my children. So after three minutes' reflection I agreed to do the additional work. How I squared this with my conscience in private, that's another story. The month I spent writing
this Nazi sequel is outlined in black ink on my calendar, I hated every minute of it – and I hated myself even more.

But the day came when I was finished, and I delivered the manuscript. I had fully expected that this dog's breakfast would be greeted with some indignation, but instead it was greeted with a tentative squawk of satisfaction, tentative because first of all the Minister had to squawk. The Minister duly squawked, the Minister gave the go-ahead, the Minister finally allocated the one and a half million. Work on the film began, the first sketches were made, studio space was rented, actors were hired, and 800,000 marks had already been blown – when events took a new turn: Minister Rosenberg had declared
¹³⁰
that a classic German film with the name Fallada on the billing was not acceptable. Fallada should be regarded as a ‘cultural Bolshevist', and was therefore a prime candidate for eradication!

And then it all vanished in a puff of smoke, like a conjuring trick. The preparations for filming were halted, the actors disappeared, the scripts were buried at the bottom of the dustiest drawers. Once again director Froelich's future was in question, and once again he survived: now he had to quickly prepare the Virchow film for Emil Jannings, so that the actor would have a new role waiting for him. Three days after the celebrated Rosenberg
diktat
nobody in the film studios, in the entire city of Berlin, knew that a film called ‘Iron Gustav' had ever been planned, nobody had ever worked on a film project of that name, nobody knew the first thing about it! Except of course for one man, who could not hide behind feigned ignorance: and that was the author Fallada. His novel
Iron Gustav
had already appeared in the bookshops, so the unfortunate author's name was already out there. Up until then the book had sold quite nicely and without the slightest murmur of objection, and Fallada's readers had even swallowed the Nazi sequel without protest – which further eroded my belief in the good judgement of my readers. But now all hell broke loose. Everything I had predicted now happened: I was reviled because I had dared to portray Party figures, I was excommunicated, ostracized and outlawed. Just as they had after the publication of
Jailbird
, the SA and SS now took
to the streets and forced booksellers to remove my books from their window displays, and indeed from their shelves; from now on Fallada was only sold under the counter by courageous booksellers to customers who had specially requested a copy. I was looking at the end of my writing career.

But what about the gentlemen who had commissioned me to write this stuff, who had showered my work with the highest praise in telegrams, letters and personal exchanges – how did they react? Where were Mr Froelich, the set directors, the gentlemen from the script department and the Nazi hacks involved in the rewrites? There was not a peep from any of them, nobody put their hand up, and in a way I can't really blame them. Kicking up a fuss would not have helped me, and would only have got them into trouble.

The only exception was Emil Jannings himself, who wrote me a letter and asked me to come and see him so that he could explain everything. But at the time I was too ‘stupid', I was sick of the whole business and didn't want to hear another word. So I didn't go and see Jannings, I didn't get to hear the explanation, the facts as I was seeing them and living them on a daily basis were quite enough for me. I have not seen Emil Jannings again since.

But while I could understand why everyone kept quiet, and never reproached them for distancing themselves from our joint endeavour, the entire burden of which they now left me to shoulder, there was one man who should have spoken up for me, the man who had known about and approved this project, who had backed it with a grant of one and a half million, and who in the face of all the author's legitimate objections had forced him to write the Nazi ending with the threatening words: ‘If Fallada still doesn't know where he stands on the Party, then the Party knows where it stands on Fallada!' I refer to Minister Goebbels. Minister Goebbels was a powerful man, he didn't need to grovel, he didn't need to fear for his own and his family's safety, he could have come out openly in support of his plans, he could have fought his corner with his colleague Rosenberg; he could have taken his cue from something his Party comrade Göring had said, and boldly declared: ‘
I
decide who is a cultural Bolshevist!' But Minister Goebbels did none of this. He kept quiet just like everybody else, suddenly he too didn't know a thing about it. But why was that? He really didn't need to, surely? Well, yes, he did. Once again he could not afford to play the strong man, he was in no position to fight, this loyal henchman of the Führer, because now he was tainted, because yet another of his dirty deeds stank to high heaven. He could not fight back against his colleague Rosenberg, although he was actually the stronger man, because at this moment he was in a weak position – not least with his beloved Führer. Minister Goebbels, who is a great admirer of other men's wives, had been talking a little too loudly and a little too often about how such and such an actress has the loveliest navel in the world, and something had happened that was completely unheard of in the Nazi Reich: an actor who was not even a Party member, who regarded himself as engaged to the actress in question, had slapped the Minister's face.
¹³¹
And the Minister had to make the best of it, while the whole of Berlin, indeed the whole of Germany, had a good laugh at his expense. One person who was not laughing was the Minister's wife, who had already had to put up with a great deal, and there's always one last straw that breaks the camel's back: so she had wanted a divorce and was planning to go and live in Switzerland with the children. But of course that had not been allowed; government ministers can get up to all the dirty tricks they like, but the public interest bars their wives from taking appropriate action in response. The Führer himself intervened: the wife had to stay with her husband (and continue to bear him children in a model German marriage), but the husband was sidelined for a while. At that point Minister Goebbels could no longer afford to fight for his own plans and challenge his colleagues, which is why the author Fallada had to carry the can alone – and was nearly finished as a result.

Oh, he's a dangerous man, this Dr Goebbels, and maybe more dangerous to his friends than he is to his enemies. Take the case of the actor Mathias Wieman,
¹³²
which I witnessed at first hand. Mathias Wieman was a friend of Dr Goebbels, and something of a pampered favourite. The two of us, me and this tall, almost scraggy figure, a
native of Westphalia, a strong man, and a ‘biter and kicker', as he likes to describe himself, who is most at home playing slightly sickly, morbid male characters, had been brought together by
Wolf among Wolves
. Following a long period of complete despondency and creative drought, I had written this long novel in one go; the passion for writing, the rush I get from creating characters and developing them, seem to be indestructible in me. One evening we heard a voice on the radio, it was the voice of Mathias Wieman, reviewing
Wolf among Wolves
. He did a wonderful job, speaking about my book in that beautiful, measured voice of his, which is made for speaking the verse of Goethe or Hölderlin. He didn't review my book so much as describe a profound personal experience: here was a man talking about something that had moved him deeply.

I too was touched and deeply moved, but perhaps less by what he said than by the fact that here, for the first time since 1933, someone was publicly speaking out for the writer Fallada. Since 1932 the name Fallada had never been mentioned on the radio, here too I had been proscribed and banned. And now Wieman was speaking on a personal note, like an old friend . . . I admired the courage he showed in breaking through the ring of silence that surrounded me. It nearly cost him and me dear. Minister Rosenberg, the same man who had called me a cultural Bolshevist and blocked the production of my film, naturally heard about Wieman's public endorsement of Fallada, and felt it was high time these two gentlemen were consigned to the place where they belonged, namely the void. And a suitable opportunity for putting them in their place now presented itself: Rosenberg had to give a speech at the University of Halle,
¹³³
and as he planned to talk about German culture, he could also use the occasion to talk about the enemies of German culture, in other words the Bolsheviks – including Wieman and Fallada. Such was the plan, and so it would have come to pass, meaning that for the last six years or so I would have written no more books, and Wieman would have done no more acting, had it not been for the fact that Mr Rosenberg's plans encountered a little obstacle – and one, moreover, put in their way by his own people. In the world at
large people know, or perhaps they don't, that Reichsleiter Rosenberg edits the
Völkischer Beobachter
, the official Party organ, which he favours from time to time with leading articles that are as abstruse and high-flown as his
Myth of the Twentieth Century
.
¹³⁴
And just as Mr Rosenberg was preparing to deal a crushing blow to me and my
Wolf
, as well as the actor Mathias Wieman, events took an unfortunate turn when the Reichsleiter's own newspaper printed a glowing review of the selfsame
Wolf
– and this on the very eve of his speech in Halle! So what was Reichsleiter Rosenberg to do? He could fire this rogue journalist on the spot, and this he duly did. But he could not discredit himself: he had to stand by what was written in his own newspaper, or at the very least he had to keep his mouth shut, if he did not wish to become a general laughing-stock. So he kept quiet. I was saved once again – but by such gossamer threads does the fate of an author hang in the Third Reich!

Mathias Wieman was less fortunate. Minister Goebbels developed an affection for this big, strong actor, and made him his friend. He had a strange way of relating to his friends, the Minister, he treated them like lovers. He would ring up in the morning and inquire eagerly how his dear friend had slept, later on he would send flowers and chocolates. Wieman had to visit him daily, and they would have a drink and talk about everything under the sun, and always they were of one mind. Until the day came when they were not of one mind; they fell out over something or other of no great importance in itself. But a Minister is a Minister, which is to say, someone very high up, while an actor is a much lesser personage, who cannot ever win an argument with a Minister. But Mathias Wieman couldn't see this. Whereupon the Minister turned very frosty, sending his friend away under a cloud, and there were no more telephone calls, no more flowers or chocolates.

But even a Minister cannot nurse a grudge for ever, and one day Mathias Wieman received another telephone call, the flowers and chocolates started coming again, and a fresh invitation was issued. They were friends again, just like the old days – until the Minister asked: ‘About our recent little disagreement, Wieman. I'm sure you've
thought about the matter again in the meantime, and can see now that I was right?'

Yes indeed, he had thought the matter over, replied the actor, more brave than he was smart, and he was now more convinced than ever that the Minister was wrong. Powerful men are all the same, whether living in the German Reich or under the Sun King: opposition, and obdurate opposition at that, is a thing they cannot abide, and it leads to a spectacular fall from grace. Wieman was sent packing under a cloud – this time for good. He bore it with composure, and indeed was privately glad, perhaps; this friendship between the actor and the Minister had never been a wholly edifying affair. The weeks passed, and Wieman noticed a change in the atmosphere around him. To begin with it was just a slight
froideur
, but then it felt more like the cold shoulder. People became very short with him, nobody seemed to want to know him any more, bookings that had been firmly promised to him now fell through, and offers of parts that he thought were already his were now withdrawn. ‘Please don't take this the wrong way, Wieman, but we really do think this role is better suited to P. than to you. But there's always a next time!' Except that the next time never seemed to come now.