TODAY
it seems to me providential that Fate should have chosen
Braunau on the Inn as my birthplace. For this little town lies
on the boundary between two German states which we of the
younger generation at least have made it our life work to
reunite by every means at our disposal.
German-Austria
must return to the great German mother country, and not because
of any economic considerations. No, and again no: even if such
a union were unimportant from an economic point of view; yes,
even if it were harmful, it must nevertheless take place. One
blood demands one Reich. Never will the German nation possess
the moral right to engage in colonial politics until, at least,
it embraces its own sons within a single state. Only when the
Reich borders include the very last German, but can no longer
guarantee his daily bread, will the moral right to acquire
foreign soil arise from the distress of our own people. Their
sword will become our plow, and from the tears of war the daily
bread of future generations will grow. And so this little city
on the border seems to me the symbol of a great mission. And in
another respect as well, it looms as an admonition to the
present day. More than a hundred years ago, this insignificant
place had the distinction of being immortalized in the annals
at least of German history, for it was the scene of a tragic
catastrophe which gripped the entire German nation. At the time
of our fatherland's deepest humiliation, Johannes Palm of
Nuremberg, burgher, bookseller, uncompromising nationalist and
French hater, died there for the Germany which he loved so
passionately even in her misfortune. He had stubbornly refused
to denounce his accomplices who were in fact his superiors. In
thus he resembled Leo Schlageter. And like him, he was
denounced to the French by a representative of his government
An Augsburg police chief won this unenviable fame, thus
furnishing an example for our modern German officials in Herr
Severing's Reich.
In this
little town on the Inn, gilded by the rays of German martyrdom,
Bavarian by blood, technically Austrian, lived my parents in
the late eighties of the past century; my father a dutiful
civil servants my mother giving all her being to the household,
and devoted above all to us children in eternal, loving care
Little remains in my memory of this period, for after a few
years my father had to leave the little border city he had
learned to love, moving down the Inn to take a new position in
Passau, that is, in Germany proper.
In those days
constant moving was the lot of an Austrian customs official. A
short time later, my father was sent to Linz, and there he was
finally pensioned. Yet, indeed, this was not to mean "res"' for
the old gentleman. In his younger days, as the son of a poor
cottager, he couldn't bear to stay at home. Before he was even
thirteen, the little boy laced his tiny knapsack and ran away
from his home in the Waldviertel. Despite the at tempts of
'experienced' villagers to dissuade him, he made his way to
Vienna, there to learn a trade. This was in the fifties of the
past century. A desperate decision, to take to the road with
only three gulden for travel money, and plunge into the
unknown. By the time the thirteen-year-old grew to be
seventeen, he had passed his apprentice's examination, but he
was not yet content. On the contrary. The long period of
hardship, endless misery, and suffering he had gone through
strengthened his determination to give up his trade and become
' something better. Formerly the poor boy had regarded the
priest as the embodiment of all humanly attainable heights; now
in the big city, which had so greatly widened his perspective,
it was the rank of civil servant. With all the tenacity of a
young man whom suffering and care had made 'old' while still
half a child, the seventeen-year-old clung to his new
decision-he did enter the civil service. And after nearly
twenty-three years, I believe, he reached his goal. Thus he
seemed to have fulfilled a vow which he had made as a poor boy:
that he would not return to his beloved native village until he
had made something of himself.
His goal was
achieved; but no one in the village could remember the little
boy of former days, and to him the village had grown
strange.
When finally,
at the age of fifty-six, he went into retirement, he could not
bear to spend a single day of his leisure in idleness. Near the
Upper Austrian market village of Lambach he bought a farm,
which he worked himself, and thus, in the circuit of a long and
industrious life, returned to the origins of his
forefathers.
It was at
this time that the first ideals took shape in my breast. All my
playing about in the open, the long walk to school, and
particularly my association with extremely 'husky' boys, which
sometimes caused my mother bitter anguish, made me the very
opposite of a stay-at-home. And though at that time I scarcely
had any serious ideas as to the profession I should one day
pursue, my sympathies were in any case not in the direction of
my father's career. I believe that even then my oratorical
talent was being developed in the form of more or less violent
arguments with my schoolmates. I had become a little
ringleader; at school I learned easily and at that time very
well, but was otherwise rather hard to handle. Since in my free
time I received singing lessons in the cloister at Lambach, I
had excellent opportunity to intoxicate myself with the solemn
splendor of the brilliant church festivals. As was only natural
the abbot seemed to me, as the village priest had once seemed
to my father, the highest and most desirable ideal. For a time,
at least, this was the case. But since my father, for
understandable reasons, proved unable to appreciate the
oratorical talents of his pugnacious boy, or to draw from them
any favorable conclusions regarding the future of his
offspring, he could, it goes without saying, achieve no
understanding for such youthful ideas. With concern he observed
this conflict of nature.
As it
happened, my temporary aspiration for this profession was in
any case soon to vanish, making place for hopes more stated to
my temperament. Rummaging through my father's library, I had
come across various books of a military nature among them a
popular edition of the Franco-German War of 1870-7I It
consisted of two issues of an illustrated periodical from those
years, which now became my favorite reading matter It was not
long before the great heroic struggle had become my greatest
inner experience. From then on I became more and more
enthusiastic about everything that was in any way connected
with war or, for that matter, with soldiering
But in
another respect as well, this was to assume importance for me.
For the first time, though as yet in a confused form, the
question was forced upon my consciousness: Was there a
difference -and if so what difference-between the Germans who
fought these battles and other Germans? Why hadn't Austria
taken part in this war; why hadn't my father and all the others
fought?
Are we not
the same as all other Germans?
Do we not all
belong together? This problem began to gnaw at my little brain
for the first time. I asked cautious questions and with secret
envy received the answer that not every German was fortunate
enough to belong to Bismarck's Reich..
This was more
than I could understand.
It was
decided that I should go to high school.
From my whole
nature, and to an even greater degree from my temperament, my
father believed he could draw the inference that the humanistic
Gymnasium would represent a conflict with my talents. A
Realschol seemed to him more suitable. In this opinion he was
especially strengthened by my obvious aptitude for drawing; a
subject which in his opinion was neglected in the Austrian
Gymnasiums. Another factor may have been his own laborious
career which made humanistic study seem impractical in his
eyes, and therefore less desirable. It was hus basic opinion
and intention that, like himself, his son would and must become
a civil servant. It was only natural that the hardships of his
youth should enhance his subsequent achievement in his eyes,
particularly since it resulted exclusively from his own energy
and iron diligence. It was the pride of the self-made man which
made him want his son to rise to the same position in life, orJ
of course, even higher if possible, especially since, by his
own industrious life, he thought he would be able to facilitate
his child's development so greatly.
It was simply
inconceivable to him that I might reject what had become the
content of his whole life. Consequently, my father s decision
was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean, of
course. Finally, a whole lifetime spent in the bitter struggle
for existence had given him a domineering nature, and it would
have seemed intolerable to him to leave the final decision in
such matters to an inexperienced boy, having as yet no Sense of
responsibility. Moreover, this would have seemed a sinful and
reprehensible weakness in the exercise of his proper parental
authority and responsibility for the future life of his child,
and as such, absolutely incompatible with his concept of
duty.
And yet
things were to turn out differently.
Then barely
eleven years old, I was forced into opposition for the first
time in my life. Hard and determined as my father might be in
putting through plans and purposes once conceived his son was
just as persistent and recalcitrant in rejecting an idea which
appealed to him not at all, or in any case very little.
I did not
want to become a civil servant.
Neither
persuasion nor 'serious' arguments made any impression on my
resistance. I did not want to be a civil servant no, and again
no. All attempts on my father's part to inspire me with love or
pleasure in this profession by stories from his own life
accomplished the exact opposite. I yawned and grew sick to my
stomach at the thought of sitting in an office, deprived of my
liberty; ceasing to be master of my own time and being
compelled to force the content of a whole life into blanks that
had to be filled out.
And what
thoughts could this prospect arouse in a boy who in reality was
really anything but 'good' in the usual sense of the word?
School work was ridiculously easy, leaving me so much free time
that the sun saw more of me than my room. When today my
political opponents direct their loving attention to the
examination of my life, following it back to those childhood
days and discover at last to their relief what intolerable
pranks this "Hitler" played even in his youth, I thank Heaven
that a portion of the memories of those happy days still
remains with me. Woods and meadows were then the battlefields
on which the 'conflicts' which exist everywhere in life were
decided.
In this
respect my attendance at the Realschule, which now commenced,
made little difference.
But now, to be sure, there was a new conflict to be fought
out.
As long as my
fathers intention of making me a civil servant encountered only
my theoretical distaste for the profession, the conflict was
bearable. Thus far, I had to some extent been able to keep my
private opinions to myself; I did not always have to contradict
him immediately. My own firm determination never to become a
civil servant sufficed to give me complete inner peace. And
this decision in me was immutable. The problem became more
difficult when I developed a plan of my own in opposition to my
father's. And this occurred at the early age of twelve. How it
happened, I myself do not know, but one day it became clear to
me that I would become a painter, an artist. There was no doubt
as to my talent for drawing; it had been one of my father's
reasons for sending me to the Realschule, but never in all the
world would it have occurred to him to give me professional
training in this direction. On the contrary. When for the first
time, after once again rejecting my father's favorite notion, I
was asked what I myself wanted to be, and I rather abruptly
blurted out the decision I had meanwhile made, my father for
the moment was struck speechless.
' Painter?
Artist? '
He doubted my
sanity, or perhaps he thought he had heard wrong or
misunderstood me. But when he was clear on the subject, and
particularly after he felt-the seriousness of my intention, he
opposed it with all the determination of his nature. His
decision was extremely simple, for any consideration of w at
abilities I might really have was simply out of the
question.
'Artist, no,
never as long as I live!' But since his son, among various
other qualities, had apparently inherited his father' s
stubbornness, the same answer came back at him. Except, of
course, that it was in the opposite sense.
And thus the
situation remained on both sides. My father did not depart from
his 'Never!' And I intensified my 'Oh, yes!'
The
consequences, indeed, were none too pleasant. The old man grew
embittered, and, much as I loved him, so did I. Ally father
forbade me to nourish the slightest hope of ever being allowed
to study art. I went one step further and declared that if that
was the case I would stop studying altogether. As a result of
such 'pronouncements,' of course, I drew the short end; the old
man began the relentless enforcement of his authority. In the
future, therefore, I was silent, but transformed my threat into
reality. I thought that once my father saw how little progress
I was making at the Realschule, he would let me devote myself
to my dream, whether he liked it or not.
I do not know
whether this calculation was correct. For the moment only one
thing was certain: my obvious lack of success at school. What
gave me pleasure I learned, especially everything which, in my
opinion, I should later need as a painter. What seemed to me
unimportant in this respect or was otherwise unattractive to
me, I sabotaged completely. My report cards at this time,
depending on the subject and my estimation of it, showed
nothing but extremes. Side by side with 'laudable' and
'excellent,' stood 'adequate' or even 'inadequate.' By far my
best accomplishments were in geography and even more so in
history. These were my favorite subjects, in which I led the;
class.
If now, after
so many years, I examine the results of this period, I regard
two outstanding facts as particularly significant:
First: I
became a nationalist
Second: I
learned to understand and grasp the meaning of history.
Old Austria
was a 'state of nationalities.'
By and large,
a subject of the German Reich, at that time at least, was
absolutely unable to grasp the significance of this fact for
the life of the individual in such a state. After the great
victorious campaign of the heroic armies in the Franco-German
War, people had gradually lost interest in the Germans living
abroad; some could not, while others were unable to appreciate
their importances Especially with regard to the
GermanAustrians, the degenerate dynasty was only too frequently
confused with the people, which at the core was robust and
healthy.
What they
failed to appreciate was that, unless the German in Austria had
really been of the best blood, he would never have had the
power to set his stamp on a nation of fifty-two million souls
to such a degree that, even in Germany, the erroneous opinion
could arise that Austria was a German state. This was an
absurdity fraught with the direst consequences, and yet a
glowing testimonial to the ten million Germans in the Ostmark.
Only a handful of Germans in the Reich had the slightest
conception of the eternal and merciless struggle for the German
language, German schools, and a German way of life. Only today,
when the same deplorable misery is forced on many millions of
Germans from the Reich, who under foreign rule dream of their
common fatherland and strive, amid their longing, at least to
preserve their holy right to their mother tongue, do wider
circles understand what it means to be forced to fight for
one's nationality. Today perhaps some can appreciate the
greatness of the Germans in the Reich's old Ostmark, who, with
no one but themselves to depend on, for centuries protected the
Reich against incursions from the East, and finally carried on
an exhausting guerrilla warfare to maintain the German language
frontier, at a time when the Reich was highly interested in
colonies, but not in its own flesh and blood at its very
doorstep.
As everywhere
and always, in every struggle, there were, in this fight for
the language in old Austria, three strata:
The fighters,
the lukewarm and the traitors.
This sifting
process began at school. For the remarkable fact about the
language struggle is that its waves strike hardest perhaps in
the school, since it is the seed-bed of the coming generation.
It is a struggle for the soul of the child, and to the child
its first appeal is addressed:
'German boy,
do not forget you are a German,' and, 'Little girl, remember
that you are to become a German mother.'
Anyone who
knows the soul of youth will be able to understand that it is
they who lend ear most joyfully to such a battle-cry. They
carry on this struggle in hundreds of forms, in their own way
and with their own weapons. They refuse to sing unGerman songs.
The more anyone tries to alienate them from German heroic
grandeur, the wilder becomes their enthusiasm: they go hungry
to save pennies for the grown-ups' battle fund their ears are
amazingly sensitive to un-German teachers, and at the same time
they are incredibly resistant; they wear the forbidden insignia
of their own nationality and are happy to be punished or even
beaten for it. Thus, on a small scale they are a faithful
reflection of the adults, except that often their convictions
are better and more honest.
I, too, while
still comparatively young, had an opportunity to take part in
the struggle of nationalities in old Austria. Collections were
taken for the Sudmark I and the school association; we
emphasized our convictions by wearing corn-flowers and red
lack, and gold colors; 'Heil ' was our greeting, and instead of
the imperial anthem we sang 'Deutschland uber Alles,' despite
warnings and punishments. In this way the child received
political training in a period when as a rule the subject of a
so-called national state knew little more of his nationality
than its language. It goes without saying that even then I was
not among the lukewarm. In a short time I had become a
fanatical 'German Nationalist,' though the term was not
identical with our present party concept.
This
development in me made rapid progress; by the time I was
fifteen I understood the difference between dynastic '
patriotism' and folkish "nationalism'; and even then I was
interested only in the latter.
For anyone
who has never taken the trouble to study the inner conditions
of the Habsburg monarchy, such a process may not be entirely
understandable. In this country the instruction in world
history had to provide the germ for this development, since to
all intents and purposes there is no such thing as a
specifically Austrian history. The destiny of this state is so
much bound up with the life and development of all the Germans
that a separation of history into German and Austrian does not
seem conceivable. Indeed, when at length Germany began to
divide into two spheres of power, this division itself became
German history.
The insignia
of former imperial glory, preserved in Vienna, still seem to
cast a magic spell; they stand as a pledge that these twofold
destinies are eternally one.
The elemental
cry of the German-Austrian people for union with the German
mother country, that arose in the days when the Habsburg state
was collapsing, was the result of a longing that slumbered in
the heart of the entire people-a longing to return to the
never-forgotten ancestral home. But this would be in explicable
if the historical education of the individual GermanAustrian
had not given rise to so general a longing. In it lies a well
which never grows dry; which, especially in times of
forgetfulness, transcends all momentary prosperity and by
constant reminders of the past whispers softly of a new
future
Instruction
in world history in the so-called high schools is even today in
a very sorry condition. Few teachers understand that the aim of
studying history can never be to learn historical dates and
events by heart and recite them by rote; that what matters is
not whether the child knows exactly when this or that battle
was fought, when a general was born, or even when a monarch
(usually a very insignificant one) came into the crown of his
forefathers. No, by the living God, this is very
unimportant.
To 'learn'
history means to seek and find the forces which are the causes
leading to those effects which we subsequently perceive as
historical events.
The art of
reading as of learning is this: to retain the essential to
forget the non-essential.
Perhaps it
affected my whole later life that good fortune sent me a
history teacher who was one of the few to observe this
principle in teaching and examining. Dr. Leopold Potsch, my
professor at the Realschule in Linz, embodied this requirement
to an ideal degree. This old gentleman's manner was as kind as
it was determined, his dazzling eloquence not only held us
spellbound but actually carried us away. Even today I think
back with gentle emotion on this gray-haired man who, by the
fire of his narratives, sometimes made us forget the present;
who, as if by enchantment, carried us into past times and, out
of the millennial veils of mist, molded dry historical memories
into living reality. On such occasions we sat there, often
aflame with enthusiasm, and sometimes even moved to tears.
What made our
good fortune all the greater was that this teacher knew how to
illuminate the past by examples from the present, and how from
the past to draw inferences for the present. As a result he had
more understanding than anyone else for all the daily problems
which then held us breathless. He used our budding
nationalistic fanaticism as a means of educating use frequently
appealing to our sense of national honor. By this alone he was
able to discipline us little ruffians more easily than would
have been possible by any other means.
This teacher
made history my favorite subject.
And indeed,
though he had no such intention, it was then that I became a
little revolutionary.
For who could
have studied German history under such a teacher without
becoming an enemy of the state which, through its ruling house,
exerted so disastrous an influence on the destinies of the
nation?
And who could
retain his loyalty to a dynasty which in past and present
betrayed the needs of the German people again and again for
shameless private advantage?
Did we not
know, even as little boys, that this Austrian state had and
could have no love for us Germans?
Our
historical knowledge of the works of the House of Habsburg was
reinforced by our daily experience. In the north and south the
poison of foreign nations gnawed at the body of our
nationality, and even Vienna was visibly becoming more and more
of an un-German city. The Royal House Czechized wherever
possible, and it was the hand of the goddess of eternal justice
and inexorable retribution which caused Archduke Francis
Ferdinand, the most mortal enemy of Austrian-Germanism, to fall
by the bullets which he himself had helped to mold. For had he
not been the patron of Austria's Slavization from above !
Immense were
the burdens which the German people were expected to bear,
inconceivable their sacrifices in taxes and blood, and yet
anyone who was not totally blind was bound to recognize that
all this would be in vain. What pained us most was the fact
that this entire system was morally whitewashed by the alliance
with Germany, with the result that the slow extermination of
Germanism in the old monarchy was in a certain sense sanctioned
by Germany itself. The Habsburg hypocrisy, which enabled the
Austrian rulers to create the outward appearance that Austria
was a German state, raised the hatred toward this house to
flaming indignation and at the same time -contempt.
Only in the
Reich itself, the men who even then were called to power saw
nothing of all this. As though stricken with blindness, they
lived by the side of a corpse, and in the symptoms of
rotten-
ness saw only the signs of 'new' life.
The unholy
alliance of the young Reich and the Austrian sham state
contained the germ of the subsequent World War and of the
collapse as well.
In the course
of this book I shall have occasion to take up this problem at
length. Here it suffices to state that even in my earliest
youth I came to the basic insight which never left me, but Only
became more profound:
That
Germanism could be safeguarded only by the destruction of
Austria, and, furthermore, that national sentiment is in no
sense Identical with dynastic patriotism; that above all the
House of Habsburg was destined to be the misfortune of the
German nation.
Even then I
had drawn the consequences from this realization ardent love
for my German-Austrian homeland state.
The habit of
historical thinking which I thus learned in school has never
left me in the intervening years. To an ever-increasing extent
world history became for me an inexhaustible source of
understanding for the historical events of the present, in
other words, for politics. I do not want to 'learn' it, I want
it to in instruct me.
Thus, at an
early age, I had become a political ' revolutionary,' and I
became an artistic revolutionary at an equally early age.
The
provincial capital of Upper Austria had at that time a theater
which was, relatively speaking, not bad. Pretty much of
everything was produced. At the age of twelve I saw Wilhelm
Tell for the first time, and a few months later my first opera,
Lohengrin. I was captivated at once. My youthful enthusiasm for
the master of Bayreuth knew no bounds. Again and again I was
drawn to his works, and it still seems to me especially
fortunate that the modest provincial performance left me open
to an intensified experience later on.
All this,
particularly after I had outgrown my adolescence (which in my
case was an especially painful process), reinforced my profound
distaste for the profession which my father had chosen for me.
My conviction grew stronger and stronger that I would never be
happy as a civil servant. The fact that by this time my gift
for drawing had been recognized at the Realschule made my
determination all the firmer.
Neither pleas
nor threats could change it one bit.
I wanted to
become a painter and no power in the world could make me a
civil servant.
Yet, strange
as it may seem, with the passing years I became more and more
interested in architecture.
At that time
I regarded this as a natural complement to my gift as a
painter, and only rejoiced inwardly at the extension of my
artistic scope.
I did not
suspect that things would turn out differently.
