War and Remembrance (170 page)

After the war, challenged in the Danish Parliament to explain how he was duped by the Germans, Frants Hvass replies that he was not in the least fooled. He could see the visit was staged. He turned in a favorable report to assure continued good treatment for the Danish Jews and the flow of food parcels to them. That was his mission, not the exposure of German duplicity. Hvass confesses to Parliament, nevertheless, that he was relieved by the visit. In view of the terrible reports of the German camps already in the hands of the Red Cross, he had half-feared seeing corpses lying all over the streets, Musselmen stumbling about in a miasma of filth and death. Despite all the fakery, there was none of that.

The world keeps wondering why the International Red Cross — and for that matter, the Vatican — kept silent all through the war when they certainly knew about the great secret massacre. The nearest thing to an explanation is always Frants Hvass’s: that accusing the Germans of crimes that could not be proven in wartime would only have made matters worse for the Jews still alive in their hands. The Red Cross and the Vatican knew the Germans well. Possibly they had a point, though the next question is, “How could matters have been made worse?”

The success of the Great Beautification gives the higher-ups in Berlin an idea. Why not shoot a film in Theresienstadt showing how well off the Jews are under the Nazis, giving the lie to all the mounting Allied atrocity propaganda about murder camps and gas cellars? Orders go out to prepare and shoot such a film at once. Title:
Der Führer schenkt den Juden eine Stadt,
“The Führer Grants the Jews a Town.” Assigned to the script committee is Dr. Aaron Jastrow; and the children’s pavilion will be prominently featured.

From ”
Sitler as Militarn Leader”

July 20
—
The Attempt to Kill Hitler

…The briefing conference was taking place in a wooden hut, because the heavy concrete command bunker was being reinforced against air attack as the Russian front drew nearer Rastenburg. This saved Hitler’s life. In the bunker we would all have been wiped out by the confined explosion.

It was a familiar boring scene until the bomb went off. Heusinger was droning on glumly about the eastern front. Hitler leaned over the table map, peering through his thick spectacles, and I stood beside him among the usual staff officers. There came a shattering noise, and the room was swathed in yellow smoke. I found myself lying on the wooden floor in terrible pain, involuntary groans issuing from my throat. I thought we had been bombed from the air. My first idea was to save myself from being burned alive, for there was a crackling of flame and a smell of burning. Despite my broken leg I dragged myself outside, stumbling over fallen bodies in the smoke and gloom. The groans and screams all around me were frightful. On the ground outside I collapsed in a sitting position. I saw Hitler come out of the smoke leaning on somebody’s arm. There was blood on his face, his hair stood on end caked with plaster dust, and I could see his naked legs through his ripped black trousers. Those white spindle legs, those pudgy knees, for the moment made him seem an ordinary and pathetic man, not the ferocious warlord.

A favorable literature has sprung up about the conspirators. I myself cannot sentimentalize over them. That I was almost killed is beside the point. Count von Stauffenberg certainly was brave and ingenious to get by the formidable gate systems and security checks of Wolfsschanze and to place the briefcase full of explosives under the table; but to what avail? He was already a mutilated wreck, as is well known, minus an eye, a right hand, and two fingers on the left, lost in North Africa. Why did he not give his all? True, he was the head of the conspiracy, but the whole purpose was to kill Hitler; and the only sure way to do that was to walk up to him, camouflaged bomb in hand, and detonate it. The count’s vague Christian idealism, it seems, did not extend to martyrdom. Ironically, he only lived a few more hours, anyway. He was caught and executed that same night in Berlin.

I knew nearly all the Wehrmacht conspirators. That some of them turned out to be involved astounded me. The identity of others I would have guessed, for I too was sounded out, early on. I silenced the inquirer and was not approached again. The concept of ending the war by murdering the Head of State — whatever his defects, so evident to us insiders — I considered treasonous, contrary to our oath as officers, and unsound. I still do.

On July 20, 1944, the Wehrmacht stood everywhere deep in foreign territory, nine million strong, fighting magnificently despite erratic leadership. The Fatherland, though battered from the air, was intact. The political spine of Germany was, for better or worse, the bond between the German people and Hitler. Murdering him would have let loose chaos. Himmler, Goring, and Goebbels, who still controlled all the state machinery, would have launched a vengeful blood bath beyond imagining. Every German’s hand would have been against his brother. Our leaderless armies would have collapsed. The military situation, bad as it was, did not call for such a solution, really no solution at all: to plunge ourselves into anarchy, and invite the Bolshevik barbarians to spread rapine and pillage to the Rhine!

In fact, the July twentieth bombing boomeranged into a second Reichstag Fire. It gave Hitler the one excuse he needed to slaughter all surviving opposition. At least five thousand people died, most of them innocent. The General Staff and the independent intellectual elite — politicians, labor leaders, priests, professors, and the remnants of the old German aristocracy — were all but exterminated. My judgment is that July twentieth may have prolonged the war. We were at the very brink of the August disasters, which might have forced the Nazis themselves to ease out Hitler for an orderly capitulation. Instead, July twentieth shocked all Germany into rallying around the Führer. This lasted until he shot himself nine fearful months later. Among the German people, there was no support for the bungled attempt. The conspirators were execrated, and Hitler was riding high again.

In the infirmary at Wolfsschanze, as I can well recall, Hitler sat not ten feet from me talking to Goring, while doctors worked on his burst eardrums.
“Now I have got those fellows where I want them,”
he said, or words to that effect.
“Now I can act.”
He knew that the fiasco had reprieved his regime.

Hitler’s apologists claim he did not see the films he ordered taken of the generals’ executions, but I myself sat beside him during the screening. His giggles and remarks were more appropriate to a Charlie Chaplin comedy than to the ghastly distortions of my old comrades-in-arms, going through death agonies naked, in nooses of piano wire. I could never respect him after that. I cannot respect his memory when I recall it.

For me, the July twentieth affair was in every way a calamity. I have walked with a bad limp ever since. I lost the hearing in my right ear, and I am subject to dizzy spells and falling episodes. Also, it ended my chances of getting out of Supreme Headquarters. Coming from a conservative landowning family like most of the July twentieth men, I might well have fallen victim to Hitler’s irrational suspicions and been executed myself. But possibly my injuries made my innocence seem self-evident. Or perhaps the Gestapo knew that I was in the clear. At any rate, I became again “the good Armin,” different from those “others,” treated more decently by Hitler than almost any general except Model and Guderian; and I was forced to witness
his progressive degeneration down to the bitter end in the Berlin bunker, swallowing every day the foulest abuse of my profession and my class.

TRANSLATOR
’
S NOTE:
The tiny band of conspirators had a sort of Keystone Cops quality. They kept setting bombs that failed to go off, planning actions in which someone goofed, and generally falling all over themselves. But they were very brave men, and their story is complex and fascinating. Roon’s disapproval of them is not widely shared in Germany. I get the impression that Roon feels guilty about staying out of it, and protests too much.
—
V.H.

From
A Jew’s Journey

JULY
23.

Rahm toured the ghetto today with the Dutch Jew who will direct the film. The script calls for a big scene at the children’s pavilion. Natalie knew they were coming, and by the time the two cars arrived, she tells me, she was close to nervous prostration. But Rahm took very airily the news that Louis was dead. “Well, too bad. Use one of the other brats, then,” was all he said. “Pick a lively one, and teach him that French song your kid sang.” It seemed quite a matter of course to him that the child had died of typhus; no condolences, and apparently no suspicions. Of course we must wait and see. He may still investigate. Meantime, the relief is enormous.

Possibly none of Natalie’s macabre precautions have been necessary: the urn of Louis’s ashes in her bedroom, the memorial candles, the consultations with the rabbi on mourning procedures, the synagogue attendance to say
kaddish,
and the rest. But they have eased her mind. Nor has she had to playact! The continuing uncertainty has been crushing her. In three weeks there has been no further word; just the official death notice, and the grisly offer from the crematorium of his ashes, at a price. For all we know as yet, those really are Louis’s ashes in Natalie’s room. Of course we don’t believe that; still, it has been all too convincing a business, first to last.

(Alas! Whose are they?)

The war news is becoming glorious. One wakes each day hungry for the latest word. German newspapers, smuggled in or pilfered from SS quarters, are now passed eagerly from hand to hand, for they have become fountains of good cheer. Whatever the Goebbels press admits
must
be true; and recent stories cause one to blink with amazed happiness. It is an absolute fact that a cadre of German generals have tried to kill Hitler! I read a full account in the scrawny
Völkischer Beobachter,
boiling with moral indignation at the “tiny clique of crazy traitors.” German army morale is clearly cracking. In the far-off Pacific — the BBC, again — our Navy has won another victory while
capturing the Mariana islands, which brings Japan within the range of American B-2gs; and the Japanese government has fallen.

Meantime, the whole mad Beautification extravaganza is on again; rehearsals, refurbishing, and construction of even more fake Theresienstadt delights: a public “beach” on the river, an open-air theatre, and Heaven knows what else. The film is a God-given reprieve. Preparing for it will take a month; shooting, another month. The Germans are as fully bent on it as they were on the Beautification. If somebody in the collapsing Berlin regime doesn’t think of countermanding the film, the cameras may be inanely grinding away when Russian or American tanks come crashing through the Bohusovice Gate.

For the Anglo-Americans have at last begun to break out of their Normandy bridgehead. The German papers tell of heavy fighting around Saint-Lô, a new place-name. On the eastern front, old place-names of my youth fill the German communiqués, as the Soviets have driven deep into eastern Poland. Pinsk, Baranovitch, Ternopol, Lvov — great Jewish cities, homes of famous yeshivas and eminent Hassidic dynasties — have been recaptured by the Red Army.

From Lvov, as the crow flies, Theresienstadt is some four hundred miles.

In the past three weeks, the Russians have advanced two hundred miles.
In three weeks.

It is a race. Because of the film, we have a chance. Thank God — this once — for the Nazi passion for crude fraud!

AUGUST
6.

I have been drafted to work on the film script, hence the gap in this record: I suggested a simple visual running theme — the flow of water, in and out of the ghetto — thinking that some clever viewers might catch the symbolism of the “sluice.” The director grasped it without words; I saw it in his eyes. The blockhead Rahm approves. He is taking childish pleasure in the film project; especially in selecting the bathing girls for the beach scene.