George F. Kennan: An American Life (27 page)

None of these tasks, however, were as difficult as Bad Nauheim. The internees included Foreign Service officers, Army and Navy attachés, journalists and radio correspondents, several wives, a few children, five dogs, one cat, and three canaries. Logistics were a constant worry, the group having encumbered itself with forty tons of baggage, in some 1,250 pieces. They had no way of knowing how long they would be there, and no means of communicating with families and friends in the United States. They were totally dependent on the Germans, who were in turn constrained only by the knowledge that their own diplomats were interned—under much better conditions—at the White Sulphur Springs resort in West Virginia. The Grand Hotel offered greater comfort than that allowed prisoners of war or concentration camp inmates, to be sure. But the food was rationed and mostly unpalatable, the rooms were cold, and recreational facilities were limited. “The boredom, the lack of space, the distance from home and family, and the inevitable friction between people” were bound to cause strains, the principal historian of the internment has written. With Morris having declined the responsibility, “Kennan provided the direction, coordination, structure, and rule enforcement for the entire community.”
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Collaboration with the Germans sounded objectionable in principle, but there was nothing to be gained in practice, Kennan believed, by refusing cooperation with Hauptsturmführer Patzak to make the internment run as smoothly as possible. Withholding it would invite punishment, forcing the Americans to treat their interned Germans similarly and delaying everyone’s repatriation. Honesty required openness about what the Swiss—the intermediaries between the Americans and the Germans—were doing to get the group home. Information was unreliable, however, and even scraps could set off rumors, giving rise to false hopes and subsequent disappointment. So Kennan at times imposed censorship, in one instance even confiscating an issue of the internees’ newspaper, the
Bad Nauheim Pudding
—named for a grimly ubiquitous dessert.
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Leadership also involved being an instantly available ombudsman. On January 25—an unusual day only in that he happened to keep a list—Kennan recorded thirty-two tasks performed. They included accounting for lost luggage, obtaining stationery, determining whether photographs could be taken from hotel balconies, drafting memoranda to go to or through the Swiss, discussing the issue of tips with the hotel management, clearing up several misunderstandings with Patzak, reporting a lady’s missing powder case, and placating a husband who came in “to say that he did not want representations made about his wife.” Later, as the weather warmed up, it fell to Kennan to negotiate the use of a nearby field for baseball. The bat was an improvised tree branch. The ball was a champagne cork wrapped in a sock. Kennan played catcher for the “Embassy Reds” against the “Journalists,” under the puzzled supervision of the Gestapo. “I would never reveal George Kennan’s batting average,” Associated Press reporter Angus Thurmer replied when asked half a century later, “nor would I expect him to reveal mine. Gentlemen in this club don’t do that.”
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Through all of this, Kennan found the time to become a professor. The setting was “Badheim University,” the school the internees organized to keep themselves busy. Kennan offered a “course” on Russian history, for which he prepared over a hundred pages of lecture notes, some of them scrawled outlines, others typed and finished presentations. They began with the establishment of Christianity and extended—although more thinly toward the end—well into the Stalin era. Apart from his lecture at the Foreign Service School in 1938, these were the first he had ever delivered. They attracted sixty “enrollees,” almost twice the number as the next most popular lecturer. Kennan, the “university” organizers concluded in a written appreciation of his efforts, had “a natural gift for presenting material vividly and interestingly while meeting the highest standards of scholarship.”
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The lectures stressed historical continuities—geography, climate, soil, ethnicity, culture—as the best way to understand the Soviet Union now that it had become a wartime ally. One in particular stood out for its application of Freudian psychology: in contrast to his skepticism while in Vienna six years earlier, Kennan was now convinced “that the theory is not without foundation.” The “childhood” of peoples was just as important in determining their character as it was for individuals.

The first five centuries of Russian history had produced an “adolescent” nation with a primitive system of government, a crudely organized society, and an uneducated religious leadership. Beginning with Peter the Great, the tsars embraced modernization but their subjects did not. Industrialization and war in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries widened this gap, so that when revolution came, “the mighty tree of Tsardom, which had lost its roots in the people, could not stand the force of the gale.” It fell with “a suddenness and impact that shook the world.”

Russians at that point “shed their westernized upper crust as a snake sheds its skin,” appearing before the world as a seventeenth-century semi-Asiatic people, with “all the weaknesses of backwardness and all the strength and freshness of youth.” They moved their capital back to Moscow, and an “Oriental” despot—Stalin—installed himself in the Kremlin, bringing with him “the same intolerance, the same dark cruelty, the same religious dogmatism in word and form, the same servility, . . . the same fear and distrust of the outside world,” that had characterized the premodern tsars. The only difference now was that the Russians made weapons and could use them “with the best of us.” That raised the question, then, when the time came to make peace with Germany, “of whether Russia is to be the confusion or the salvation of the Western European continent.”
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Kennan’s image of a tree with thin roots came close to describing his own condition after weeks of confined hyperactivity. In one sense, he recalled, the responsibility of looking after other people from morning to night kept him from brooding too much about himself. But by February he was contemplating the possibility that he might never see his family again. That was when he drafted his long letter to Grace and Joan—never finished—in which he tried to explain what it would be like to grow up with a missing parent. The Kennan and James families, George warned his daughters, were susceptible to depression, even tragedy, but there was “something placid and gay and healthy in your mother’s nature which is a good corrective for all that, and which I hope you have inherited.”
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As the days dragged on with no end in sight, Kennan later admitted, “I had moments of real neurosis.” One came on a Sunday when he lunched alone, in “gloomy dignity,” then found in the lobby the luggage from the latest group of Americans to arrive from the latest country swallowed up by the Axis. The hotel had no one to move the bags upstairs, and none of the internees volunteered. So he himself performed the task, shaming a few other Americans into helping him load the elevator. At that point he remembered that his cocker spaniel Kimmy—“an unfortunate beast which [I] had been unable to get rid of in the last harried moments before internment”—had been left alone longer than was wise. Abandoning helpers, luggage, and elevator, George dashed to his room to find the dog surrounded by the shredded remains of the only photographs he had of Annelise, Grace, and Joan. Using the third person, he described what happened next:

That, however, was not the worst experience. Something else happened in April, and it was serious enough for Kennan to resume—briefly—keeping his diary:

So what was this all about? Another sexual indiscretion? An exposure of irresponsibility in some other form? Perhaps even an overblown reaction to having lost his composure and locked himself in his room over the depredations of a dog?

What occurred was less important than what it showed, which was how precariously Kennan balanced leadership against fragility. Both were in evidence on May 5, 1942, the day he got confirmation that the internment was to end: the group would depart by train for Lisbon in a week, and thence by ship home. Kennan drafted the notice, got Morris to sign it, posted it in the empty front hallway, and then walked away. It had required months of work to bring this about, and he was sure that his fellow internees, for the most part, would be ungrateful.

There were complaints about being limited to a single carry-on bag on the train, this on a day “when thousands of people are dying . . . for what they conceive to be important issues.” Kennan was so disgusted “that I couldn’t bring myself to go down to dinner and have locked myself in my room for the evening.”
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He was also, by this time, fed up with his own government. There had been no communication from the State Department, even through the Swiss, until shortly before the departure. At that point two messages arrived, neither of which boosted morale. One announced that the Foreign Service officers would not be paid for the period of their internment, since they had not been working. A second raised the possibility of sending only half of the internees back on the
Drottningholm
, the designated Swedish repatriation ship, in order to make room for refugees, presumably Jewish. “Mr. Morris and I succeeded in warding off both of these blows.” It was not, Kennan explained years later, that “you didn’t want the Jews to come.” But “my God, this was an exchange ship.” If half the Americans hadn’t come, half of the Germans wouldn’t have been repatriated either. “We didn’t know anything about [the Holocaust], and obviously being prisoners we didn’t learn anything about it.”
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The Americans arrived in Lisbon on May 16, a day on which Kennan indulged himself in two long-postponed pleasures. One was a hearty breakfast at the Spanish-Portuguese border station, which he, as the internees’ official representative, was able to enjoy while they remained, enviously hungry, on the train. The second was a poem composed—it showed—on a full stomach:

The
Drottningholm
sailed, well supplied, on the twenty-second, with the ship’s name and the word “DIPLOMAT” painted in huge black letters against its white sides to ward off submarine attacks. It arrived safely arrived in New York on the thirtieth.
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