Mephisto in the Third Reich: Literary Representations of Evil in Nazi Germany 9783110379433, 9783110379389

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Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein Mephisto in the Third Reich

Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein

Mephisto in the Third Reich

Literary Representations of Evil in Nazi Germany

MAGNES

Co-published by The Hebrew University Magnes Press (Jerusalem) and De Gruyter (Berlin/Boston) for the Vidal Sassoon International Center for the Study of Antisemitism

ISBN 978-3-11-037938-9 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-037943-3 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-039578-5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2015 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/München/Boston & the Vidal Sassoon International Center for the Study of Antisemitism, The Hebrew University Magnes Press, Jerusalem Cover Image: kwasny221/iStock/Thinkstock Typesetting: Dr. Rainer Ostermann, München Printing: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com www.magnespress.co.il

In memory of my father, a true Renaissance Man Moshe Barasch

Contents Introduction 

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Chapter One The Image of the Devil in Western Culture  The Devil as an External Reality   13 The Characteristics of the Devil   15 The Nature of the Devil’s Acts   18

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Chapter Two Mephisto by Klaus Mann   25 Devilish without a Devil   29 The Actor   31 Various Attitudes to Nazism   55 Chapter Three I and I by Else Lasker-Schüler   71 Immanent Contrasts   75 Faust   78 Mephisto   84 Judaism   90 The Nazis   91 Chapter Four Germany and the Germans by Thomas Mann   97 Luther and Nazism   100 Goethe’s Faust and Nazism   104 German Inwardness and Romanticism   110 The German Spirit   115 After the War   118 Chapter Five The Deputy by Rolf Hochhuth   121 Understanding Nazism: History or Religion?   124 The Modern Devil   127 The Church   138 The Catholic and Protestant Battle against the Nazis 

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VIII 

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Chapter Six The Holocaust and the Future 

Bibliography  Index 

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Introduction

Introduction

A search for phrases and idioms that describe Nazism and the Holocaust is bound to be frustrating. The scope of these historical phenomena, their uniquely brutal nature, and the pure evil they unearthed make any attempt to verbally portray them deficient and incomplete; and the shortage of adequate linguistic forms often produces tired, simplistic clichés. Popular metaphors and well-worn proverbs are used to illustrate the suffering the Nazis inflicted upon their victims and human actions which often seem to exceed any attribute of wickedness. One of these exhausted figures of speech is “the Nazi devil.” This association of the Holocaust with the symbol of ultimate evil, the devil, is strictly asymmetrical. Satan is an instrument to convey a notion of extreme evil, yet it reflects nothing of the image of the devil himself. It is purely a turn of expression, a metaphor, lacking any substantial reference to the religious or cultural heritage of the figure of the devil. But once in a while the use of the image of the devil is part of a different conception of Nazism, one that perceives it in a wider spiritual context. The examination of the rise of Nazism, the implementation of racist ideas, and the tragic outcomes of the Holocaust and World War II has generated some historical analyses that see a profound link between the image of the devil in Western culture and the evolvement of Nazism. These contemplations do not refer to Satan merely as a metaphor; on the contrary, here he is a central part of the historical analysis. Four German writers, discussed in this book, associate the unfolding of events in Nazi Germany with the symbol of ultimate evil. All four of them ascribe to the devil, often Goethe’s Mephisto, substantial impact on Germans’ acceptance and implementation of Nazi ideas. They all turn to Satan with an underlying premise that in order to truly understand Nazism one cannot be confined to the human. The magnitude of this phenomenon must include an idea of a superhuman entity. But the very link between the religious element of the devil and Nazism may lead to divergent historical observations. The quest for explanations in the realm of religion and culture is nothing but a first step on a path that might turn in different, even contrasting, directions. The devil may be seen as a direct superhuman power that affected history, or he may be perceived as a substantial cultural element that shaped the German self perception. Satan may be seen as proof of the superhuman source of evil unearthed in the Holocaust, or Mephisto may be comprehended as a part of a fundamental cultural dualism set in the German mind. And his character may also be used to blur the dividing line between the human and the superhuman and to portray a chaotic world in which even the fundamental distinction between man and devil no longer exists.

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 Introduction

Three of the four writers discussed in this book explicitly refer to what is often called “German culture,” or the literary, theological and philosophical heritage of Germany. The issue of cultural heritage is a complex one that requires special attention.1 “Cultural heritage” is hard to define. It seems that any example could be met with an opposing one. It goes without saying that every culture is rich, multifaceted and multilayered, and is composed of elements that do not always agree with one another. Thus any discussion from this perspective on a country or a nation must be cautious and careful not to overlook essential, fundamental elements and not to distort their true meaning. Identifying the major tendencies in a cultural heritage is a challenging task; the artist or the scholar should constantly weigh any detail against its antithesis and ask whether he is not selecting only the parts that agree with his views. But in spite of these obstacles, an examination of cultural heritage as a source of historical observations and insights may turn out to be very fruitful. It may lay bare deep beliefs and thoughts existing in people’s minds at a certain time and place; and those may affect them no less than their economic, social or military condition. Stories that become part of a child’s world, religious beliefs, both manifested and unconscious, phrases constantly repeated, and, of course, well known works of art that are the building blocks of any cultural heritage – they all determine the national character, or the national cultural heritage. From this perspective, an examination of the spiritual world of twentieth century Germany may shed some light on questions that have not yet found a fully satisfying answer: How can one understand the rapid adoption of Nazi ideas in a world that only few years earlier seemed utterly remote from them? How was the racial theory rooted in a world that was essentially Christian? Why did those Germans who rejected the Nazi idea refrain from protesting against them? These are only some of the questions that are constantly discussed in contemporary research. The writers whose works are discussed in this book provide unique answers, from an original historical perspective.

*** Four German literary works with an unusual perception of Nazism are discussed here: Klaus Mann’s Mephisto, published in 1936; a play by Else Lasker-Schüler entitled I and I, written in 1941 but published only in 1980; an address delivered 1 A fascinating discussion on the problematic nature of “national culture” is found in Geoffrey Hartman’s The Fateful Question of Culture. The fourth chapter relates to the Holocaust in German culture.



Introduction 

 3

by Thomas Mann at the Library of Congress on May 29th 1945, titled Germany and the Germans; and the play, The Deputy, written by Rolf Hochhuth between 1959 and 1962, first staged in early 1963. These works contribute to our understanding of Nazism in a historical-cultural context. They examine its emergence, its taking power, the war and the Holocaust from a purely cultural perspective. They offer historical insights into the roots of Nazism, its development, and the role of German heritage in its evolvement. Within this line of interpretation these works focus on a single cultural element: the place of the devil and his role in understanding Nazism. Satan as the embodiment of absolute evil, the devil of the Judeo-Christian tradition acting against God, the German interpretations of the pact between Faust and Mephisto – these writers use them all as part of their historical reasoning. The core of their analyses is understanding the historical impact of the image of the devil. The Nazi phenomenon is presented and analyzed against the background of this image and his influence on the formation of the spiritual structure of the West in general, and of Germany in particular. Though Klaus Mann, Lasker-Schüler and Thomas Mann refer mainly to the German perspective of Mephisto, whereas Rolf Hochhuth emphasizes Medieval Christian beliefs, they all examine the Nazis taking power in Germany and its consequences in the light of the symbol of ultimate evil. An examination of Nazism using this religious motif in four secular literary works is surprising, as they were all written in the twentieth century, seen as the most secular age in the West. Many feel that at this time there is no room for an examination of history from a religious perspective, and that religious symbols can no longer be a substantial part of historical interpretation. But it should be kept in mind that even though the modern world is essentially secular, and in some ways even explicitly opposed to religion, some of the symbols and images inherited from the past continue to exist and retain their original nature. Thus, even if secular culture is not engrossed in religious beliefs and symbols, they became part of the spiritual world of Western man and they affect his spirit and imagination. Why is the discussion of evil still bound up with the image of the devil? How does this character generate a different, unique perception of manifestations of extreme evil? Through many centuries, certainly since the Book of Job was written, the devil has been part of our world, and he has had a profound effect on Western culture. He is accepted as the embodiment of absolute evil, as a personification of malice. The role of this character is so central that it seems that any contemplation of evil must be associated with his image. The devil has appeared in various ways, both in modern times and in earlier periods. Though his nature in one tradition may be different from another, there

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 Introduction

is always a common element in all his manifestations: he is the embodiment of ultimate evil. He might appear in endless forms and act in multitude ways, but his most fundamental feature is the personification of primordial evil. The twentieth century was abundant with manifestations of extreme evil, in various wars and in unprecedented forms of cruelty. But even against this background the Holocaust stands out. The genocide that took place in the concentration camps inevitably raises the question of absolute evil. An examination of Nazism is an examination of the deepest values of Western culture, the bare and the latent ones. All four literary works discussed in this book aim at penetrating into the deepest, obscure nature of the events unfolding in their time and exploring them against the character of the devil. Secular writers wrote the four works. Nevertheless, they focus on the devil and on devilishness. Facing such extreme calamities, perhaps unparalleled in human history, they attempt to comprehend Nazism using the religion motif of Satan; they felt that the personification of evil inherited from previous generations is part and parcel of contemporary, modern reality. Though each one addressed him differently, they all turn to the image of Satan as they confronted the complex issue of Nazism. It should be pointed out that although the four works were written in a couple of decades, historically they were created in different periods. Klaus Mann wrote Mephisto before 1936, as the Nazi regime was established in Germany and began to implement the racist principles, but World War II had not yet broken out and the systematic genocide of the Jewish people was still inconceivable. Else Lasker-Schüler, forced to stay away from Europe, wrote I and I in 1941 in Jerusalem. She had only limited information of the events unfolding in Germany, but she comprehended their scope and magnitude. The news she got from friends in Germany drove her to describe an internal collapse within German culture. Thomas Mann, Klaus Mann’s father, gave his brilliant lecture, Germany and the Germans, on May 29th, 1945, three weeks after the surrender of Nazi Germany but before the nuclear bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The crimes committed in the concentration camps had already been revealed, shocking both in their brutality and in their industrial nature; but the horrific end of the war, the two nuclear bombs and the surrender of Japan were yet to come. Rolf Hochhuth wrote The Deputy between 1959 and 1962, after the nature of the Holocaust was well known around the world, the facts had been fully revealed, and the photos from the death camps had been engraved in world public opinion. Hochhuth was a child during the war. He wrote the play after deeply researching various aspects of “the Final Solution.” Each writer presents a unique perspective, an original interpretation of both the historical events and the image of the devil. Klaus Mann introduces an orig-



Introduction 

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inal interpretation of Mephistopheles. His novel, Mephisto, in spite of its title, lacks a character of the devil. Against all expectations neither the Nazi leaders nor Hitler himself are the embodiment of the devil. Mephisto is internalized; he becomes part of the human soul. Devilishness as an attribute is composed of two parts. The first is the Innerlichkeit, a tendency to see objective reality merely as a mirror of one’s desires and moods, to view the world through individual drives and aspirations. The other one is a pure, ruthless ambition. Klaus Mann believes that the integration of a purely subjective perspective with uninhibited drive for self-fulfillment is the basic characteristic of German culture. The protagonist of Mephisto illustrates this combination, and through his character Klaus Mann portrays the disastrous consequences it might have. Even though Klaus Mann foresaw the future – it is hard to believe that the novel was written before 1936 – he could not have imagined the events that took place during the world war. Elsa Lasker-Schüler wrote her play, I and I, already in 1941. Though she was forced to stay in Jerusalem and could not return to Switzerland, she read world press reports from Germany and also received letters from her German friends. In this play she describes several encounters between Mephisto, Faust and the Nazi leaders, taking place mainly in Hell. Lasker-Schüler describes a chaotic German culture, a world in which all accepted views are blurred. Mephisto is both devil and human, accepting God’s existence and embodying ultimate evil. Faust often resembles the devil; he fully identifies with the German soldiers, himself longing to return to Germany. And the Nazi leaders, Hitler and others, vie with one another to see who would resemble the devil the most. Against the background of ancient Jerusalem, the very distinction between Mephisto and Faust fades away, turning into complete turmoil. Thomas Mann discusses the nature of Mephisto in the historical context of the formation of modern Germany. He describes a dualism embedded in German culture by Luther, and later deepened by Goethe’s Faust. In spite of the prominence of inner freedom, German culture remained estranged from European tendencies towards democracy and social freedom. Faust, seen by Thomas Mann as an exemplary German, is immersed in reaching an inner freedom and self-fulfillment, willing to make a pact with the devil in order to satisfy his ambitions. He is a God-fearing man, eager to extend his knowledge and understanding, yet succumbing to the demonic and to the magic of the devil. Like his son, Klaus, Thomas Mann elaborates on the place of Innerlichkeit in German culture. And as for Mephisto, he insists that both Luther’s Devil and Goethe’s Mephisto are of a German nature. Unlike the three former writers, Rolf Hochhuth creates a figure of a concrete, tangible devil. In 1963 he depicts Doctor Mengele as a modern incarnation of the ancient figure. After the atrocities of the Holocaust had become well known,

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 Introduction

Hochhuth raises in The Deputy the possibility that supernatural forces may have influenced the events that culminated in the Holocaust. In order to explain the inconceivable facts he revealed in his study, he turns to transcendental powers known to man since Antiquity. The attitude towards the devil in each work is different, yet it has common grounds. None of them regards the devil as a mere metaphor. Each writer attempts to create a link between the religious motif of Satan and the Holocaust. Thus, the questions that should be asked here is how exactly is the motif of the devil used to establish this link? How does it shed new light on the events depicted in the works? How does it provide a new perspective both on Satan and on historical events? And also, is the devil himself presented in a new light when referred to as causing, either directly or in a cultural context, the Holocaust? Klaus Mann chose to deviate from the Mephisto tradition of a supernatural, tangible devil and present devilishness as a human attribute. Thus Mephisto is internalized and he becomes a part of the human soul. He loses his independent existence, external to man, and is transformed into a psychic element that would lead the actor to the verge of an abyss. Lasker-Schüler depicts a devil completely separated from the human soul. This is the traditional devil in the sense that he rules Hell, he made a pact with Faust, and he throws the Nazi soldiers into the burning lava. But unlike the ancient figure, the boundaries between him and human beings are blurred. He says he is partly human, and often times Faust seems more devilish than him. The chaos Lasker-Schüler describes absorbs everyone, including the devil, into a vortex of evil and violence; the only ones who remain indifferent to its consequences are the vulgar, arrogant Nazi leaders, though they, too, are driven to their destruction. Thomas Mann examines the images of Mephisto and Faust from a strictly cultural perspective. They illustrate the profound dualism of the German spirit, of inner freedom, creativity and imagination on the one hand, and oppression and aggression on the other hand. Goethe’s Faust, he argues, is open to conflicting interpretations since it conceals the dualism within the spirit of Goethe himself. Though Mephisto was intended to be the only impersonator of evil, a close reading of the play reveals that a contrasting interpretation is also valid. Rolf Hochhuth revives the supernatural devil. He attempts to bring back to life Medieval beliefs that certain event had occurred due to a supernatural intervention. This play, focusing on the issue of personal moral obligation, suggests that the ancient devil had acted in Auschwitz. Introducing Satan into a detailed historical description has various implications. The integration of historical arguments with a religious figure is definitely controversial. The various approaches to the devil in the context of Nazi Germany also bring up the complex question of moral responsibility, both of the individual and



Introduction 

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the German nation as a whole. Each interpretation has different implications in this respect. Klaus Mann points to a German spiritual structure that was created by a certain ambiguity in Goethe’s Faust, which enabled a misinterpretation of the play. To him, the moral burden is not confined to Nazi leaders but should be carried by every German who was engrossed in his own ambitions without observing the calamities around him. Lasker-Schüler points an accusing finger at “German culture” as a whole – Goethe is diabolic, Faust lacks any moral inhibition, at times he may appear worse than the devil himself. No one can arrest Nazi brutality and vulgarity since Faust, the refined intellectual, identifies with the German soldiers no matter what they have done. Thomas Mann puts the question against the background of German history since the sixteenth century. A process that culminated in the Holocaust would lead, he hopes, to a total collapse of the hidden, obscure part of German culture. Hochhuth presents an intentionally incoherent worldview; though he accuses “the Deputy,” Pope Pius XII, for not protesting against Nazi acts of which he was well aware, the introduction of a supernatural devil may be interpreted as a diminution of German moral responsibility. The image of the devil has been part of the human world since Antiquity, but its incorporation into modern historical interpretation is new. The first chapter is devoted to the devil in Western history. A concise survey of his main characteristics and ways of action provides an adequate background for the discussion on how these four writers interpret Satan and his relation to contemporary history.

Chapter One The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

This chapter is devoted to the development of the image of the devil in Western civilization. The short survey will focus mainly on the spiritual inclinations and motifs that affected, both directly and indirectly, the novel, plays and lecture discussed here.1 Throughout history man has always been aware of the existence of evil. Ancient tales created at the dawn of civilization describe evil in its various forms, but there was no one, distinct character that embodied evil. Evil is universal and eternal, but in man’s imagination, especially in the ancient world, there was no one entity that exemplifies it. The image of the devil, the ultimate representative of evil and its threats, crystallized slowly and gradually, until it became a distinct figure with an essential role in the human mind. Scholars disagree as to where the devil made his first distinct, well-defined appearance. Some believe his origins are in the Persian religion.2 He had a profound role in the demonology of ancient Zoroastricism, a dualistic religion: the powers of light always struggle with the powers of darkness. The world of Persian beliefs was abundant with demons, led by Ahariman, the Prince of Darkness. The demons were perceived as spiritual, bodiless creatures, appearing in various forms. Only on rare occasions were they depicted in human form.3 There are several sources for the world of Demons. The rise of monotheism did not eradicate the belief in many gods. Most gods became demons, existing as figures with supernatural powers, now serving evil. The mythology of “Sons of God” survived and took the form of demonology. From these various demons slowly emerged the paramount demon, the enemy of all that is good and moral – the devil. The Old Testament reveals how the devil emerged. Before the Babylon diaspora creatures that could be perceived as demons are rarely mentioned, and they

1 The literature on the Devil (the history of the term and the image) is wide and various. The entry “Demon” in Dictionnaire de Spiritualité (third volume, pp. 141–238) would be a good place to start. Russell’s works are useful, even if one does not always agree with his views. Look at The Devil: Perceptions of Evil from Antiquity to Primitive Christianity and Satan: The Early Christian Tradition. On the image of Satan and the pact with the devil in ancient times, see Forsyth, The Old Enemy. 2 On the Persian source of the devil, see a concise survey in Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas II, p. 309 ff. 3 On the belief in the devil appearing in human form, see Pagels, The Origins of Satan, pp. 100– 106.



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are never depicted as independent beings. During that diaspora the figure of the devil gained in importance and became well defined. One of the ancient texts in which the devil is explicitly depicted is the Book of Job. A vast body of research is devoted to understanding the nature and meaning of supernatural creatures in the Old Testament,4 but there is no agreement on this issue. Among the few texts that explicitly depict the devil are the Book of Zechariah and the Book of Job. Ignoring the complex question of which one precedes the other, one could safely argue that the future characteristics of the devil are already suggested here, though not yet fully developed. Zechariah says that “Then he showed me the high priest Joshua standing before the angel of the Lord, and Satan standing at his right hand to accuse him” (Zechariah 3:1). The devil appears here – perhaps for the first time – as a distinct character, his role to accuse, to oppose, to harm. The devil assumes a similar role in the Book of Job, first chapter: One day the heavenly beings came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came among them. The Lord said to Satan, ‘Where have you come from?’ Satan answered the Lord, ‘From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it.’ The Lord said to Satan, ‘Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil.’ Then Satan answered the Lord, ‘Does Job fear God for nothing? Have you not put a fence around him and his house and all that he has, on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands, and his possessions have increased in the land. But stretch out your hand now, and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face.’ The Lord said to Satan, ‘Very well, all that he has is in your power; only do not stretch out your hand against him!’ So Satan went out from the presence of the Lord. (Book of Job 1: 6–12)

In the Book of Job the devil is part of the divine entourage. He is not fully independent, as he would be in the future, but the nature of his actions is well defined, and it would be so throughout history. He has no permanent abode, he is “going to and fro on the earth” (Book of Job 2:2). This part of his nature is perhaps the source of the prominent future belief that the devil is a foreigner. And another characteristic suggested here is: he doubts virtue. In the beginning of the book the devil argues that Job is not a “blameless and upright man” (Job 2:3) as God believes he is. This quality would later become a central part of his nature. In the development of the devil in European culture, his most important act would be to tempt man and inflict suffering and misery upon him. In the Book of Job the devil tries Job and causes endless disasters, with God’s approval. At this 4 On the place of the devil in the Old Testament, see Dictionnaire de theologie chatolique, under the entry “demon.” The first part is dedicated to the devil in the Old Testament.

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stage he is still a part of the divine entourage and does not resist God. But his affinity to evil and to the suffering of man is clear. One should keep in mind that in the Book of Job there is still no clear distinction between the kingdom of good and the kingdom of evil; they are not yet separate domains. Both God and the devil challenge Job’s belief. God does not protect Job. On the contrary, he allows the devil to abuse him only for the sake of trying him. The devil is also described in 1Chronicles 21:1–27. The chapter begins with the words: “Satan stood up against Israel, and incited David to count the people of Israel.” Here the devil first appears as an inciter, seducer; he persuades David to do what is forbidden. The acts of the devil and his tempting man to sin – his most prominent trait – are explicitly described here. The Old Testament introduced to European culture the image of the devil and some of his assistants, but some aspects of their nature and actions remained obscure. In the Deuterocanonical literature the character of the devil is more developed and complex. The depictions of his appearance and his acts become more unified and clear. It is a process that lasted centuries: first the demons tempt man to sin and then they punish him. A hierarchy is portrayed, headed by the devil. At the time of the creation of the New Testament belief in superhuman creatures was widespread among both Jews and non-Jews. These demons were seen as concrete and powerful creatures, with immense importance in daily life. It is no wonder that the New Testament is abundant with rich and colorful depictions of demons and their work. Here an element of a battle between good and evil emerges, between the Holy and Satan. The story of Jesus as Savior of the world is presented as a struggle against evil forces. This inclination appears in the Gospels, especially in the attempt to seduce Jesus (see for example Mark 1:13; Luke 4:2–13). In these stories the temptation of Christ is interpreted not only as a spiritual trial but also as an event that took place in real life. This inclination reached a climax in Revelation, the Apocalyptic book of the New Testament. Its author created this scene: The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world – he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him. (Revelation 12:9)

He envisages the final victory of the forces of light over darkness: He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years, and threw him into the pit, and locked and sealed it over him, so that he would deceive the nations no more, until the thousand years were ended. After that he must be let out for a little while. (Revelation 20:2–3)



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In the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark and Luke) the devil is the embodiment of evil: “When anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path” (Matthew 13:19). He is the source of all sins and their ruler (Luke 10:18–19; 13:16; 23:31). With the help of his assistants the devil inflicts disease and misfortunes. These Gospels definitely reflect popular views of that time. John, the fourth Gospel, is believed to reflect views prevailing in the upper social class, a metaphysical point of view.5 Here the devil is “the ruler of this world” (John 14:30), causing endless misfortunes. Lies and deceptions are his very nature. He brought sin into the world, and Christ was born to overcome him. In 1 John we see that “Everyone who commits sin is a child of the devil; for the devil has been sinning from the beginning. The Son of God was revealed for this purpose, to destroy the works of the devil” (3:8). In Acts the devil is already depicted as the explicit opponent of God: I will rescue you from your people and from the Gentiles – to whom I am sending you to open their eyes so that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me. (Acts 26:17–18)

In early Christianity, between the fifth and sixth centuries, Christian thought was immersed in the question of evil, in the image and nature of the devil and his servants. The Fathers of the Church believed in the existence of “forces,” supernatural creatures, the most dominant among them is the devil. Within the spiritual world of early Christianity a theory emerged from pre-Christian cultures about the creation of the devil and his assistants. The myth of angels who fell because they wished to be too powerful and dominant is suggested in early Christian texts; this myth provides an answer to the fundamental question of any religion – how is it possible that evil came into the world?6 Already in the second century Athenagoras of Athens, one of the Fathers of the Eastern Orthodox Church, describes one angel as hostile to God. The name of this angel was the Devil. He calls him “a created being,” and his unique nature is that he objects to all that is good in the world, that is, he resists God. Clearly this depiction is typical of the common view in the Eastern Church.7 But also in 5 Bultman, The New Testament, pp. 15–32. 6 A concise survey of Theodicy in world religions and its philosophical reasoning is found under the entry “Theodicy” in Iliade’s A History of Religious Ideas, chapter IV, pp. 378–384. Substantial evidence for the Christian belief on this issue in found in Augustine’s Civitas Dei, book XII. 7 On Athenagoras, see Grant, Greek Apologists of the Second Century, pp. 100–111.

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the world of the Western Church, in Latin speaking areas, the devil had a unique place. The writing of Tertullian, one of the Fathers of the early Latin Church, is abundant with descriptions of demons and their acts. The demons, headed by Satan, are sinful angels that fell from the sky. The devil and his servants are the source of all diseases, misfortunes, of any evil part of life. Seduction is one of the ways in which they act, aiming to tempt man to sin and then punish him. One should keep in mind that from Tertullian’s perspective the devil and his servants act from their own free will.8 In late Antiquity and in the dawn of the Middle Ages the image of the devil became more developed and detailed. Two of his attributes are especially relevant to this study: the first, the unique link between him and the human soul; the other, his open and unconcealed appearance upon the earth. These were early Christian attempts to explain the manifestations of evil. These explanations were at the heart of theological, literary and philosophical discussions in future centuries. The first aspect, the unique link between the devil and man’s soul, his desires and wishes, springs from the devil’s capacity to appear in endless ways, from his ability to impersonate. Only he can become visible in the form of human thoughts and inclinations. However, the devil can become visible not only as man’s ambitions but also as the embodiment of higher values, as the desire for progress, a curiosity to understand the secrets of the universe (as can be seen in the legend of Faust), or in an attempt to create a perfect work of art. The materialization of evil as thoughts, innocent wishes or a striving for higher values created a “psychologization” of the devil, that is, transforming objective evil into an innocent human desire. This specific aspect was emphasized in later periods, especially in the era of secularization.9 Early Christianity laid the foundation for this psychological interpretation: it created a deep bond between the devil and the “vices” which are part of the human soul.10 In writing from both early Christianity and the Middle Ages the vices are perceived as personifications, as though they were distinct, independent beings. But it was always accepted and stressed that they were human attributes, forces acting within man’s character and directing his actions. The Fathers of the Church suggested that these “vices” were mental forces acting from within 8 Tertullian’s view is discussed in various studies. The main source is his “Apologeticus.” For a concise description, see Grant, Greek Apologetics in the Second Century, chapter 2. 9 Romanticism perceived evil as a fundamental human attribute. On this issue see Bianquis, Faust à Traves Quatre Siécles, chapters 14, 15. 10 On this link between the devil and man’s soul, see a detailed discussion in Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins.



The Devil as an External Reality 

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us, but they are the messengers of the devil. Early Christian thinkers created lists of “vices” and ascribed specific sins to each one of them. The worst sins – acts caused by the vices and the materialization of them – were called “mortal sins,” sins for which one cannot repent, either in life or after death. Gradually a list of seven mortal sins was created, but in early Christianity there was no defined list, and the number of mortal sins altered constantly. Some thinkers defined six sins as mortal, others extended the list to eight, but the fundamental sins were part of every list.11 These lists are imperative in the examination of evil. The lists often contain the sin of hubris, or arrogance. Christianity inherited from the Classical world, especially from Greek thought, the belief that ambitions and inclinations of man are independent forces. Plato described them as wild animals existing within us.12 The transition from this perception to the Christian belief was almost natural, since these internal forces were sometimes so fierce that they were irresistible, when in truth they were the demons, the servants of evil and powers acting upon his word. 13 Greek thought saw pride (hubris) as a psychic element and often discussed it. Hubris, or excessive vanity, could have had various manifestations, but most of all it was an uninhibited ambition to be part of a high social class, or a ruling class. In Late Antiquity the Fathers of the Church saw ambition for social success as immoral, and sometimes it was indicative of temptation by the devil. Only the desire for sexual pleasures was as central as hubris. Already in the dawn of Christianity the story of Theophilus, a priest who had a pact with the devil and sold him his soul to reach high office in the Church, became widespread. This tale is probably the earliest version of the story of Faust, to which we will return later.

The Devil as an External Reality So far we discussed interpretations of the devil acting from within man, disguised as human ambitions. But it would be incorrect to assume that throughout history man believed that the existence of the devil was only, or mainly, of a psychological nature. On the contrary, the common belief was that the devil impersonates qualities that exceed human flaws. For centuries he was interpreted as a “spirit,” 11 Bloomfield follows the lists and demonstrates how the changes did not affect the major sins. 12 Plato, The Republic, 989a. 13 On the perception of evil resulting from demons within man, see Kelly, The Devil at Baptism, pp. 50–70. Kelly studies at length the perception internal demons, especially in the Epistle of Paul.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

a creature fundamentally different from man. Since he was a supernatural being, his true appearance could never be seen (perhaps because he lacked a true exterior manifestation similar to that of a human being). But in spite of that, he comes into view explicitly as the devil. Revelation, the last book of the New Testament, is one of the earliest texts portraying the appearance of the devil not as a human attribute. From Apocalyptic writings, influenced by Revelation, we learn about the devil as an independent being. In chapters twelve to sixteen we read about a cosmic struggle between good and evil, the forces of redemption and destruction. The struggle ends the rule of evil, and perhaps history itself. The term “last Judgment” is not suggested here – it was formulated later – but the devil appears during the struggle and at its end. Since he lacks one, distinct physical form, he is described in Revelation as fearful wild animals.14 Thomas Aquinas assumed that demons exist in reality. The demons are not evil, but they fell from heaven out of their free will. Their sin is pride and envy; the sin of the devil is that he wishes to be equal to God. The role of the devil in the history of creation, a time before the devil fell, should not be underestimated. First God created the earth and then the angels fell, since pride and envy blinded them and prevented them from perceiving the divine rule of the universe. During the Reformation Protestant thinkers held the belief that good and evil spirits exist in reality. The belief in the existence of the devil and in his immense power was not terminated by the rationalistic thought that flourished in the Reformation.15 Martin Luther passionately believed in the devil and in his power.16 In a well-known text he recalled an encounter with the devil. But in the Reformation the Christian understanding of the devil began to alter. Generally speaking, there was an inclination to introduce external entities into the human soul, and the perception of the devil was no exception. Luther argued that the devil is “closer to man than his coat and shirt, and even closer than his skin.” But Luther’s perception of the devil was ambivalent and complex. On the one hand he blamed the devil for all human misfortunes; whenever a man dies of a disease, drowns or drops dead, it is a result of the doings of the devil. The kingdom of the devil is vast, with many princes and counts, each with his demonic servants. The devil is also God’s executor, administering divine verdicts.17 On the other hand, Luther’s view of the devil demonstrated the inclination to internalize 14 Revelation 12:9–10. 15 McGinn, Antichrist, pp. 208–211. 16 On Luther’s belief in spirits, see the introduction to Oberman, Luther, p. 82 ff. The discussion of Luther is mainly on p. 105. See also Bainton, Here I Stand, pp. 29 ff., 105 ff., 284 ff. 17 Kelly, The Devil at Baptism, pp. 256–259.



The Characteristics of the Devil 

 15

the devil, a tendency to see creatures that were external beings as spiritual or mental forces acting within man. Though the popular images of the devil as an external creature prevailed in Protestant theology, transforming him into internal human urges is manifested in various ways. Luther’s rejection of Catholic ceremonies aimed at preventing objective diabolic temptations indicates that he perceived the devil as existing within the human soul.18 The belief in a direct, tangible appearance of the devil within history existed throughout Christianity. However the specific nature of his appearances has changed over time: he may look like a wild animal, a fearful dragon or perhaps a ruthless dictator. But in all his appearances the belief that the devil is directly present in our world, not merely a human sentiment or vice, was never shattered. Interpretations of the devil became part of the secular world. They were created in a religious world, but they still exist and influence a world of declining religious belief. The works discussed in this book testify to the prominence of religious ideas in our secular life.

The Characteristics of the Devil So far we portrayed in general the sources of the images of the devil and their development. In the following chapters we will discuss literary works that broaden the ancient perception of the devil. But first one should depict the internal and external characteristics of the demons and the devil and the nature of their actions. The devil’s most prominent attribute is that of being a stranger. He often appears as a foreigner, as is sometimes demonstrated by the horns on his head and the claws on his hands and feet. But even when he is depicted as an ordinary person, popular imagination found ways to enhance his eeriness. Often times he is a black man. Already in an early Christian source, the Vision of St. Perpetua, he is called “Ethiopian.”19 St. Basil and Pope Gregory the Great also called him “Ethiopian”; they meant that his appearance is repulsive and that he acts in devious ways. The depiction of the devil as a black man was not uncommon. Augustine tells us about a man who dreamed of a black boy who was a demon.20 One could also recognize the devil as a foreigner by his uncommon dress. Also, 18 Luther’s perception that the devil is within us is part of his general view of man. Human life is a constant struggle between God and the devil, and the devils are everywhere, both outside man and within him. On Luther’s view on this matter, see Oberman, Luther, pp. 102–110. 19 ACTA Sact, March I, pp. 633–638. 20 Augustine, City of God, second book, Chapter 8.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

he does not reside in one place, he travels throughout the world. The Book of Job provides evidence to his constant traveling, “The Lord said to Satan, ‘Where have you come from?’ Satan answered the Lord, ‘From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it” (Job 1:7). The devil’s pride is always emphasized. It seems that the belief in his hubris was universal, existing in different times and places. In Ancient Greece hubris was insolence towards the gods, and thus also an insult to them. Christian thinkers adopted this view. The devil’s pride made him envious of God and created a drive to be his equal. This desire was disastrous to men. The Apocryphal literature proclaims that death was created from the devil’s envy (Book of Wisdom II, 23–24). The devil’s desire to compete with God was the subject of various contemplations throughout history. Pope Gregory the Great, who contributed significantly to defining the list of deadly sins, saw pride as the most prominent sin. Medieval society, striving for an encompassing order, perceived individualism as a destructive platform for development of pride, which would lead to a revolt against God. It is no wonder that individualism was seen as dangerous and threatening. “In a disciplined and corporate society, which the Middle Ages held as an ideal, exaggerated individualism, rebellion against the will of God, was considered particularly heinous.”21 Pride that was derived from independent thinking was perceived as rebellious, as evidence of ascribing excessive importance to one’s selfish interests. It indicated that man was not obedient, leading almost naturally to an accusation of heresy. Pride was believed to be the main source of evil, and therefore it was ascribed to the devil. Medieval literature adopted these ideas from its contemporary theology. In songs from the Middle Ages the devil and pride always abide together. From the Renaissance to the twentieth century individualism became a spiritual inclination no longer sinful, an inclination that does not stand in contrast with the divine order; society accepted and encouraged it. In all of the literary works discussed in this book the question of individualism emerges, and its advantages and threats are discussed. Another common attribute of the devil is his ability to alter his appearance. In order to mislead and tempt man he may assume the appearance of a handsome young man. The belief in this attribute existed already in antiquity. In ancient Persia the devil could appear in endless shapes and images, such as a lion, a

21 Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins, p. 75.



The Characteristics of the Devil 

 17

snake, a lizard, or a beautiful young man.22 His many disguises are yet another testimony of his elusive character. Christian literature uses other images to describe the devil’s endless transformations; his colors attract much attention. He is depicted as either black or red. In the New Testament, in Revelation, a link is created between red and the devil. It is the color of the one of the four horses, and the color of the monster the old prostitute is riding (Revelation 6:4. 17:3–4). The affinity between black and evil is often ascribed to the belief that the devil is the ruler of darkness, unlike God, who rules the kingdom of light. The contradiction between the two kingdoms is central in the New Testament. The devil is the ruler of darkness, “to open their eyes so that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God” (Acts, 26:18). No positive value is ascribed to darkness or black in the New Testament, yet the devil is not portrayed explicitly as black. Also, since he can constantly transform himself, he may appear as an angel of light (1 Corinthians, 11:14).23 The devil is defined not only by his attributes but also by the boundaries of his rule. An ancient belief sees the devil not as a solitary character but as the ruler of the kingdom of evil. This aspect is especially prominent in the Gnosis, a movement of late Antiquity that had profound influence on the spiritual world of Europe. The image of the “kingdom of evil” survived throughout the ages until the modern era. Though the details of the kingdom of darkness are not always clear (various sources provide different details), it is always hierarchical. Modern scholars have suggested that the design of the Roman Empire was the model for the descriptions of hell. The number of ranks may vary but the nature of the hierarchy is unchanging. The devil always heads the hierarchy; he is the ruler of Hell, executing his powers with demons that serve him.24 In the New Testament we find reference to the existence of many demons. The demon depicts himself as “My name is Legion; for we are many” (Mark 5:9). Paul describes the devil as a cosmic power (Ephesians, 6:12). But the hierarchy of evil in the New Testament was shaped by many popular beliefs. In an early Christian document, a letter to Paul’s student Ignatius of Antioch, we learn that the devil

22 On the inclination to identify evil spirits with animals, see Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins, p. 28. 23 A Medieval manifestation of the constant ability to change is found in Dante’s Inferno. There, the devil has three faces simultaneously, with three mouths, in which he is chewing Judas, Brutus and Cassius. See Inferno, canto XXXIV. 24 On the hierarchy of hell in early Christianity, see Bernstein, The Formation of Hell, pp. 276 ff.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

is the “ruler of his generation.”25 Until the Second Coming of Christ the ruler of the universe is the prince of evil. According to Clement of Alexandria of the third century, the devil was a prince among the angels, highly ranked in the hierarchy of existence. He chose evil out of his own free will. When the devil fell he convinced other angels to join him, and thus the world of evil spirits was created.26 A bit later Evagrius, who contributed to bringing asceticism from the East to the West, wrote a book of advice for monks. Of the hundred chapters in the book, sixty-seven ascribe an important role to the devil. Evagrius believed the demons are grouped in a hierarchy. They fall of their own free will, but their fall is conditioned on their sin. Thus, a hierarchy of demons is created, the graver the sin the deeper the fall. Evagrius introduced to Christianity the belief that each demon has a unique place in the hierarchy, a specific end, and a distinct personality. Some are worse than others, some quick and some slow. From the detailed descriptions of Hell we learn that what began as a single evil spirit developed into a comprehensive and well defined hierarchy of demons.27

The Nature of the Devil’s Acts Various traditions describe the devil as shaping man’s destiny; he acts either explicitly, using force and violence, or implicitly, in obscure ways, mainly by seduction, appearing in disguise. Seduction is a central instrument of the devil. Human beings were always aware of the possible hazardous consequences of temptation and felt that there was something devilish about it. But there were times in which the fear of temptation was more profound. The Apocryphal literature of the New Testament clearly portrays fear of temptation. It is there that the question of whether the devil can enter a man’s body first arose. The Epistle to Barnabas, a central Apocryphal text of the fourth century, describes the devil as wishing to “sneak into us.”28 A pagan turns his heart, the symbol of his soul, into an abode of demons. Seduction is seen as an attack on man’s will. It aims at overpowering man’s resolutions, though the author says he cannot enforce his way. Often the source of temptation is external to man, but Barnabas describes seduction as a “cunning entrance” into man’s soul. The human spirit becomes a battlefield in which good and evil struggle. 25 Corwin, St. Ignatius and the Christianity in Antioch, pp. 7–10. 26 Clement of Alexandria’s view is articulated in the “Somata” (also known as “Miscellanea”), book v, chapter 14. See also Russell, The Devil, p. 112. 27 On the theory of Evagrius, see McGuin, The Foundations of Mysticism, pp. 144–157. 28 The Epistle to Barnabas, 4.9



The Nature of the Devil’s Acts 

 19

Some scholars believed that the biblical and rabbinical belief of two yetzer (two inclinations) is the source of the idea of a struggle between good and evil within man, or deeply affected it.29 The two yetzers are two fundamental human inclinations, one to do good, the other to do evil. It has been suggested that the conflict between them developed into a struggle between the Holy Spirit and the devil.30 Some Apocryphal writings and early Christian texts further develop this view. A well-known text called “Shepherd of Hermes,”31 from about the same period, portrays a struggle between good and evil within man’s heart. In the human soul two angels live, one good, the other evil, and the latter could tempt him to sin. This state of the soul is called “dipsychia” – “a doubled soul.” Human beings are unable to distinguish between good and evil. Dipsychia is often a lack of decision, hesitation, but it is also depicted as an evil spirit springing from the devil. Hermes’s dualism is moral; man has two inclinations, the choice between them is the moral conviction. It follows, then, that the danger of temptation is immense. Evagrius, who introduced asceticism to the West, elaborated on the psychology of temptation: the human soul fell from Heaven and now it is located in the human body. Fallen souls have a rather vague idea of what is good. Man, he believed, is ruled by his emotions. Our feelings lead us to “logosmoi,” emotional thoughts, which are in fact inclinations and desires. The “emotional thoughts” determine man’s behavior. The devil watches the human soul very carefully; as soon as he detects a weakness created by an “emotional thought” he quickly takes advantage of it, with his assistants. In the spirit of Evagrius and his contemporaries the devil was always present, always eager to hurt man. He uses various methods to do so, from false intellectual sophistication to lewd thoughts. But the temptation itself, and the illusions it creates, is always a central part of his acts. Perceiving the devil as a tempter is widespread in European culture, prevailing throughout its history. The seducer may appear as a human being. In fourteenth century English literature a council of the devil and his assistants is depicted; temptation is sent to man as a messenger inviting him to the council, where he will reveal facts useful for his future.32 But usually seduction is not a “person” but one of the ways the devil acts. Many stories warn man of the devil since his tricks and schemes are doomed to create tragedy.33 The devil’s ability to constantly assume different shapes is a powerful tool for seduction. A legend of 29 On the two “yetzers” see Ishay Rozen Zvi, Demonic Desires, especially the fifth chapter. 30 See Russell, Satan, p. 40 ff. 31 See Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers, pp. 161–175. 32 See Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins, p. 194. 33 All the legends described here are taken from Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, pp. 622, 564–466.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

a Cambridge scholar reveals that he could not understand a book he read. The devil appears before him as a Master of Arts, interpreting the book and adding endless promises; yet two days later the poor scholar’s robe was found floating on the river. Poverty was often used to justify assistance from the devil. Another Cambridge scholar says that he saw the devil as a “well dressed man.” A seventeenth century musician had to sell his soul to the devil in order to alleviate his poverty, since he had nine children to feed. This poor musician was also found dead. Another prominent motive to seek the devil’s help was endless ambition. Even among those who wished to serve God, some attempted to approach the devil. A seventeenth century Englishman sold his soul to the devil to become a celebrated preacher. An Englishwoman sold her soul to the devil, and in return he assured her that her prayers would be answered. Indeed, her wishes were fulfilled, to the admiration of clergymen, but eventually she was declared a witch and burned at the stake. When the devil assumes the image of a tempter he may use religious doubts to execute his plans. Keith Thomas describes the issue saying that “The hopelessness produced by this combination of religious depression and material poverty may well have bred a separate willingness to resort to unorthodox Methods of salvation.”34 He provides many examples from seventeenth century texts, among them a story of a woman who was promised that her debts would be paid and that she would reach Heaven, and another woman had been promised relief from endless pains. The devil uses both natural and supernatural methods. The popular imagination was fascinated by the supernatural powers called “magic,”35 which were diverse and colorful. A common way was “image magic,” creating a look alike doll in the image of a person and mutilating it to hurt that person. The source of this magic is ancient, but it was also very popular in the Middle Ages and later. Cults of the devil were common too. In the late Middle Ages a literature of demonology was created, focusing on worship of the devil. A famous text, Malleus Maleficarun (The Hammer of the Witches), was written by a Dominican Inquisitor and published in 1486. It had a unique role in the development of witch-hunt. Both in the Middle Ages and in early modern time many believed this magic to be dangerous and sinful against God. Any manifestation of magic, even if used for

34 Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, p. 521. 35 It is difficult to define magic. Some divide it into categories. It follows that it is also difficult to define black magic. The general field of these somewhat vague definitions can be described as an attempt to execute diabolic powers to destroy man.



The Nature of the Devil’s Acts 

 21

positive ends, was considered part of a pact with the devil. Black Magic was seen as an extensive way of implementing evil. Another important way in which the devil acts is desecration, that is, the violation of sanctity and abasement of holy objects. It springs from the total indifference of the devil to the very distinction between sacred and profane, and also from his wish to use divine instruments. Clearly, believers saw this action, regardless of its consequences, as a conscious attempt to offend God. The desecration is versatile; a common form was the reversal of religious texts and a daily use of sacred objects. Prayers to God for salvation are forbidden, but they are reversed, articulated from the end to the beginning. Witches, it was believed, often do this.36 Using a holy object for mundane purposes was popular, and even today it exists in “Church of the Devil,” whose members often call it “Inverted Church.” Yet the most popular act of the devil is the pact he offers to his victims. Apparently the first Christian tale of a pact with the devil is the life story of St. Basil of Caesarea.37 A slave falls in love with a senator’s daughter and turns to a wizard for help. The wizard gives him a letter from the devil and orders him to find a pagan tomb and tear up the letter on top of it. After following these instructions, the daughter of the senator falls in love with him. The story ends as the servant confesses the crime to St. Basil who saves him. Another early story of a pact with the devil is that of Theophilus of Adana. Theophilus, so the story goes, was an important clergyman destined to take the place of a certain bishop after his death. For unknown reasons he was not appointed and he turns to the devil for assistance. The devil is willing to help him only if he repudiates Christ. Theophilus writes a contract and signs it, and immediately he is appointed bishop. But his remorse drives him to immerse himself in prayer and asceticism. After three days of fasting he finds the torn contract on his chest. The contract is burned by the Church, and Theophilus dies as a pious believer.38 Medieval traditions sometimes refer to priests who made a pact with the devil in order to become Pope. Belief in this pact, with all its implications, was commonly held throughout many generations. In the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance a wide demonological literature emerged, especially in the Catholic Church. In 1484 Pope Innocent published a formal epistle on the question of witches. The fundamental sin of the witch, he argued, is that she relies on the devil as if he were God. Sir Edwards Cook defined a witch as “a person that 36 See Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, pp. 48, 591. 37 See Stanford, The Devil, p. 168. 38 Mason and More, The Sources of the Faust Tradition, pp. 58–77.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

hath conference with the Devil to consult him to do some act.”39 Eventually the very communication with the devil became a pact, and the common belief was that this pact had been signed with the blood of the person making the pact. All pacts had the same formula: the sinner offers his soul in exchange for diabolic favors. Most of the devil’s benefits were mundane; the sinner used them within his lifetime. But after his death the devil would take his soul. People had various requests: often it was unrequited love and satisfaction of lust, sometimes the power to rule others. Some asked for means to satisfy ruthless ambitions, excessive pride, or any other ends. The most well known example of this motif is the story of Faust. In 1587 a very short book was published in Frankfurt about a man who made a pact with the devil. His name was Johan Faust, also known as Doctor Faustus. The book was rather simple but quickly became popular throughout Europe. In fact this short book, more than anything, shaped the European view of the pact between the devil and Faust. Apparently there was a real person by this name in the sixteenth century.40 Faust was well educated in various fields, traveled in Europe, and probably earned a living from magic performances in market places and writing horoscopes. Already in the first text of Faust a new element is introduced into the pact: Faust makes a deal with the devil in order to “speculate on the course and order of the Elements.”41 Day and night he looks for an eagle’s wing, “to know the secrets of heaven and earth.”42 Modern scholars emphasize that the drive to seek knowledge deviates from the traditional formulation of the deal with the devil. Until then, sinners asked the devil for earthly delights or power. But already in the original text of Faust, simplistic as it was, the scholar is not asking for benefits but for knowledge and understanding of heaven and earth, the path to the stars, the secrets of the seasons, and a general astrological comprehension.43 Thus, the striving for knowledge – and not pleasures – created this pact. An important representative of this new spirit in Germany is Paracelsus, a sixteenth century traveling doctor and scientist, whose work and influence embody the new spirit of the pact. Historians argue that he integrates scientific ideas of the Renaissance with Medieval

39 Thomas, Religion and Magic, p. 523 ff. 40 On the historical Faust, see Palmer and Moore, The Sources of the Faust Tradition, pp. 97–127. 41 Sixth chapter of the original Faust. This text was printed many times. For the list of prints, see Butler, The Fortunes of Faust, pp. 139–159. 42 Second chapter of the original text. 43 Chapters 12–22 of the original text.



The Nature of the Devil’s Acts 

 23

perceptions of the occult. According to common legends Faust was a student of Paracelsus. Faust’s desire to know was a religious one; understanding the movement of the stars implied understanding the thoughts of God. But traditional, dogmatic leaders of the Church believed this desire is heretical. They perceived it as evidence of diabolic intervention, and in its simplistic form it is already present in the original text. The legend of Faust spread quickly. The text became known in England where the famous poet Christopher Marlowe wrote The Tragic History of Doctor Faustus. But the most well known interpretation of the story is no doubt Goethe’s Faust. Even though it focuses on the character of the sixteenth century magician, it describes an event exceeding the boundaries of its time. The play begins with an encounter between God and Mephisto, the Prologue in Heaven, which sets the general framework of the play, somewhat like the beginning of the Book of Job. In this dialogue God allows Mephisto to tempt Faust to sin,44 but only in this world.45 For the sake of this discussion we should ask: who is Mephisto in Faust? Scholars see two characters, coexisting simultaneously. On the one hand, he is an allegory of evil and therefore of an abstract nature. On the other hand, he is an individual character with a distinct nature. He sometimes describes himself as “the spirit of perpetual negation,”46 and he is portrayed as cynical, smart, uncanny and entirely indifferent to human values. Faust is a very complex character, driven by a constant desire to know and understand. He cannot satisfy, not even momentarily, this desire. As he draws up the pact with the devil he turns the pact into a bet. Thus, Goethe’s Faust can be defined as a poetic statement on the problem of a man driven by an unfulfilled wish. Faust seeks an understanding of fundamental knowledge, yet his most profound characteristic is the aspiration to exceed his limits. But in the process of liberating himself from human limitations he becomes, to his great sorrow, aware of their strength. He is a very smart man, and therefore wishes to know the hidden forces that move the world. But since human beings lack the ability to see the occult he turns to magic, and it is here that Mephisto offers his services. Goethe’s Faust had an enormous influence. The motif of the pact with the devil reappears in German philosophy and literature, and Thomas Mann’s masterpiece, Doctor Faustus, should be noted here. During World War II, as the atrocities of the Nazis became known, he wrote another interpretation to this motif – profound and more desperate. Some scholars believe that the role of the devil in 44 Goethe, Faust, line 324. 45 Goethe, Faust, line 315. 46 Goethe, Faust, lines 1338–1384.

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 The Image of the Devil in Western Culture

Doctor Faustus is meant to explain the link between abstract intellectual thought, completely bloodless, and the barbaric bloodshed of the Nazis. Thomas Mann believed that this pact with the devil and its interpretations are deeply rooted in German culture.47 His view of this matter will be discussed in the fourth chapter, devoted to the addresses he delivered in the Library of Congress in 1945. Changes in the image of the devil are also linked to the deepening of the distinction between a subjective inclination to “inwardness” and an objective worldview founded on external structures. The source of this distinction exists in the New Testament. Luke, for example, writes: “Then the Lord said to him, ‘Now you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and of the dish, but inside you are full of greed and wickedness’” (Luke 11:39). Since the Reformation this distinction, especially its application to an “inner” man, became central in German culture. Its most prominent manifestation is Pietism, a religious movement created in seventeenth century Germany. In our context, the most significant aspect of Pietism is its emphasis on personal experience. The importance of the Dogma and even the Scriptures decreases in comparison to the direct personal experience. The Pietists often used the term “rebirth,” or as they phrase it, “the birth of a new person.” A necessary condition for this change is a direct, personal religious experience. While generations of Christians saw the Church as “mediating” between man and Christ, Pietists believed in a direct connection between man and God. This belief shaped German philosophy and literature since the Reformation, and it could be argued that the emphasis on personal experience is one of the building blocks of the age of individualism. There are, then, two fundamental perceptions of the devil: the traditional approach, derived from pre-Christian dualism, perceiving the devil as a real, tangible reality. He may appear in various forms, but he is always an independent entity. In the Middle Ages, and even later, this was the devil people believed in. The other perceptions of the devil became prominent in the Modern Age, and since the rise of Pietism it became central in German culture. Here the devil is not an external entity, existing and acting in the world, but an internal part of the human soul. This belief is diversified. When a text of the Old Testament describes “evil inclination” it refers to evil motive acting within man, but it is not perceived as an objective entity. In many ways the Pietist view stands in contrast to this view. Evil impulses become part of man’s nature, his second nature. The impulses are dynamic, they may increase, and sometimes it is impossible to discern between them and other parts of a man’s personality and conduct. This is a full and developed manifestation of the belief that the devil is part of the inner nature of man, which became more popular at the dawn of the Modern Age. 47 Russell, The Prince of Darkness, p. 266.

Chapter Two Mephisto by Klaus Mann

Mephisto by Klaus Mann

A reader unaware of the fact that Mephisto was published in 1936 may find it hard to believe that it was written before the beginning of World War II. Its historic descriptions and profound observations may create an impression that it was created long after the war was over and its calamities well known. Sentences like “a river of blood and tears flows through the streets of all cities”1 were common after the Holocaust. Yet Klaus Mann completed the novel before the outbreak of war. In the novel he provides his unique view of the rise of Nazism in Germany, an explanation that rests on German cultural heritage. He establishes a direct link between Goethe’s Faust and the nature of contemporary Germans, those who were part of the rise of Nazism, either supporting it or avoiding any struggle against it. Klaus Mann was born in Munich in 1906. The Mann family had immense influence on Germany public opinion. Klaus was still a young boy when his father had already become a famous author. His mother was half Jewish and he had five brothers and sisters. A unique bond was created between him and his sister Erica which lasted a lifetime. The Mann family fiercely objected to the Nazi movement, openly and bravely. Long before the Nazis gained power Thomas Mann denounced them, and Erica and Klaus publicly criticized its racist ideas. Erica was the founder of a satirical theater in which the Nazi leaders and their followers were ridiculed; Klaus, whose first writings appeared in Germany, published many articles against Nazi racism. In 1933, as the Nazis took power, Klaus Mann decided to leave Germany. He moved to Amsterdam, where he wrote Mephisto, and then settled in the United States. His parents and siblings left Germany with him. In 1934 his German citizenship was revoked by the Nazi regime. In the United States he published antiNazi articles, and wrote an autobiography entitled The Turning Point. He was drafted into the U.S. army; by the end of the war he was sent to Germany as a journalist. He added a fascinating appendix to his autobiography, describing his post-war impression of Germany. Klaus Mann committed suicide in 1949. Though Mephisto is not an autobiography but a general and insightful story of pre-war Germany and of individuals facing a dictatorship, it contains some autobiographical details. The character of the protagonist, Hendrik Höfgen, was inspired by Klaus Mann’s brother-in-law, Gustav Gründgens, who was married for a short while to Erica Mann. Gründgens began his acting career in Hamburg and 1 Mephisto, p. 155.

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 Mephisto by Klaus Mann

later became a successful actor in Berlin. His depiction in the novel is very similar to the way he is described in Klaus Mann’s autobiography: ruthlessly ambitious, willing to take on anything for the sake of success.2 Moreover, the portrayal of the production of Goethe’s Faust in the novel is based on Gründgens real performance of Faust in 1932–1933. Also Barbara, his first wife in the novel, is inspired by Erica Mann. Like Erica, she leaves Germany and divorces her husband, who then becomes a famous actor in Nazi Germany. Thomas Mann was the inspiration for Barbara’s father; Nicoletta, the protagonist’s second wife, is based on the character of Pamela, a young woman who grew up with the Mann family and was engaged to Klaus Mann for a short period. She then decided to marry an older man, Karl Sternheim (a half Jewish leftist playwright). In the novel he is called Theophil Marder. She later leaves him and returns to Berlin, but unlike the literary character Pamela did not marry Gründgens.3 In his autobiography Klaus Mann refers to the affinity between his life story and the fictional characters. He claims that it was not his intention to portray Gustav Gründgens as such; his Gründgens is a representative figure of Germans in the 1930s. “Gustav was one among many,” he argues. “He served me as a focus around which I could make gyrate the pathetic and nauseous crowd of petty climbers and crooks.”4 The point, then, is not the actual circumstances of Gründgens’ life but his presentation as a German typical of his time: an uninhibited opportunist who is willing to sacrifice anything for the sake of professional and economic success. After the war was over Gründgens returned to perform in Germany and became, once again, a famous actor. A German court granted his demand that the publication of the novel be banned. Naturally he wished to conceal his offensive portrayal in the novel. He felt he was presented in a humiliating and repulsive light. Only after a trial of seven years did the court decide that the novel could be published in Germany. In 1963 Gustav Gründgens died. The circumstances of his death were unclear, he may have committed suicide. Mephisto is one of the first literary works to depict Nazism, portraying wellknown historical figures like Hitler, Göring and Goebbels. It also refers to real events, such as the burning of the Reichstag. The author did not conceal the historical nature of his description, although it goes well beyond a portrayal of the 2 The Turning Point, pp. 115–117. 3 Klaus Mann has a softer, forgiving view of her. As he described how she joined the Nazis, what he called “her moral betrayal,” he argued that perhaps her life story was more tragic than what he perceived, and her actions sprang from frustration and despair he was unaware of (The Turning Point, 282). 4 The Turning Point, p. 282.



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unfolding of events in Nazi Germany. It is not a documentation of an individual person – Gustav Gründgens, or Hendrik Höfgen – but a story of an individual facing a cruel, ruthless regime. How should a man act in such horrifying circumstances? This is the question this novel wishes to present. Even before reading the novel its title stands out: Mephisto. This choice points to German cultural heritage, creating a new interpretation of the pact between Faust and Mephisto. Clearly this novel is a new version of this tale, directly linked to its most significant interpretation, Goethe’s Faust. But in spite of the title, Mephisto, there is no supernatural being in the novel. All the characters are human. As ruthless as their acts may be, we cannot ignore their humanity. “Being devilish” is a human attribute here; though its title is that of the supernatural creature, it lacks a character of the devil prevailing in all tales of the ancient pact. Why did Klaus Mann choose this title? Why did he wish to link the motif of the pact with the devil and its various interpretations with the rise of the Third Reich? The association between them generates a unique historical observation. First, it places the historical events of his time in between absolute good and evil. The perception of these events in light of the pact with the devil introduces a world with God and devil, a world in which “good” and “evil” are absolute terms, categorically contrasted. Also, it links the novel to the many interpretations of the tale of the pact with the devil – in particular to the German ones. In the novel Klaus Mann explicitly refers to the impact of Goethe’s work on German self-perception. He draws a connection between German cultural heritage, in which Goethe’s Faust had a defining role, and Nazism, arguing that this heritage had a prominent role in the birth and development of the Nazi phenomenon. Presenting the devil in a Nazi context has various implications. But aside from the fundamental nature of the association between the two, the question of the concrete character of the devil arises here. Which image of the devil did Klaus Mann have in mind? Or, in other words, what are the inherent features of devilishness in this novel? Since they are human attributes, one wonders what human behavior “entitles” a man to have the dubious title of “devilish”? This question becomes central when Nazism is seen as a pact with the devil. Klaus Mann introduces here a new understanding to the traditional motif. The plot is drawn simultaneously in two opposite directions, creating an inner tension. On the one hand, a Romantic influence is evident. The psychological description of the actor, the detachment from an “authentic” identity, the constant need to adjust to social norms, the desperate striving for professional gratification and its distorting effect – they all testify to the author’s Romantic views on the deficiencies of modern life. On the other hand, the need for self-fulfillment, the desire to make hidden dreams come true may stand in contrast with moral considerations. Morality

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is the other focal point of the novel. Klaus Mann certainly believes that moral responsibilities should never be overlooked, even if they impede personal ambitions. The examination of the actor is centered on the question whether the two currents can coexist. The plot implies that true feelings can be held without neglecting moral obligations. But the tension is evident throughout the novel, reaching is peak, and perhaps its catharsis, in the last scene, as Höfgen collapses and grieves all that he had lost on his way to success. The combination of contrasted spiritual inclinations and a lack of a superhuman devil leads to a profound contemplation on the nature of Mephisto in this novel: What is the nature of devilishness here? What features make a person devil-like? Klaus Mann points to two attributes. The first is ignoring the authentic, natural self and acting only in compliance with social criteria, and not with personal ones. The entire career of the actor is driven by a wish to be gratified by society. But as he abandons his true feelings, his beliefs become worthless; life is an endless performance. We find Höfgen acting in his personal life and authentic on stage. The emotional boundaries are broken, he loses his healthy desires and innocence, devoting himself merely to professional and social ambitions. The other attribute of being devilish is the perception of one’s circumstances as merely a reflection of personal desires, not as objective events. Several times the narrator states that the actor is blind to events taking place in Germany, to the nature of the Nazi regime. He is entirely egocentric, focusing only on his ambitions, whereas anything else is insignificant. It follows that he does not judge people according to moral standards but only according to how useful to his career they might be. In his attempt to comprehend German culture the author creates an explicit link between the tale of the pact between Faust and Mephisto and the rise of Nazism. He perceives Goethe’s work as defining German national self-perception. The Nazi prime minister argues fervently that Mephisto is a true national hero, the true defender of Germany, unlike Faust (p. 189). Thus, the pact of Faust and Mephisto is placed in the German cultural context, leading to the birth of Nazism. Mephisto is not a recounting of concrete historical events but rather it portrays the atmosphere prevailing in pre-war Germany. A new social circle is established in Berlin, obedient to the Nazi regime and silent to its atrocities. Höfgen represents this social circle more than anyone. In the first encounter with the reader he is a young actor openly opposing Nazism; at the end of the novel he is the head of the State Theater, appointed by Göring. The reader sees his slow, gradual surrender to professional ambitions. The heart of the novel is the choices the actor makes and their implications. At first it appears that they can be restricted to professional cooperation with the Nazis, but later he becomes aware



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of their total and encompassing nature, applying also to his personal life. Also, the decisions are irreversible. This novel cannot be addressed without careful attention to the chronology of the plot, since each step adds to our understanding of the actor’s devilishness. Thus the discussion here will follow the plot in detail.

Devilish without a Devil As noted earlier, the lack of a supernatural devil should call for special attention. It emphasizes the gap between the traditional interpretation of the pact with devil and the one suggested by Klaus Mann. He dissociates the novel from its literary tradition, inserting new meaning to the old patterns. His unique portrayal of this pact stresses the abyss between its traditional nature and his understanding of it. One would have expected the prominent Romantic influence on Klaus Mann’s work to create a supernatural devil; Romanticism was not indifferent to the dark, obscure forces of evil. Yet he chose to avoid the popular character of Mephisto and to present him in a new light. The first explanation to this choice could simply be the Zeit Geist. The novel was written in the twentieth century, a time of growing secularization; the discussion of explicit religious ideas is on the decline. Most literary works deal with the individual or society detached from any religious ideas. The supernatural no longer provides an explanation for human behavior; justification is now found in psychology and in man’s life experience. Therefore, it is almost natural that Mephisto will be made of flesh and blood, and not of supernatural essence. But besides this somewhat simplistic reasoning, another explanation may be suggested. Perhaps it has to do with the author’s ambivalent attitude towards Romanticism in general, and German Romanticism in particular. The novel is couched on the view that human perversion is the result of a detachment from the authentic self, of facing a cold, rationalistic society that leaves no room for feelings – a Romantic view per se. Yet his standpoint also includes profound objection to Romanticism. It is the moral standpoint which leads him to give up the traditional devil altogether. A human world ruled by superhuman powers is a world with diminishing moral responsibilities. Klaus Mann, though, wants to impose moral considerations on his characters. Thus he eliminates the supernatural powers, removing anything that could enable a neglect of moral judgment. Man faces dictatorship alone, with neither God nor the devil, judged for his acts, and no superhuman power could justify him. If there is a devilish element here, it is human; it appears in the form of the human acts.

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Another interpretation of his use of the Mephisto motif could be derived from his emphasis on moral considerations. Describing reality in terms of “devil,” “God,” “gods of the Olympus” creates a world with polarized “good” and “evil.” The author wishes to construct a dichotomy between them, to avoid blurring the boundaries between the two. He rejects a relativistic moral stand, objecting to ethical theories that present “good” and “evil” not as absolute values but as means for social ends; they are absolute ontological terms. Between them is a wide range of human behavior, each one placed in between opposite ends of a continuum. The motif of Mephisto provokes a concrete, well-defined idea of evil, and thus also of good; the reader must then judge the plot and the characters in light of these ideas. Thus, the motif of Mephisto serves the moral end. Klaus Mann’s perception of devilishness illustrates it well: it is not the devil that appears here but an actor performing on stage. In this role he seduces Faust into agreeing to a pact with the devil, just as in his personal life he has a pact with the forces of evil – in flesh and blood. Using this motif, even without a supernatural devil, stresses the profound difference between right and wrong moral choices. The examination of human devilishness should also refer to what is lacking in this perception. Klaus Mann is avoiding some common interpretations. Not only is devilishness a human attribute, but also there is no single human character that embodies evil. Although the story focuses on the actor, the leadership of the Nazi regime is also presented. The author explicitly argues that Hitler, his ministers and generals, are not in themselves the devil. It is the actor and all those who acted like him who are the only ones to illustrate evil as a general human characteristic. In the novel Göring says that “hidden in every German, isn’t there a bit of a Mephistopheles” (p. 189), indicating that the author is not arguing that Hitler or the other leaders are fundamentally different from most Germans. He says that “the light of reason is extinguished” (p. 155) in Germany, suggesting that the source of evil is not the leadership but the people as a whole. His concept of evil is not confined to certain individuals, as some historians may have argued, but to man in general. Part of his explanation of the Nazi phenomenon has to do with very general human attributes, which may reach full realization in certain historical circumstances. Also, devilishness here is not plain evil, or coincidental wrong choices. It contains an element that could be described as “absolute.” It implies that there is a clear and unequivocal connection between this attribute and the rise of Nazism. The life circumstances of the actor, his insatiable need for social recognition, his blindness to everything and anyone, his twisted perception of reality that echoes his needs – all these lead him to join the Nazi elite and to become, eventually, the head of the State Theater of Nazi Germany. And it is not only about him. The biog-



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raphy of the Göring, called the “fat man,” is a ruthless determination to attain for power, a belief that in any German a Mephisto can be found, an indifference to the outcome of his acts, also to Germans. Nazism is evolving from concrete, sometimes restricted, human devilishness. The perception of the nature of devilishness as absolute, not relative, refutes a psychological interpretation. The combination of moral judgment and mental sources creates a unique view. Klaus Mann certainly did not attempt to argue that the historical events that took place in Germany were a result of some psychological development. An examination of the human devilishness in Mephisto also provokes other questions of a more concrete nature. For example, why did the author focus on the character of Göring and not Hitler? Though there are some references to Hitler and Goebbels, the main character representing the Nazi leadership is the “fat man,” Göring. In terms of describing human devilishness the choice is acceptable, since the author perceived him as a representing the Nazi regime. Still, one wonders why Göring? Perhaps Klaus Mann found his life circumstance more suitable for the plot, or maybe he chose to stick to historical events – Gustav Gründgens was Göring’s protégé. Thematically it is not a complex choice; still it is somewhat unclear and intriguing. Human devilishness is as cruel and ruthless as the supernatural one, and as unpredictable and diverse. The gradual development of the actor illustrates its tortuous and elusive nature more than anything.

The Actor An Untrustworthy Man The heart of the novel is the slow and gradual spiritual change of several characters, mainly that of the protagonist, Hendrik Höfgen. This section is devoted to the mental process he goes through – its nature, source and results. Chronologically, the reader first encounters Höfgen as an actor at the outset of his career. He openly identifies with Communist ideas, denouncing Fascism both privately and publicly. Yet by the end of the novel, at the pinnacle of the Nazi regime in Germany, he is a famous and rich actor, director of the State Theater, a close friend of Göring and his wife, the actress Lotte Lindenthal. One could presume that the change in the actor’s personality is a result of his life circumstances. Living at another era, without the unique conflicts he had to face at that time in Germany, he would never have faced the moral challenges and failed them. His true nature would never have been revealed, and he would

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never have abandoned his leftist political stands. But Klaus Mann depicts him in this specific era in order to demonstrate how the combination of some common German features, spiritual and psychological, led to rise of Nazism. He is an instrument to present a profound insight into an individual facing a dictatorship, both as a universal question and a particularly German one. The questions regarding his change are all derived from this association; Klaus Mann speculates on the source of his personal traits, how they have developed, and how their fulfillment is analogous to the development of Nazism. The earliest event in Höfgen’s life that we know of is his decision to become a famous actor, at the age of eighteen. He feels that his name, Heinz, would be an obstacle to becoming a well-known actor: Heinz – that was the name by which he had been known to everyone up to his eighteenth year. Only when it became clear to him that he wanted to be an actor and become famous did he substitute the more aristocratic-sounding “Hendrik.” How hard it had been to impose the new name on his family, to get people accustomed to it and to take it seriously. How many letters beginning with “Dear Heinz” had been left unanswered before his mother and his sister had at last gotten used to the new form of address. Links were severed with childhood friends who stubbornly hung to “Heinz.” Besides, there would have been no point in continuing to see these friends who liked to guffaw over painful memories from a colorless past. Heinz was dead; Hendrik was on the road to greatness. (p. 47)

In a moment of weakness he reveals his childhood name to Juliette, his black mistress; she keeps calling him by this name all through the novel. But she is the only person who uses this name; his mother and sister must adjust to “Hendrik.” The name change, taking place at an early stage of his life, is instrumental in understanding his emotional transformation. The decision touches upon the alteration of his self-perception. A central question this novel discusses is the complex relations between man’s perception of himself and his acts. Heinz’s decision to change his name is a seemingly small but meaningful modification of his identity. At its heart lies ascribing excessive importance to the perception others have of him, rather than to his own emotions and personal history: the name change is the very first step in abandoning his authentic personality and adjusting it to a new image he wishes to adopt. Indeed, Heinz becomes Hendrik – people close to him would call him by that name. Heinz changes his name since he believes it is a necessary condition for a flourishing career. He thinks that in order to be a successful man he has to adjust to social standards. The name change is the very beginning of his conforming to social values. However, “Heinz” continues to exist beneath the surface, though rarely pronounced throughout the novel. Juliette calls him Heinz (even though she never knew him as Heinz). At the very last scene of the novel, as he collapses



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and grieves his lost innocence, his mother comforts him, calling him Heinz. Thus the author illustrates how his authentic personality prevails to some degree, in an implicit manner, perhaps only in order to contrast it with the new, changed Hendrik. The portrayal of man deserting his inner self reveals a profoundly Romantic influence. Romantic thinkers lamented the loss of the natural self as man becomes part of a cold and rational society. From this perspective, the striving for success is transformed by society into a demand for full adjustment to its standards. Yet Romantic thinkers discussed extensively man’s place in society, since it touches upon the heart of their worldview: individualism and the expression of feelings. A prominent view on this matter, particularly relevant to our examination of the character of Juliette, is that of Jean Jacques Rousseau, one of the early prominent voices of Romanticism.5 He depicts three social stages: the first, a brutal, animal-like stage of the savage, before he became part of society. He lived in a natural state, strong and self sufficient, using violence only for the sake of self-preservation. The second stage is that of a small, simple society, a middle stage between the savage and decadent modern society. The inspiration for this stage was Plato’s Republic. This small society is founded on the family, its atmosphere open, warm and frank. The third stage is modern society. Rousseau perceived it as over-rationalistic and unnatural, not leaving enough room for human sentiments. In this stage, morality was replaced by an unnatural, artificial approach.6 Rousseau coined the term “noble savage”: this is a man who lives in the primal stage of society, before it became alienated. The noble savage is essentially good at heart, since he has not been exposed to the corrupting influence of the decadent society, particularly to its educational system. He lacks a destructive urge, typical of man in more developed society. He wishes to harm no one, only to fulfill his needs. He has a natural disinclination to witness the suffering of others. Rousseau praised the “noble savage.” He portrays him as physically strong and healthy, fearless and not contemplative; he spends most of his time by himself, content with his loneliness. 5 Rousseau articulated his view of man and his place in society in three books: Discours sur les sciences et les arts (1750); Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes (1755); and Letter à d’Alembert sur les spectacles (1958). In these writings Rousseau formulates his theory of three stages in the development of human society, and depicts man in every stage. 6 Rousseau coined two terms that are relevant for understanding Klaus Mann’s novel. The first is amour de soi which is good, desirable self love that drives man to provide for his needs. It is spontaneous love, embodying the essence of man. Contrasted with it is amour proper, which is the distorted love of oneself. This love is nourished by a constant comparison with the other, and it implies jealousy and a desire to offend others.

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 Mephisto by Klaus Mann

Rousseau’s view of the savage is relevant to understanding Mephisto since the nature of Juliette, the actor’s mistress, is almost identical to that of the “noble savage.” She is physically strong, she lives alone – as the Nazis gain power she bravely follows Höfgen to Berlin, indifferent to the risk of such a step. She is not as selfish and calculated as Höfgen is, and she lacks an urge to avenge her degradation. Her African origins – she is half black – emphasize her depiction as the “noble savage.” Her character is shaped in a way contrasted to that of Höfgen. In the first part of the novel their erotic relationship exists in an isolated room, detached from the world, Juliette pretending that she is uncivilized when in fact she is merely satisfying Höfgen’s sexual needs. As the Nazi regime is established her true nature is further revealed: she lacks Höfgen’s cold ambition and the will to sacrifice anything for the sake of success. She develops in an opposite direction to Höfgen: he deserts his true self to professional success, whereas she becomes more true to herself, longing for Africa, for the simple and primeval society from which she came. If Juliette is Klaus Mann’s personification of the beauty of Romantic ideas, Höfgen is the embodiment of their tragic consequences – they may drive a man to a ruthless urge for self-fulfillment. One should also keep in mind that Höfgen’s artistic drive is almost never mentioned; his attraction to the acting career is depicted in terms of a drive to please others, to conquer their hearts. The actor wants the audience to love and admire him.7 The desire to be loved deepens his inclination to perceive himself as seen by others. This is the adoption of the “common taste” in a dictatorship. It could be argued that there is a reversed projection here – Höfgen does not project his personal beliefs on reality, but he projects on himself the way others see him. As a result he is changing, gradually adjusting to social norms. His personality is altered; Höfgen can grasp himself only through the eyes of those watching him: his perception of his self is conditioned on how he appears. This process leads to blindness to reality. He sees neither those closest to him nor the place in which he is living. As his career flourishes in Berlin the Nazis become more popular: Hendrik Höfgen [...] sees nothing, hears nothing, notices nothing. He has nothing to do with the city of Berlin. Nothing but stages, dressing rooms, a few nightclubs, a few fashionable dressing rooms. Does he not feel the changes of the seasons?

7 Istvan Szabo, the director of Mephisto, argued in an interview that Höfgen is motivated not only by his desire to be a successful actor, but he also wishes to be loved by all. His drive to adjust to any regime or system springs from the need to be always loved, to be part of the “enlightened side of life.” See “Mephisto: A Self Absolving Character, A Conversation with Istvan Szabo,” The New Hungarian Quarterly, vol. 23 (1982), p. 88.



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And then the narrator adds: Encapsulated by his ambitions as a prison cell, insatiable and tireless, always in a state of extreme hysterical tension, Hendrik embraces a destiny that seems to him exceptional but is in fact nothing but a vulgar arabesque at the edge of an enterprise doomed to collapse. (p. 146)

The paragraph portrays a later stage in his change, but it sheds light on the onset of the emotional process. Höfgen wishes to be altered instantly and radically. It is not a gradual alteration of parts of his personality or a slow change of habits. To the contrary, it is a sharp and clear modification in which Heinz becomes Hendrik. He wishes to cut the umbilical cord connecting him to his past. He does not want to blur the alteration but rather to make it as conspicuous as possible. Already as a young actor, Höfgen’s profound striving for success creates two conflicting psychological tendencies: he begins to act in his personal life, and he is natural and spontaneous on stage. Thus, the plot proceeds in these two analogous directions: in real life and in the theater. Several times the two inclinations converge, but mostly they coexist in two analogous worlds: in real life and in the theater.8 Thus, a detailed examination of the spiritual process depicted in this novel must turn in two directions: that of the theater and that of real life.

An Insincere Man on his Way to Success The name change, a symbol of Höfgen’s detachment from his natural identity, is the onset of his emotional and spiritual alteration. He truly wishes to become the man people see. A substantial part of his life is becoming an act, a performance. He is playing a role, pretending in order to conquer hearts. Yet some feel his insincerity. For example, he acts in life in order to get a better salary: “What can I do?” said Schmitz. “He bounced into my office and sat on my lap, and he chucked me under the chin.” Frau von Herzfeld saw with amusement that Schmitz was blushing slightly. “‘It’s got to be one thousand marks – one thousand, my darling director. It’s such a nice round sum.’ He said that over and over. What could I do, Kroge? You tell me.” (p. 21)

8 Lunstrum discusses extensively Szabo’s interpretation of the novel. Her work challenges the argument that in the film a dialectic relationship between the theater and real world life exists. She argues that though they appear as two distinct areas, they are not really contrasted, since both reveal a profound criticism on the actor’s choices. See Lunstrum, Two Mephistos.

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 Mephisto by Klaus Mann

Höfgen is playing a part here; Kroge, the theater manager, is well aware of it. He expresses his reservation about Höfgen, saying: Höfgen is basically a trivial creature. Everything about him is phony, from his literary taste to his so-called Communism. He’s no artist, he’s just an actor. (pp. 21–22)

He then adds a few words on Höfgen’s artistic value: “He isn’t much more than a routine provincial repertory actor, and at heart he knows that perfectly well.”9 Kroge believes Höfgen is aware of his modest acting skills, and that he plans to advance his career using social connections. But is Höfgen honest with himself as Kroge thinks? Is he telling himself the truth? At this point in the plot, the answer is not yet clear. A profound observation of Höfgen’s nature is articulated by a marginal character, appearing only twice in the novel, Barbara’s friend. She, too, suspects that her husband is pretending in life, using acting techniques. As she is about to leave Germany to stay with her father, we learn that “Höfgen had seen to it that in parting from his young wife he made an emotional scene” (p. 129). She contemplates on his nature, thinking: Was this mere play-acting, or was there some real feeling in it? Barbara turned this over in her mind during her morning and afternoon rides, or in the garden when she let her book fall back on her lap. Where in this man did the untrue begin and where did it stop?

Barbara shares her thoughts with her father and her bright and loyal friend Sebastian, who says: “I think I have a number,” said Sebastian. “He is always lying and he never lies. His falseness is his truth – it sounds complicated, but actually it is quite simple. He believes everything and he believes nothing. He is an actor.” (p. 130)

Sebastian’s observation, which may appear self contradictory, brings out a fundamental aspect of Höfgen’s nature: his falseness is his truth. Though he knows he is pretending, he believes his own act. He is an actor both on stage and in his personal life. Since he is eager to change, his make-believe is his truth. The novel does not depict a man who adopts superficial habits in order to appear more attractive or talented; he really wants to become the actor he thinks others see. Thus, Sebastian is correct in arguing that Höfgen believes his own lie.10 9 Mephisto, p. 22 10 Christensen describes Höfgen as a “Chamelion” and depicts his nature as “fluid” which I believe is an accurate portrayal of him. See Peter Christensen, “Collaboration in Istevan Szabo’s Mephisto.” Film Criticism, March 1988, vol. 12, Issue 3, p. 20.



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Before the Nazis gain power Höfgen has some professional success. Yet the author stresses that he still deceives himself; he is convinced that his life is meaningful in a unique way, full with conflict that other actors is Berlin lack: Hendrik flattered himself that his life had a complexity of which his colleagues could not boast. Dora Martin, for instance, the great Dora Martin, who was still more famous than himself – what might be going on inside her mind? She went to sleep thinking of her earnings and awoke with the hope of a new film contracts. So Höfgen told himself – Höfgen, who knew nothing really about Dora Martin.

The narrator elaborates on Höfgen’s self-deception: he refuses to admit the purely sexual nature of his relations with Juliette, his black mistress. He is convinced they are attached in an obscure and complex manner. Even when he is separated from his wife, Barbara, he lets himself believe that they will reunite. But his most ludicrous self-deception is his pretense that he is a communist: “under no circumstances did he want to deny himself of this rare mark of validity that so favorably distinguishes him from the general run of Berlin actors” (p. 148). He performs in a satirical cabaret, proclaiming communist stands. Yet he takes a taxi to the theater, leaving his Mercedes at home, wearing a plain gray suit, calling “I am your comrade Höfgen” at the applauding audience. The narrator depicts Höfgen’s self deception as enslaved by his ambition, comparing it to a prison cell. Here is the explicit articulation of the cause for his detachment from his natural self, a cause he feels is worthy of any sacrifice: his insatiable ambition. The hunger for success is so powerful, almost compulsive, that it could be portrayed as a prison. Clearly Höfgen himself is unable to deviate from his ambition. It overcomes his life, he is enslaved by it. In a conversation with friends he admits there is a gap between the world of the theater and real life. To Dora Martin, a Jewish actress planning to emigrate from Germany to the United States, he says “but the theater will stay in business. The theater is always going to interest people, whatever else happens in Germany” (p. 154). Indeed he is blind to the nature of the “play” unfolding in Germany, believing that the abyss between life and the theater will remain unchanged and unaffected by political events. He thinks certain aspects of daily life will not be altered by political developments. But soon he is about to be disillusioned. In Nazi Germany even a successful actor will have to give up both his black mistress and his wife to become a part of the Nazi elite. As the Nazis gain power Höfgen, unlike most of his friends, is not shocked. As Hitler becomes Führer Höfgen is shooting a film is Spain. The director halts everything to demonstrate his revolt and disgust. Höfgen, left unemployed, decides to go to Paris. There he spends what he sees as the bitterest weeks of his life. His communist “past” stops him from returning to Germany, yet he receives a sur-

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prising letter encouraging him to come to Berlin: the actress Lotte Lindenthal, the girlfriend of the air force commander Herman Göring, wants to appear on stage with him. Before he returns he walks in the streets of Paris; from a distance he sees his wife Barbara and an actress who was in love with him for years sitting in a coffee shop, gloomy and depressed. His blindness to reality is further emphasized by his lack of understanding of why they are so sad. His detachment from the historical events is so profound that he cannot even guess that news from Nazi Germany makes them despair. As he returns to Berlin he is very careful: his communist past is not forgotten, his relations with the new regime depend on one person – the actress Lotte Lindenthal. In the past he used to mock her publicly for her terrible acting, for being the friend of “many” and not only of the air force commander. In fact, he even called her a “stupid cow.” But now everything is changed. Since his professional future depends on her, he ignores her faults: In the first weeks of his new Berlin career he had only one thought in his head. Lotte Lindenthal must be made to love him. No one had so far failed to succumb to his flashing eyes and “dirty” smile, and Lotte was, after all, only human. This time he knew that everything was at stake, and he must bring all his wiles into play: Lotte must be stormed like a fortress. No matter how full-bosomed and cow-eyed she might be, not matter how provincial and homespun she might look, with her double chin and her blond permanent wave, for him she was desirable as a goddess. (p. 167–8)

This is a rare occasion in which Höfgen admits that he is acting, pretending to adore Lotte. He justifies himself, not only his acting but also his indifference to the disappearance of friends, by arguing that he cannot save anyone: I really can’t be of any help to them – this was the formula with which he warded off any thoughts of the sufferers. He was himself in danger – who knew whether tomorrow Caesar von Much would not succeed in having him arrested? Only when he himself was finally rescued could he perhaps be useful to the others. (p. 168)

His justification reveals his self-perception: not only is he helpless and cannot assist others, he is in an immediate danger. At this point he still holds the belief that in the future he will be able to save others. He still does not perceive himself in purely negative terms, a “bastard,” as would happen in the near future. Now he is steeped in his weakness: he is nothing but a small and negligible part of a huge system that could easily operate without him. Höfgen sees himself on the edge of an abyss; one careless step will drive him to destruction. It could be argued that his belief that once he would be saved he could rescue others is somewhat unrealistic – in the turmoil of this time everyone was in



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danger. Some chose to leave Germany, a possibility Höfgen does not even consider. However the historical question is almost irrelevant here. The intention of helping others in the future indicates that he still conceives himself as a moral person, hoping that he will make amends for his connections to the Nazi leaders by assisting others. The seventh chapter of the novel is entitled “The Pact with the Devil.” It is a central part of the novel, providing a key to its interpretation. The change in the protagonist is slow and gradual, but it has distinct steps, some more apparent than others. The process of adopting “devilishness” is not linear – sometime it is slow, at other times it is quick and sudden. The seventh chapter depicts an apparent step towards becoming “devilish.” At the beginning of the chapter Höfgen still believes he can atone for his acts; at its conclusion he is disillusioned, feeling that he is contaminated and can never be purified. Höfgen wishes to play Mephistopheles in Goethe’s Faust, which is about to be staged in Berlin. Using his connections with Lotte Lindenthal he obtains the desired role. Lotte and the prime minister attend the premiere. Göring is captivated by Höfgen in the role of Mephisto. In the intermission he invites Höfgen to their box. Höfgen’s panic drives him to behave naturally for a moment: he is terrified of the “demigod” he is about to meet. As he enters their box his gaze becomes blurred, his heart is beating hard, he stands at the door motionless. Even Lotte seems to have undergone a fantastic change. Her smile, which always seems good natured and stupid, now looks vaguely treacherous. But he pulls himself together. He amuses the prime minister with entertaining stories. The audience watches the true performance of that evening – how the actor captivates Göring: The prime minister had risen. There he stood in all his magnitude, his shining bulk, and stretched out his hands to the actor. Was he congratulating him on his magnificent performance? It looked more like the sealing of a pact between the potentate and the actor. In the orchestra people strained their eyes and ears. They devoured the scene in the box above as though it was the most exceptional entertainment, an entrancing pantomime entitled “The Actor Bewitches the Prince.” Never was Hendrik so passionately envied. How happy he must be. (p. 180)

The pretense that he acts in order to save others is gone. He wishes to be successful, nothing more. He wants to be an admired and loved actor, to play more parts and to bewitch the rulers. He looks happy, he has never been so acclaimed and marveled at. But surprising, unexpected sentiments emerge, new and unfamiliar:

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In fact he felt something close to nausea. Now I have contaminated myself, thought Hendrik. Now there is a stain on my hand that can never wash off … Now I have sold myself … Now I am marked for life. (p. 180)

This moment is the key to understating the entire mental process. Why is the chapter entitled “The Pact with the Devil”? One possible answer would be that it refers to the symbolic handshake with Göring. Until now Höfgen accepted Nazism without a personal encounter with its leaders. If we accept this explanation, it follows that the devil is Göring or a group of Nazi leaders. However, it should be kept in mind that the general theme of the novel is the transformation of the actor from a typical German into a Mephistopheles. The perception of devilishness, then, is a more complex one. The pact with the devil is not a personal compliance with a destructive political movement, but an internal process occurring within the human soul. At the beginning of the seventh chapter Höfgen thinks he is endangered but assures himself that in the future he will rescue others. By the end of the chapter he is disillusioned: ambition is driving him, and nothing more. The lack of self-deception, the collapse of the pretense that the affinity to the Nazis may bare positive consequences, has far reaching mental implications. The disguise of a moral person in distress is destroyed, leaving him exposed to his immorality. This change creates new unfamiliar feelings. His view of himself is altered. Now he is constantly aware that he would do anything for a flourishing career, and that all his efforts are aimed at selfish ends. This change provokes an almost physical sense of self-hatred. Höfgen perceives his “pact with the devil” in terms of impurity: now I am contaminated, he thinks, and the pollution can never be cleaned. Perceiving sin as contamination is a belief prevailing since Antiquity. Sin was comprehended as a physical pollution called miasma; to clean it one needs a ritual purification, a catharsis. An echo of this ancient belief is reflected in Mephisto, leading to a cathartic scene. At the end of the novel a member of the Resistance secretly visits Höfgen. He repeats his friend Ulrichs’ last words, after being tortured by the Gestapo, asking to take revenge in those who cooperated with the Nazis. As he leaves Höfgen feels he cannot survive another moment; it is not only a psychological collapse but also a physical one: Then he began to cry. He threw himself forward, sinking his head in his mother’s lap. His shoulders began to heave with sobs. Frau Bella was accustomed to her son’s nervous spells. But this time she was alarmed. Her instinct told her that these sobs sprang from a different source, something deeper and more serious than the little breakdowns that he indulged himself in every so often. (p. 262)



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And a bit later his mother says: “But Heinz!” she whispered. “But Heinz – quiet now. It isn’t all bad as all that. There, there, Heinz …” At the sound of his name of his childhood – the name that his ambition and pride had rejected – his weeping first became more violent and then began to subside. (p. 263)

Höfgen fails to conceal his desperation from his mother; his guilt and failure are self-evident. The childish, uninhibited weeping is the catharsis, the reverse of the contamination. Let us return to the handshake with the Nazi prime minister. The personal encounter with him is rewarding. Höfgen’s phone keeps ringing: directors and managers of theaters, film companies and actors, critics and agents, and his personal manager, little Böck, answers the calls, writing down the messages. Höfgen is lying in bed in a sense of hysterical euphoria, with silk pillows and bed sheets, spraying perfume on himself, in a hedonistic outbreak. He smashes a small vase and throws his slippers at the wall. Turning to Böck he asks: “‘Bökie – listen, Bökie,’ he drawled with wry glance at his servant. ‘Am I really a very great bastard?’” (p. 184), fully aware of his moral concession. The narrator emphasizes that he is not blushing with shame. Höfgen has lost all moral inhibitions. Gradually Höfgen becomes close to the Nazi elite. He captivates the prime minister in the role of Mephisto. He is about to be introduced to the “dwarf,” Goebbels, the propaganda minister. This would be the first public event in which Höfgen accompanies Lotte Lindenthal alongside the Nazi leaders. Devoted to his part, he thinks: How easily everything went! Hendrik felt that he must have been born under a lucky star. All this fine patronage has simply fallen into my lap, he thought. Should I have refused so much splendor? No one else would have done so given the same opportunities; and if someone was to claim otherwise, I should denounce him a liar and a hypocrite. Living in Paris as an emigrant wouldn’t have suited me. (p. 186)

Two new elements are introduced here. The first is that no one would have rejected this glamour; the other, that he is “unsuited” to be a refugee in Paris. The first argument is impersonal: Höfgen attempts to ignore the moral reasons for objecting to Nazism, arguing that no one would have given up a glamorous life for anti-Nazi actions. Anti-Nazi activists would have abandoned their struggle if they had an option to lead his life. Why is it that now, after fully accepting his selfishness, he is bothered by the resistance of others? Why is he trying to undermine the profound motives of their brave actions? The second argument is a personal one: he is unfit to live as an emigrant in Paris, although it may well suit others.

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Profound Devilishness Höfgen is in the midst of the process of becoming devilish. Klaus Mann’s insight into this process reveals hidden aspects of the emotional change. The awareness of the moral degradation is accompanied by envy of those who act out of ideological, unselfish motives. Towards the end of the story he discovers that the interrogations of the Gestapo led to the death of his former friend, Otto Ulrichs. He also learns that Hans Miklas, once a devout Nazi and Höfgen’s rival, was shot by Nazi agents after openly opposing corruption. In his desperation he is envious of them, two young men murdered by the Nazis: “all of them were to be envied – all who could believe in something, and doubly to be envied were those who in the sweep and thunder of faith had given their lives …” (p. 261). These lines are found in the very last scene. But the envy is born with his first recognition that he lacks moral motivation. The jealousy of those who died in terrible suffering but loyal to their cause is absurd. The lack of self-deception creates envy of men who are driven by anything other than pure selfishness. The personal justification for his acts is different: living in Paris as an emigrant does not suit him: In all the bustling excitement of the life that now surrounded him he thought fleetingly and with the same disgust of the loneliness of his walks through the squares and boulevards of Paris. Thank God, now he was once again in the company of his fellow men. (p. 186)

He sees Paris as a place of profound loneliness, in spite of the fact that both his wife and close friends are staying there. He feels less desolate with a “bustling excitement” around him than with people closest to him. Höfgen finds the affinity of an applauding audience more rewarding than family or lovers. If the choice is between intimacy with family and friends or an admiring crowd, he would choose the latter. At this point he is as yet unaware of the emotional cost of this choice. But by the end of the novel he would have to face its profound consequences. He had lost all those who were dear to him: his wife Barbara, his mistress Juliette, Hedda von Herzfeld and little Angelica, two faithful friends. The total devotion to success implies preferring an impersonal audience over certain individuals. But surprisingly it generates an attempt to save two people: his mistress Juliette, Princess Tebab as he calls her, and Otto Ulrichs. The first attempt is to assist Otto, his colleague from the Hamburg Theater. As the Nazis gain power Ulrichs leaves Hamburg and opens a satirical cabaret in north Berlin. After the burning of the Reichstag he is arrested, undergoes terrible interrogation and is then sent to a concentration camp.



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Höfgen decides to confess to Göring about this communist past. Using theatrical techniques he cries: “I am an artist,” cried Hendrik with gleaming eyes as he paced the room distractedly. “And like every artist I have done crazy things.” He stopped, threw his head back, opened his arms a little and declared pathetically, “You can annihilate me, Herr Prime Minister. Now I am going to confess it all”. (p. 190)

After this theatrical gesture he admits he “flirted” with Communism, a fact well known to Göring. Höfgen’s words do not stir any real excitement. He feels Göring is listening to him with a positive attitude, so he adds that other artists were as careless as he was, and now they are punished for their acts. He mentions Otto Ulrichs: “‘People say that he’s already dead. But he’s alive and he deserves to live in freedom.’ As he said that he made an irresistibly graceful gesture, raising his outstretched hands” (p. 191). Göring sets Ulrichs free and grants him a minor part in the theater. The narrator exposes the motifs for this noble act before the reader: I have rescued a man, he thought proudly. That is a good deed. With such reflections he stilled a conscience that was not yet completely dead, despite all the burdens placed upon it. Besides, it was not only pangs of conscience that troubled him from time to time. But another feeling as well – fear. Would this whole adventure in which he was so deeply involved last forever? Might there not eventually be a day of upheaval and great wrath? In case that happened it would be wise – and indeed necessary – to take insurance. The good deed towards Ulrichs constituted a particularly valuable insurance policy. Hendrik congratulated himself on that. (p. 192)

Both fear and remnants of conscience drive Höfgen to save his friend. Yet Klaus Mann does not ascribe much importance to the part of the conscience, “not yet completely dead, despite all the burdens placed upon it”. He emphasizes the fear of the future. Höfgen is cold and calculating. His efforts to save the life of a colleague are pragmatic; he hopes it will serve as insurance for the future. If the Nazi regime collapses and a new regime avenge the suffering of its victims, Höfgen would be rewarded, not punished. Thus, he makes sure that Ulrichs knows he was the one who saved him. This aspect of his character is brought here to an extreme: he is a man who would survive in any circumstances. In fact, in this novel (perhaps unlike in reality) Höfgen is more of a survivor than the Nazi leaders. They are devoted to the calamities they create without assuring any future refuge. Yet Höfgen fears the regime will collapse, and that in the future he will have to justify his choices. Saving Otto Ulrichs can be interpreted as a new, advanced stage in Höfgen’s emotional process. So far his decisions had affected only himself. He befriended

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Nazi leaders, but he neither helped nor harmed anyone else. His life existed on a separate, parallel path from other people. But now he is using a colleague to protect himself. He rescues him from a concentration camp in order to take advantage of him as future insurance, if it will be necessary. He admits that he would be willing to hurt others in order to save himself. And, indeed, soon the sacrifice of his black mistress Juliette will be inevitable. His intimacy with Nazi leaders makes the relationship with Juliette an immediate danger. His feelings towards her remain unchanged: In his heart he had no desire to get rid of her; and had he been free to choose he would have kept her besides him always, for he still loved her. Perhaps he never had such a violent longing for her as he did now. (pp. 192–193)

But he dare not visit her since the spies of his opponents followed him everywhere. He hopes Juliette will not find out that he had returned to Berlin, but in vain. Höfgen tries to avoid her, but she calls him and threatens to come to his apartment. Finally he decides to meet her to caution her never to approach him. In a sad and moving scene11 Höfgen urges her to leave for Paris, yet she cries and screams that she is German, “My father was German. I feel myself to be entirely German. And I have blond hair – really, it isn’t dyed.” She then calls Höfgen a hypocrite: “If you really were on the communist side, would you now be getting along well with the people who have had all the communists shot?” Finally she refers to their former sadomasochistic relations, saying: “Yes, now you don’t need me anymore – perhaps because there’s so much beating up going on in this country now. So you get your money’s worth without me. Ach, you’re a bastard! The lowest form of bastard!” (p. 194). But her accusations have no effect on his plans. Her presence endangers him and he is determined to get rid of her. Since his threats are futile he turns to the “fat man” for assistance. Göring finds the relationship with the beautiful black dancer amusing; its somewhat sick nature make him laugh. He promises to send her away without harming her. Juliette is imprisoned in a half dark cell for days or weeks. Once a day a silent woman brings her food and disappears. She does not know how long she is imprisoned, waiting for her execution, which she believes is unquestionable. But then Höfgen comes to break the good news: she will not be executed but rather deported to Paris.

11 Some scholars argue that Höfgen’s feeling towards Juliette are the only part of his personality the reader can sympathize with. Only here can he express his true emotions, unrelated to his career. See Mills, “The Three Faces of Mephisto, Film, Novel, and Reality.”



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The comparison between Höfgen at the beginning of the novel and the person who enters the dark cell reveals almost two different individuals. The sight of the poor, humiliated Juliette evokes no pity in him. He is unmoved, his countenance reveals no emotion, “And in a grieving, singing voice he said: ‘I, my love, have been looking forwards to this moment. You are free.’ He struck a pose, flinging open his arms” (p. 196). His generosity, though, is conditioned: she must never reveal the nature of their relationship. “There is only one condition attached to this great favor,” said Hendrik the rescuer. His mild eyes became suddenly hard. “You must keep quiet! If you can’t hold your tongue” – here a raw, brutal note entered Hendrik’s voice – “then it’s finished for you. Even in Paris you wouldn’t be able to avoid your fate. Do you promise me, my love, that you will not say a word?” His voice became imploring and he leaned towards his victim. (p. 197)

His grace is gone, the threat is explicit and rude; he is warning her that if she should reveal anything about his past she would be murdered. His voice does not quaver as he threatens. The most attentive reader will not find even a shred of hesitation or suffering. After Juliette is deported Höfgen has a new insight into her nature, entirely different from how he had perceived her in the past: “sometimes he was ashamed. He remembered Juliette’s despairing gaze directed at him across the dimly lit cell.” He recalls their encounters, how he used to see her as demonic, as a barbaric queen, in his selfish excitement he used to tell her: You walk upon the dead and mock them as you pass … But perhaps she was not a demon, after all? Viewed in the cold light of the day, he saw that it was not her style to walk over the dead. Now quite alone and weeping bitterly, she had left for a foreign city. And why? Because someone else had been capable of walking on the dead …? (p. 197)

Höfgen is taking another step on the path to devilishness. An examination of the encounter in the prison cell is fascinating, since it reveals a new aspect of his transformation. So far he has always been polite and charming, never removing the mask he wishes would be engraved on his face. Clearly he knows the Nazis are committing horrible crimes, but he never took an active part in them. But now he explicitly threatened Juliette that she will not “avoid her fate.” If his countenance began to crack earlier, now it is completely shattered. This drastic transformation is described intentionally in a casual manner, as part of other events, without accentuation. The restrained portrayal illustrates how hard it is to observe every step. This is the immanent nature of the process: even though the change is radical, every step is small and almost imperceptible. The transformation is slow and gradual, composed of many small decisions, each

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one in itself seems trivial and does not reveal the process as a whole. But the steps add up to extensive alteration of the self. Only an examination of the entire process reveals its nature. It is not determined by a single compelling event; again and again Höfgen chooses to join the Nazi leadership, abandoning those who were closest to him. The last encounter between Höfgen and Juliette is unique, since it provokes a new insight: a realistic retrospection of their relationship. Now Höfgen perceives both himself and Juliette in a factual manner: he is brutal man, striving ruthlessly to be successful; Juliette has never been the black savage he believed her to be, but a poor, lonely, young woman, living on the margins of society. Höfgen always perceived Juliette as his very opposite, but here his perception is reversed. He used to believe she was strong and he was weak; now the roles are altered. Höfgen knows she is not devilish and she never was. This new comprehension suggests that perhaps he is the one who is devilish. Juliette is not cruel – it is his brutal nature that is revealed. Since they are portrayed as opposites, exposing one of them sheds light on the other. After Juliette is not part of his life anymore, Höfgen feels an urge to think of her: “Now that he had abandoned and betrayed her, there were moments when Hendrik felt a compulsion to think again about his black Venus” (p. 197). She, and not his wife Barbara, is the focus of his thoughts. Barbara left for Paris of her own free will, independently and unrelated to him, but Juliette’s fate was the result of his doings. He saw to it that she would be expelled from Germany. Perhaps traces of guilt make him think of her: “Sometimes he was ashamed. He remembered Juliette’s despairing gaze directed at him across the dimly lit cell” (p. 197). The description of their last encounter suggests no clear emotion. The reader does not know what Höfgen is feeling. Perhaps it sharpens his introspective view: he is more aware of the emotional cost of his choice. Since Juliette is gone he feels an urge to preserve her memory. The understanding that he had given up the women who were closest to him generates a need to preserve them in his mind, even if momentarily. In the concluding scene, as he collapses, he is unable to take this loneliness anymore: “How was he to weather this evening? How was he to recover from this hour of total helplessness, full of fear and yearning and despair? Höfgen felt that he could scarcely endure another moment” (p. 261). The emotional collapse brings hidden emotions to the surface: I have lost them all, he whispered. Barbara, my good angel. And Princess Tebab, the dark source of my strength. And Hedda von Herzfeld, my faithful friend. And even little Angelica. I have lost them all. (p. 261)



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At the climax at the end of the novel, in a moment of crisis, the gloomy and depressed Höfgen mourns the loss of intimacy with the women he loved. But Höfgen is willing to sacrifice all this for the sake of success. Returning to Berlin, he learns that Göring wants to discharge the head of the State Theater and to have Höfgen take his place. The minister of propaganda objects vehemently, the “gods” struggle, and finally the “fat man” wins. Höfgen hesitates whether he should take the position; he is enthusiastic about the honor and privilege, but this would be a permanent association with the bloody regime. If he becomes the head of the State Theater he would be considered a part of the Nazi elite. His hesitation appears false, somewhat coquettish, “‘I don’t know – should I or shouldn’t I?’ He sighed and, under half closed lids, gazed into empty space. ‘It’s all so horribly difficult.’ He threw his head back and turned his noble profile towards the ceiling” (p. 222). He asks to answer the next day, probably enjoying Göring’s expectation of his decision. “They need me, he thought with exultation. I was very nearly an émigré, and now the powers beg me to save their theaters from ruin” (p. 222). This is another step in his mental change: he is not striving for a moral revenge over Göring. His satisfaction springs only from a selfish recognition that he is needed, from the fact that a very powerful man is asking him to save the State Theater. No longer is he the court jester; the mighty regime is seeking his favors. This selfish satisfaction demonstrates how indifferent he is to the nature of the Nazi regime. He does not pretend, not even to himself, that he seeks revenge. He knows that the source of this satisfaction is the need for flattery and adulation. But it is his relationship with his friend Otto Ulrichs that illustrates more than anything the distorted role Ulrichs is playing in his life. Here the lack of authentic feeling is taken to an extreme, eventually leading to his collapse. The memory of Otto Ulrichs drives Höfgen to an emotional crisis. Höfgen’s attitude towards Juliette and Ulrichs is somewhat similar. Both are contrasted to him, though from different angles. Juliette is a half black woman living on the margins of society. Ulrichs, unlike her, is part of the Höfgen’s social milieu, also an actor. But circumstances drive them in different directions. Ulrichs establishes an anti-Nazi satirical cabaret in Berlin, where Höfgen appears once. Later Ulrichs is caught and sent to a concentration camp. But Ulrichs returns to anti-Nazi activity. Again he is arrested, interrogated, and tortured to death – while Höfgen is appointed the head of the State Theater, becoming part of the Nazi cultural establishment. Ulrichs mirrors Höfgen’s corruption: Höfgen is a part of a regime that tortures and executes his friend. Yet at the onset of the story they are both young actors in Hamburg. Joining them is Hans Miklas, a wretched young actor announcing his support for the Nazi party. His father died in World War I, he grew up poor and lonely, he is skinny and

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pale, with dark hollows in his cheeks. His naïve support of Nazism later drives him to his death. As the Nazis gain power he is ecstatic, believing that the poor will get their share of the national treasures. But his naïve belief is proven wrong, the Nazi promises are never fulfilled. He then expresses his disappointment in public, which leads to his assassination by two party members who once were his friends. But in Hamburg, before the Nazi regime is established, he quarrels with Höfgen over Lotte Lindenthal. When Höfgen calls her “a stupid cow” (p. 120), Miklas defends her – she is the girlfriend of a pilot, a German Hero, and should not to be offended merely because she is member of the Nazi party! Höfgen makes the theater manager fire Miklas on ideological grounds, but then, to everyone’s surprise he [Miklas] found an advocate in Otto Ulrichs. “I implore you not to do this,” Ulrichs cried. “It seems to me that it’s punishment enough for the young man not to be signed on here for next season.”

Ulrichs’ motives are political: “I am thinking in political terms. We don’t want to create martyrs. It would be a great mistake – especially in the present political situation” (p. 121). Höfgen does not reconcile and Miklas is discharged from the theater. Ulrichs makes sure that Miklas is paid for two extra months. The different stands of Höfgen and Ulrichs are forewarnings of the future: Höfgen is acting to discharge the Nazi actor, but his motivation is purely personal. Ulrichs, on the other hand, supports Miklas as part of a political plan. Though he feels sorry for him he admits that his motivation is ideological: he doesn’t want to turn Miklas into a martyr. The public’s benefit is more important than the personal one. It is this pattern of thought that later drives him to join anti-Nazi forces. The contrast between Höfgen and Miklas is evident, each one choosing a distinct path. Höfgen is essentially indifferent to the fate of other individuals, whereas Ulrichs is driven by his social ideology. Both Höfgen an Ulrichs come to Berlin. Höfgen wishes to be a successful actor, no matter in which regime, while Ulrichs devotes his life to fighting Nazism. As Höfgen appears in Ulrich’s political cabaret he conceals his extravagant lifestyle, but this is an empty gesture. Afterwards he will detach himself from anything that poses a threat to his career. Höfgen learns of Ulrich’s arrest and transportation to a concentration camp by coincidence. It was against his will and with half an ear that Hendrik listened when people spoke of the rumors circulating about the fate of Otto Ulrichs. The communist actor and agitator, who was arrested after the Reichstag fire, had had to endure several of those grim proceedings known as ‘interrogations’ but in reality were merciless torture sessions. (p. 168)



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Höfgen is shocked but says nothing. His acquaintance with the prime minister provides a unique opportunity to save Ulrichs. Lotte Lindenthal is shocked that Höfgen openly speaks of Ulrichs, insisting that he was “a bit thoughtless. But not a bad sort at all” (p. 191). Now, Höfgen assures the prime minister, he is changed, he has become a new man. In a joint effort Lotte and Höfgen manage to achieve the impossible: Ulrichs is released and gets a small part in a play in the theater. Ulrichs returns to Berlin devastated. To Höfgen he says: I don’t know if I should have anything to do with this. It sickens me to receive a pardon from these murderers and play the repentant sinner – in fact, I’m sickened by myself altogether at this moment.

But Höfgen convinces him that in these hard times one cannot survive without cunning and deceit. He, Höfgen, constantly needs to pretend: He informed his friend how much self discipline he had exerted to bring himself to the point of howling with the wolves as now, alas, he did. “But we must insinuate ourselves into the lion’s den,” he declared. “If we stay outside we can only shout insults without achieving anything. But I’m right inside. And I’m getting things done.” This was an allusion to the fact that Hendrik had obtained Otto’s release. “If you get a job with the State Theater you can make contact once again with your old friends and politically do much more useful work than from some obscure hideout.” (p. 191)

The reader is well aware that these are hypocritical words. Höfgen does not perceive himself as acting “within the lion’s den,” his false pretense and lies to his friend are more conspicuous than ever. In spite of his need for future insurance, Höfgen could have ignored Ulrichs altogether. He is an emotional burden, reflecting Höfgen’s selfishness and indifference to anything but himself. As Ulrichs returns from the concentration camp he is paralyzed: His eyes had seen what no human eye can look upon without clouding with despair. He had seen evil naked and uncontrolled and organized with a horrible meticulousness. He had seen absolute and total baseness, which even as it tortured helpless victims glorified itself as a patriotic enterprise. (p. 239)

But after a while he recovers and establishes a new connection with anti-Nazi circles – his position enables him to act under cover. All his efforts are directed at one cause: unifying the anti-Nazi forces. Though he is a communist, he gathers all branches of the opposition: the Catholic Church, ex Social Democrats or independent Republicans.

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These efforts make Ulrichs approach Höfgen once again. Höfgen, now the head of the State Theater, is appalled by Ulrichs’ words and answers: “I don’t want to know about these things,” he said hurriedly. “I must know nothing about them. Do you understand? I’m closing my eyes to what you are doing. But I must on no account be let into the secret”, (p. 240)

Höfgen whispers that it is extremely difficult for him to conceal his real feelings. He looks at his friend with a conspiratorial glance, but Ulrichs is indifferent. Höfgen adds: “It’s not a comfortable strategy but I must persevere with it. I am in the middle of the enemy’s camp […].” Perhaps it was at this moment that his [Ulrichs] illusions fell from him and he knew Hendrik Höfgen for what he was. (p. 240)

The depiction of Höfgen is sarcastic, “how brilliantly the director dissembled! It was a performance truly worthy of a great actor. One might have thought that Hendrik Höfgen cared only for money, power and fame instead of the undermining of the regime.” After this remark the narrator elaborates on the actor’s motives: “In the broad shadow of the prime minister he felt so secure that he was tempted to flirt with danger as a facetious way of exorcising this fear of catastrophe.” This is Höfgen’s authentic emotional attitude towards Ulrichs: a wish to confront the implication of Ulrichs’ moral decisions on his own life. In this restricted respect Höfgen lacks self-deception, he is aware of the sacrifice he had to make for his career. But the presence of Ulrichs generates an urge to confront him: it is the danger that provides a sense of security. Comparing himself with Ulrichs reveals the abyss between them. It creates an illusion that unlike Ulrichs, Höfgen is safe. But the sense of being protected is short lived. Ulrichs is caught again by the Gestapo, interrogated, and dies without revealing the names of his friends in the Resistance. Yet Höfgen only knows that he was arrested, and he then approaches his patron. This time Göring warns him not to intervene, while reminding him of the mutual communist past. Höfgen realizes that any further attempt to help Ulrichs, which he believes is still alive, would endanger him. He waits for a couple of days and then calls his friend Lotte Lindenthal, admitting that he is worried about his friend. “How do you mean worried?” exclaimed the blond actress. “He’s dead.” She seemed to find it almost funny that Hendrik had not heard. “He’s dead,” repeated Hendrik softly. To the astonishment of the prime minister’s wife, he hung up without saying good bye. (p. 251)



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Ulrich’s death demonstrates how limited is the actual contrast between him and Höfgen. In spite of the fact that Ulrichs sacrifices his life in a struggle with the dictatorship and Höfgen accepts it and becomes part of it, there is no true protection in a fascist regime. Höfgen reveals that the sense of being protected is an illusion. His implicit satisfaction from Ulrich’s endangerment and from his own safety is crushed. How does a man who knows he has sacrificed everything for the sake of success react as he understands it does not protect him anymore? After he acknowledges his evil acts, his betrayal of all those who love him, he fears he will lose everything. Höfgen acts in two directions: on the one hand he struggles for his future; on the other hand he ascribes false motives to himself in retrospect. Ulrich’s old and poor mother cannot afford a coffin and a gravestone. For future insurance, Höfgen secretly sends her money. She prays for the generous stranger who remembers her son after his death: So the coffin and the grave stone were paid for from the high salary that the theater director received from the National Socialist state. This was the last and only thing the Hendrik Höfgen could still do for his friend Otto Ulrichs – or the last affront he could inflict on him. Hendrik felt relieved after he had sent off the money to Otto’s mother. Now his conscience was a little more at peace, and on the page in his heart where he listed “insurances” there was once again a credit balance. (pp. 253–254)

But as for his motives, he is now convinced he had done it all for the sake of art. The death of Ulrichs changes Höfgen’s retrospective view of himself. Though his struggle to defend himself persists, a new feeling is created: he clings to art as if it were his salvation. In the past, art was only a means to attain success. He admitted seeking social and financial achievements, and that his artistic drive was negligible. But now he is trying to save his soul through art. Klaus Mann describes an imaginary dialogue in Höfgen’s mind between him and Hamlet, Shakespeare’s noble protagonist: “I’ve got to play you. If I fail at playing you, I’ll have failed everything. You’re my ordeal by fire; I’ve got to pass. My whole life, all the sins I’ve committed, my great betrayal, all my shame can only be vindicated by my art. But I’m an artist only if I can play Hamlet.” “You are not Hamlet, you don’t have the nobility that only suffering and experience can give. You are merely the monkey of the power, a clown to entertain murderers.” (p. 254)

No longer can he sense the danger but stay protected; Göring could have him sent to a concentration camp as well. He grasps the immediate danger and needs to cling to something, but his life circumstances are volatile and his world could be shattered at any time. This generates a new insight: the choice of becoming a Mephisto is neither limited nor reversible. It is a fundamental, all-encompass-

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ing choice, and once it has been taken it cannot be altered. This new insight is depressing. In order to avoid it Höfgen clings to the belief that it was all done for the sake of art, and not for love of glory and money. It is this lie that he desperately tries to hold onto which leads to his collapse. The dead Otto Ulrichs no longer mirrors him, so Höfgen is forced to look at a new mirror: the noble and admired Prince of Denmark, a symbol of loyalty and morality. Höfgen plays the role of Hamlet. Though his performance is highly praised, he knows he is unable to play the Prince of Denmark. His Hamlet resembles a Prussian prince rather than a noble man contemplating moral dilemmas. As Höfgen returns home, exhausted and depressed, he hears a voice at the window. A Resistance member, a friend of Ulrichs’, comes to repeat his last words: “Tell your friends of the regime the message that Otto passed to me one hour before he died – ‘I am more convinced of our victory than ever before in my whole life.’” And his body was broken, torn to pieces, he added, “when you’re as far gone as I am now, you’re no longer mistaken” (p. 254). Höfgen is in panic as the young man speaks. He reaches for his revolver, but the stranger grins, announcing that he means no harm, not this time, and he intends to disappear immediately: Hendrik began to lose his nerve. He made strange convulsive gestures. His hands flew up his face and then fell to his side again; his lips twitched and his eyes rolled. “What does it mean?” he murmured. A little spittle appeared around his mouth. “What exactly do you hope to achieve from this theatric joke? Are you trying to black mail me? Do you want money from me? Here, take this!” He groped absurdly in the pocket of his silk dressing gown, but there was only the revolver and no money to be found. “Or are you just trying to intimidate me? You won’t succeed. You may think I’m trembling at the thought of the moment when you get the upper hand – for naturally, you are going to get the upper hand one day.” The director’s words came from white shaking lips as he moved, almost bounded across the room. “On the contrary,” he shouted shrilly, coming to an abrupt stop. “That’s when I’ll really be great. Don’t you think I’ve made provisions for that?” The director had worked himself into the state of hysterical elation. “I’m on the very best terms with people. The Communist party appreciates me – they are greatly indebted to me.” (p. 260)

Panic makes him lay bare his true motives, no longer can the mask of a successful actor cover his face. The young intruder mocks Höfgen, telling him they have learned to be merciless and will be sure who should be hung first. Höfgen loses his self control, tries to throw something at the stranger, but he cannot see him. Standing by the window he shouts: “I am absolutely indispensible!” yelled the director into the dark garden. “The theater needs me. Every regime needs the theater! No regime can go along without me!” (p. 260)



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All alone, in bitter desperation, his mother enters the room. As he sees her he begins to sob. She is touched by his pain, “her heart brimmed with pity. She understood everything, the whole story of his guilt, his great failure, and the despairing inadequacy of his remorse and why he lay there and wept.” As she tries to calm him she calls him “Heinz,” but this provokes even more agony: At the sound of the name of his childhood – the name his ambition and pride had rejected – his weeping first became more violent and them began to subside. His shoulders stopped shaking.

After a couple of minutes he raises his head and says to his mother the last sentence of the novel: What do men want from me? Why do they pursue me? Why are they so hard? All I am is a perfectly ordinary actor …

The climax of the novel in the last scene is where the emotional process is completed. It all adds up to one sentence: I am an ordinary actor, nothing more. These words should be seen not only in an emotional context but also against the background of the motto of the novel from Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister, “All men’s failing I forgive the actor; no actor’s failing will I forgive in men.” The last sentence is directly connected to the first one: the actor cannot judge himself in a different manner than other people; his moral commitment is just as obliging. Höfgen asks for “forgiveness” because he is an “ordinary actor.” His last sentence demonstrates how false and distorted it is to perceive oneself only in a professional light. The gradual change of the protagonist, depicted here in detail, leads to an unequivocal moral statement: ignoring moral consideration should not be forgiven. Even if Höfgen acted for the sake of artistic fulfillment – which he did not – he should have given up his flourishing career in order not to become part of the Nazi rule. Art is not a mean to overlook morality, and the actor who became Mephisto would not be forgiven.

An Authentic Actor Contrasted with Höfgen playing a role in his personal life is the description of his character on stage: often he is not acting but behaving as if the scene was part of his life off stage. His impersonation of a character frequently appears too authentic. This is not the result of an excellent artistic talent; the reader often

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feels that he is too natural on stage, playing himself and no one else.12 This perspective is apparent without a careful examination of the plot since in this respect he remains unchanged, always resembling himself in real life. In the first chapter, which chronologically is almost at the end of the plot, the Nazi prime minister meets Höfgen at his birthday ball. He turns to him, slaps him on his shoulder and says “How’s it going, Mephisto?” (p. 17). The affinity, not to say similarity, between Höfgen and Mephisto is set at the beginning of the story. Before the Nazis assume power Höfgen comes to Berlin, and plays the role of a murderer neurologist in a play entitled The Guilt. Indeed, he is a gifted villain: But the most depraved of the depraved was Hendrik Höfgen, which was why he won the greatest applause. With his demonic expression and lifeless voice, he left no doubt he was evil – a blackmailer of the first order. With a horrible leer he led young people to disaster. One of them committed suicide onstage, and Hendrik – his hands in trouser pockets, a cigarette hanging from his lips and a monocle fixed in his eye – slouched past the body. The audience shuddered – this was the incarnation of evil. Sometimes he himself seemed to take fright at his unrelieved wickedness: his face became white and stiff, the glittering fishlike eyes took on a desolate sheen and the sensitive temples tightened with pain. (pp. 136–137)

Höfgen is praised for his acting. He then becomes a famous actor. He moves to a luxurious apartment and gets a role in the cinema. There, again, he plays an evil and mysterious criminal: Everything about the villain is black: the color of his clothing symbolizing the darkness of his soul. The Black Devil commands a gang that forges banknotes, smuggles drugs and occasionally robs a bank. He has also committed several murders. It is not only the avarice and a taste for adventures that drives the Black Devil to crime: an unhappy experience with a young woman has turned him into an enemy of humanity and he pursues evil as a matter of principle [...] In the course of his dramatic scene the Black Devil unmasks. Between his stiff black hat and his high necked black shirt his face is of a frightening pallor, aristocratic even in its depravity, and not without a trace of tragic grandeur. (p. 139)

These roles are only an introduction, stages in the evolvement of the villain he both acts and becomes. Thematically it leads him to the role of Mephisto in Goethe’s Faust in 1932–1933. As he makes a pact with Faust he impersonates the devil better than anyone. Dressed in black, his face powdered in white, his blood red mouth cannot be ignored. In this role he is capable of anything:

12 In a film review on Szabo’s Mephisto published in the New Yorker the author argued that Höfgen is nothing but all the parts he played, both on and off stage, lacking any genuine nature. See Pauline Kael, “A Devil without Fire.”



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Hendrik/Mephisto glides across the stage with the grace of a dancer in a close-fitting costume of black silk [...] He is strong – stronger even than God the Father, whom from time to time he willingly saw and treated with somewhat disdainful courtesy. Had he not good reason to look down on Him a little? For Mephisto was much wittier, much wiser, and in any case much more unfortunate than the Lord; and perhaps there lays the secret of his great strength – his greater misfortune. (p. 152)

The depiction of his acting suggests that part of him is becoming the devil, revealing a part of his personality that he is trying to conceal. This is the source of his success, a hidden part of his nature. If in his personal life he often acts, on stage we find him authentic and uninhibited. Höfgen’s devilish nature is not only manifested in his abandoning his true feelings but also in identification – almost embodiment – with the evil characters he plays. On stage he is truly transformed into a Mephisto. The evolvement of Nazism in Germany is paralleled by his acting Mephisto in a more natural and persuasive way. The theater and historical events are interwoven. In a world in which theatrical ideas are used to convey political concepts, the theater is no longer a mimesis of life – it is its most true and profound expression.

Various Attitudes to Nazism The heart of this novel is an artistic attempt to portray and comprehend Nazism: the nature of statesmen and military leaders, their way of thinking, the lives of historical figures – mostly that of Göring – the ideas prevailing in Nazi gatherings, and the effect of all these on ordinary Germans. But all these are depicted from a unique angel, revealing the author’s deep historical observations. The portrayal of history is both accurate yet it is linked with what Klaus Mann saw as the profound cultural roots of Nazism. The Nazis are often called the “gods of the Olympus”: their unlimited power and values are contrasted with Judeo-Christian ideas. Klaus Mann also refers to the Romantic influence in the rise of Nazism, and to the transformation of Romantic ideas into political terms. Finally, the novel provides a profound observation on the German roots of Nazism and asks whether it is a uniquely German phenomenon or a universal one.

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Gods of the Olympus? “God,” “gods,” “Gods of the Olympus” – the author uses these words to describe the Nazi leaders. Already in the first chapter Goebbels is depicted entering the ballroom: The minister of propaganda, overlord of the spiritual life of millions, limped nimbly through the glittering throng which bowed down before him. An icy wind seemed to blow as he passed. It was as though an evil, solitary and cruel god had clambered down among the everyday bustle of pleasure seeking, cowardly, pitiful mortals. For several seconds the whole company remained as if paralyzed with horror. (p. 11)

Hitler is “standing on Olympus”; the people crowding around him are “a beautiful array of gods indeed” (p. 183). Höfgen playing Mephisto in unable to see Göring: But so great was his anxiety that Hendrik registered almost nothing of the stout giant in his colored uniform, a demigod. A veil seemed to hang in front of the great man’s face – that mystic veil that has always hidden the faces of the prophets and the gods from the frightened gaze of the mortals. (p. 179)

The sarcasm is self evident, but the divine attributes also represent a deeper observation. The simplest explanation is that the analogy between the Nazis and the gods illustrates their immense, unrestricted power, and perhaps also indicates how the crowd worships them. They affect human fate like the Greek and Roman gods in ancient mythology. Another similarity to the ancient gods is that they both treat human fate in a playful manner. A good example is the struggle between the prime minister and the minister of propaganda about who should be the head of the State Theater: The gods wrangled. The whole affair became a power and prestige contest between the propaganda minister and the prime minister, between the lame and the fat. Hendrik waited, scarcely knowing which outcome of the battle of the gods to hope for. (p. 222)

But it could also be interpreted on a deeper level. Klaus Mann’s portrayal of these years emphasizes the instability, almost fluidity, of German society, a lack of a deep-set social structure that would prevent extreme changes. He tends to undermine the role of Nazi ideology – almost overlooks it – in the unfolding of the historical events, and points to an inconsistent and even chaotic atmosphere prevailing in pre-war Germany. The Nazi leaders, their nature and ambitions, shape history. They are motivated by personal interests and struggles, and are almost indifferent to ideology. Thus, an ordinary man sees their acts as arbitrary and



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obscure, just like those of the gods of the Olympus. Depicting them as mythological gods illustrates how political events are shaped by their personal drives, not their ideas. This perception also points to the pagan inclination of Nazism, contrasted with Judeo-Christian values. Juxtaposing the two implies a profound empathy of the author to monotheism in general, and to the Judeo-Christian spirit in particular. Though the complex question of the Nazi attitude to Christianity is beyond the scope of this book, suffice it to say that the Nazis saw Aryan paganism as the very opposite of Christian monotheism. The German adoration of nature, which in a distorted way supported German racism, is presented as a contrast to Christianity, the religion of ethics. In Nazi eyes monotheistic values epitomize how the weak restrain the strong. The ideal of a man living according to the rules of nature is part of a wider view of negating Western values and preferring the strong dominating the weak. Klaus Mann agrees with the juxtaposition of monotheism and the “religion of nature”; he places himself versus the Nazis, with the realm of Christian ethics. The “god of the Olympus” chose to ignore moral values; in this context Judaism and Christianity are one. It follows that the author not only rejects German racism but also supports Judaism as such. Another aspect of the “gods” and “demigods” is derived from the wider discussion in this novel on the roots of German self-perception. Nazi leaders, argues Klaus Mann, truly perceived themselves as “gods,” and this self-image could clarify some of their acts. Hitler and the Nazi elite were motivated by a desire to attain a unique ontological place, different from all other men, even their supporters. This self-perception determined the fundamental structure of the regime. On Hitler the author says: The Führer’s eyes are abstracted and dull like those of a blind man. Is he looking inward, straining his ears to hear something inside himself? Perhaps. Perhaps he is listening to the same message that his propaganda minister and all the newspapers he controls never tire of repeating: that he is the one sent from God who needs only to follow his own star and Germany and then the whole world will prosper under his leadership. Perhaps, for his bloated petit-bourgeois face bears an expression of ecstasy.

And in the next paragraph he says: Who are all those who are crowding around him? A beautiful array of gods indeed! A group of grotesque characters before whom godforsaken people writhe in a delirium of worship. (p. 183)

Nazi self-image is linked with blindness to objective reality. The Führer is looking inward, into his heart; his eyes are abstracted and dull like a blind man’s eyes, he

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sees nothing. Using “gods” to portray the leaders may be part of emphasizing this aspect of Nazism: perceiving themselves as superhumans is linked with ignoring the objective world. The terms used here were part of the Nazi world, making the artistic description authentic, but also mimetic. The megalomaniac nature of the leadership – and the collapse of the Nazi regime within several years – implies they were somewhat blind to reality. 13 But what exactly does Klaus Mann mean by blindness? It is not a complete lack of knowledge. Clearly the Nazi leadership had extensive information on events unfolding in Germany and abroad. “Blindness” ascribes more importance to an inner voice than to the voice outside oneself. Hitler hears his inner voice telling him he is god-sent, as do Göring and Goebbels. Their self-image as “gods” is derived from an internal voice, not from military or political power. The megalomaniac viewpoint undermines historical events. In this novel it is the deepest source of devilishness. The portrayal of how Nazis view of their role has also an eschatological note: The horsemen of the Apocalypse are on their way. Here they have dismounted and conscripted a hideous regiment. From here they mean to conquer the world – where men today laugh at them, they shall tomorrow lie prostrate before them. It is night in our fatherland. Wicked men range through its provinces. Wherever they or their base accomplices appear the light of reason is extinguished. (p. 155)

However it would be incorrect to assume that his tone implies a passive yearning for a glorious future. On the contrary, the Nazis draw strength from this eschatological spirit, strengthening their motivation to force their way in the present and in the future. In the Middle Ages the delusion of grandeur and power was often referred to as the sin of the devil, hubris. The very existence of pride was considered evidence of satanic powers. The portrayal of the Nazis agrees with some elements of Medieval satanic hubris – an uninhibited belief in the influence of the devil, in his endless power, his presumption to be equal to God. The references to the hubris stresses the Nazi striving for grandeur, the desire to be invincible rulers of the earth. Juxtaposed with these dubious “demigods” is the monotheistic God, mentioned only twice in the novel: “Woe this land, for the sky above it had grown dark. God has turned his face away, and a river of blood and tears flows through 13 Without immersing in this complex historical discussion, it should be noted that this perception agrees with Bullock’s view, arguing that Hitler saw himself as a messenger of divine providence, sent to save the German people from the humiliation of the Weimar Republic. See Bullock, Hitler and Stalin, p. 348.



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the streets of all its cities.”14 God is angered by the historical events – he will not accept rivers of blood and tears. In another passage the narrator describes God differently. Around Hitler are “grotesque characters before whom a godforsaken people writhe in a delirium of worship” (Mephisto, p. 183). The motif of God angered by man’s sins often appears in the Old Testament; many tragic events happen as a result of his wrath, making him remove the divine protection. Since the idea is not elaborated on, it is only one, essentially metaphorical, sentence, it is unclear whether the atrocities happen due to lack of divine intervention or they drove God to hide his face. But be that as it may, the monotheistic God does not prevent the atrocities in Germany. Describing Germany as “godforsaken” has a touch of grievance, even an implicit hint of the Book of Job. But here God is forsaking the German people, not a single person. It may suggest a superhuman explanation of the rise of Nazism, but Klaus Mann does not elaborate on this issue, suggested only twice in the novel. But the perception of God is elaborated more in Klaus Mann’s portrayal of God as part of Goethe’s Faust. The mixture of reality and theater has already been discussed, but the description of Höfgen playing Mephisto is fascinating: He [Mephisto] was strong – stronger even than God the Father, whom from time to time he willingly saw and treated with somewhat disdainful courtesy. Had he not good reason to look down on Him? For Mephisto was much wittier, much wiser, and in any case much more unfortunate than the Lord; and perhaps there lays the secret of his great strength–his greater misfortune. The enormous optimism of the Old Man, who allowed his angels to extol Him and His creation in endless song, and His euphoric good nature made an almost simple-minded and senile impression beside the terrible melancholy into which the once-favorite angel, the accursed and the dweller in the abyss, fell from time to time between his bouts of sinister vivacity. A shiver went through the audience in the Berlin State Theater when Höfgen/Mephistopheles intoned …. (p. 152)

God is not Omnipotent. If God was hiding his face from Germany, his portrayal within the play is derogatory and mocking: a senile old man, goodhearted and kind, but powerless. Is this Klaus Mann’s religious perception or is it his reservations about historical events unfolding at the time the play was staged? There is no clear answer. On the one hand he articulates an ancient notion that the devil is closer to man than God; this agrees with his resentment of God. But on the other hand the presentation of Goethe may imply that Klaus Mann believes Goethe’s great work was misunderstood. It certainly implies that in Nazi Germany, real life and theater were inseparable. 14 Mephisto, p. 155.

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Nazism and Romanticism Klaus Mann’s ambivalent stand towards Romanticism was discussed earlier, as part of the depiction of the actor’s mental change. In particular, the author demonstrates how a total fulfillment of one’s needs and desires can be disastrous. His reservations about full self-realization is especially prominent in his portrayal of Nazi leaders, Göring in particular. The heart of his argument is not the explicit translation of Romantic ideas into Nazi ideology, an idea suggested by some historians, but rather the influence of Romantic notions on the psychological inclinations of Nazi leaders, creating a state of mind that leads to recklessness and devastation. Seen from this perspective, the character of Göring is fascinating. The heart of the description is his introspective view: Isn’t my life like a fairy tale? he often thought. Because he had a romantic nature, he loved the theater and voluptuously sniffed the air backstage; and it was with pleasure that he sat in his velvet-lined box, where he could be admired by the audience before he himself had something nice to look at. (p. 182)

Mann develops the romantic aspect of the “fat man,” leading the reader to contemplate the connection between Romanticism and militant acts: His life seemed pleasant enough to him as it was, but his taste for adventure and excess would be fully satisfied only by another outbreak of war. In his eyes, war was an amusement of a more intense kind than all other pleasures that he now enjoyed. (p. 182 )

Göring’s attraction to war is derived from his adventurous nature. He is practically indifferent to the outcomes of the war he initiates, to the suffering it inflicts upon men – also upon Germans. His sole desire is to fulfill his adventurous ambitions, without any moral inhibitions. Like the actor, he is blind to human misery and is entirely focused on himself. Another similarity between the actor and the prime minister is a notion that their lives are somewhat unrealistic. Like the actor, Göring sees his personal history as a fairy tale. The unrestrained drive of both of them – as typical characters of their time – to fully realize their ambitions creates a detachment from the reality. It may be called a fairy tale, or an illusion. Ignoring moral values for the sake of success necessarily creates a distorted perception of one’s life circumstances. An ironic aspect of the Göring’s romantic side is his sentiment towards his late wife. The novel provides an accurate historical description: he was married to a Swedish woman, who drove him across Italy as he was wounded after a failed Putsch. In the novel Lotte Lindenthal describes his feeling towards his first wife:



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Her fat lover was often so violent … “you can’t guess what I sometimes have to endure,” said Lotte. But all told, she declared, he was a good man: “Whatever his enemies say about him, at heart he is goodness himself. And so romantic!” Lotte had tears in her eyes when she reported how sometimes at midnight her prime minister, dressed in his bearskin coat with a drawn sword at his side, stood in homage before the portrait of his deceased wife. (pp. 188–189)

The sarcastic tone of the description is clear – describing Göring as good hearted, romantic, the embodiment of goodness is almost a hyperbole from a purely literary perspective. Artists of the Romantic movement discussed extensively the relations between Romantic ideals and ethics. The complex interrelation between the two is clear. Yet only an extreme Romantic stand will favor utter fulfillment of any human desire over adopting some moral restrictions. Mephisto reflects the profound conflict regarding this question, pointing to a constant tension between personal ambition and moral commitment. But Göring and Höfgen do not wish to balance the two; they both choose the extreme end, a total self-fulfillment and utter neglect of morality. The author, himself not indifferent to the lures of the theater and to extreme emotional manifestations, does not convey a simplistic message. But the predisposition to express the irrational in vivid colors also creates a fear of its implementation. Facing chaotic circumstances in Germany in the thirties made him long for a world in which moral values are of the utmost importance. His ambivalent view of Romanticism is articulated in his discussion of Nietzsche, one of his spiritual mentors.15 In his autobiography he declares that Nietzsche unearths the flaws of Western ideals by casting a general doubt on human morality. Klaus Mann sees him as the most insightful observer of the human soul ever, bringing to light human hypocrisy and questioning fundamental beliefs.16 But in the epilogue of his book on Gide, Klaus Mann contemplates the place of German writers in the development of Nazism. He quotes Gide, saying, There may be mistakes and sins to hold against us writers, the generation under Nietzsche’s spell. Not quite the kind of errors, though, the Fascists blame us for. To reproach us with having ‘discouraged and devitalized’ French youth in indeed nonsensical. Our fallacy is rather the opposite kind […] Yes, Zarathustra bewitched too many of us with his dangerous catchwords. Let us be hard! Let us defy the Christian ethics! Revaluate all values! ... How thrillingly adventurous life seemed, up there, in glacial height, immeasurably beyond good and evil.17 15 Klaus Mann, The Turning Point, p. 207. 16 Klaus Mann, The Turning Point, pp. 316–317. 17 Klaus Mann, André Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought, p. 197.

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The German Aspect Within the wide body of research on Nazism the question of whether Nazism was a purely German phenomenon – or could have developed in other places as well – often emerges. Of course, it is a speculative question; one cannot expect a clear, unequivocal answer regarding hypothetical historical situations. Still, it would be impossible not to contemplate the role of German heritage on the rise of Nazism and its catastrophic consequences. Mephisto addresses this issue, explicitly and in detail. Though the novel was written in the thirties, before the full realization of Nazi racist ideas, Klaus Mann ascribed a unique place to German culture in their creation. He explicitly refers to “German culture” in his portrayal of the unfolding of the historical events. In particular, he points to Goethe’s Faust, a defining literary work in German culture, and examines its affect on the formation of political circumstance in Germany in the third decade of the twentieth century. The title of the novel, Mephisto, leaves no room for doubt: the author sees the novel as part of a long German tradition depicting the pact with the devil by that name, Mephisto, from Goethe’s Faust to Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus, written several years after this novel. Goethe’s work is discussed in the seventh chapter entitled “The Pact with the Devil,” where the first encounter between the actor and Göring takes place in staging of this play, in the intermission. Göring then notes that Goethe’s Mephisto is the true German hero, and not Faust. Since the Faust legend is so deeply rooted in German tradition and interpreted by several German writers, calling the novel “Mephisto” is a direct allusion to German history, both in terms of the contemporary events and the wider cultural context depicted in the novel. Thus, an interpretation of the novel without a discussion on the place of German heritage would be deficient. The novel offers a unique perception of German culture and its influence on the birth of Nazism. Mephisto depicts Germany in the thirties, providing insight into the spiritual and social roots of Nazism and to its cultural foundations. Though the cultural argument is at the core of the novel, one should refer, even if briefly, to the social description of Germany in the early thirties. Klaus Mann argues that social stratification played an important role in the rise of the Nazi regime; in the novel it often advances the plot. The prominent representatives of the upper class, the high bourgeoisie, are Barbara, Höfgen’s first wife, and her family.18 Barbara is brought up in a liberal atmosphere of intellectual curiosity, in an open and protected home. In spite of her utmost reservation about Nazi ideology she strongly objects to her husband’s attempts to discharge the poor Nazi actor Hans Miklas. She lacks the drive to take revenge on Nazi supporters, though she disapproves 18 Let us remind the reader the character of Barbara is based on Klaus Mann’s sister, Erika Mann.



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of their values. Her father, the secret advisor Bruckner – a character based on Thomas Mann – openly criticizes Nazi values. After the burning of the Reichstag he leaves his home to live in exile in France, minutes before Nazi youth arrive at his home and burn his books. Barbara immigrates to France, divorces her husband, who becomes part of the Nazi elite, and establishes an anti-Nazi journal. Unlike them, Höfgen’s family is part of the lower middle class, sometime called “petit bourgeois” in the novel. He finds his background to be a source of constant embarrassment. At his engagement party his mother and sister are depicted as common, almost vulgar. Though they are treated politely, there is a condescending note in their description. Höfgen feels rejected by Barbara’s family, estranged from members of the upper class. Although his connection to the Nazi leaders is driven by a desire to prove his success, perhaps a sense of inferiority makes him join the Nazis. Both he and his mother and sister are utterly indifferent to social and political ideologies. His communist past was a pretense; later it is replaced by a useful support of Nazism. Hans Miklas stands at the bottom of the social hierarchy, the poor, sick young actor, abandoned by his mother and orphaned from his father in World War I. His suffering and frustration are channeled into supporting Nazism. He loathes the “Communist and Jew-lover” Höfgen. Miklas is both miserable and naïve. He believes Nazi promises that the social structure will change and the national wealth will be divided equally, expecting the upper class to be stripped of its riches. When the Nazis win the election Miklas is happy, but not for long. Soon he sees that no social change is taking place. The Nazi elite is rich and spends money extravagantly. The working class remains poor and mistreated. And worst of all, Höfgen, who discharged him for his Nazi stands, is a famous actor, adored by Nazi leaders. His naiveté makes him articulate his disappointment openly, leading to his execution. Nicoletta Von Nibour, a close friend of Barbara and Höfgen’s second wife, is external to the social stratification. Orphaned from her parents she grew up in the Bruckner home. Barbara’s father keeps sending her to boarding schools from which she is expelled. She is not part of any social circle or milieu, indifferent to any ideology. She lives with Theophil Marder, an older and impressive playwright, somewhat of a father figure for her. But as Marder learns of the calamities he becomes depressed. Nicolette leaves him, moves to Berlin, and marries Höfgen. She embodies Germans living at the margins of society, estranged from all social circles, lacking any moral obligation. She has no interest in Nazi ideas and like Höfgen she is completely focused on herself. Though the socio-economic portrayal of German society is diversified, it does not provide a full explanation of Nazism. It is only an introduction to a more profound and intriguing area which may have created the Nazi phenomenon. A direct

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link between German cultural tradition and the rise of Nazism emerges from Göring’s insight into Goethe’s Faust and Mephisto. Some scholars believe that this paragraph is the heart of the novel. After Höfgen’s performance of Mephisto, Göring elaborates on his understanding of Mephistopheles: “You’re the first person to make me understand this character,” said the general. “He really is splendid! And isn’t there a little of him in us all? I mean, hidden in every real German isn’t there a bit of a Mephistopheles, a bit of the rascal and the ruffian? If we had nothing but the soul of Faust, what would become of us? It would be a pushover for our enemies! No, no – Mephisto, too, is a German national hero. But it’s better not to go around telling people that.” (p. 189)

In these sentences Klaus Mann establishes a direct link between Goethe’s great work, no doubt a central part of German culture, and Nazism. It is Goethe’s Mephisto – and not Faust – that Göring perceives as the German national hero. He is the true defender of Germany. Faust could not have defeated Germany’s enemies. The fact that Göring’s self-perception is shaped in terms of Goethe’s Faust and Mephisto illustrates the direct association between German literary tradition and Nazism.19 The Nazi prime minister juxtaposes Faust and Mephisto: Faust is weak, doubting his faculties and strength; his fragility drives him to make a pact with the devil. Mephisto, on the other hand, lacks any moral inhibitions, he never hesitates, and has full confidence in his power. Göring completely ignores the moral aspect of the pact, the theme of Goethe’s Faust. His only implicit reference to morality is the insinuation that one cannot openly call Mephisto a true German hero. He acknowledges that his perception of Mephisto may create public objection, probably among bourgeois circles, since he perceives the true German hero as cruel and evil. In Göring’s eyes there is no universal aspect to the legend of Mephisto. He interprets it only in a German context. In every German there is a Mephisto, not in every man. Thus, the association of Goethe’s Faust and Nazism is deepened. Göring’s interpretation of Faust forms the spiritual framework in which he acts. It shapes the fundamental perception of what it means to be German. Goethe’s Faust fashions his view of what a German hero is: if he wants to succeed he must

19 Many scholars have perceived this paragraph as the core of the novel. Some have argued that Klaus Mann wishes to emphasize not only the unique place of the legend of the pact with the devil in German culture, but also the need for a Übermensch, as reflected in the writings of several German thinkers (Nietzsche, for example). See Moylan Mills, “The Three Faces of Mephisto: Film, Novel and Reality.”



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resemble Mephisto. Thus, Goethe’s work is directly linked to the Nazi self-perception, to explicit and implicit motivations of the prime minister. Surprisingly there is some similarity between Göring’s perception of Mephisto and that of the author. Klaus Mann believes Mephisto is neither one person nor is a group of people, not even the Nazi leadership. The German “Mephistian” element is seen in a wider national context. Like him, Göring thinks there is a Mephisto in every German; the events of contemporary history are the result of a common German attribute, not acts of certain individuals. But when it comes to the moral faults of Nazism, there is an abyss between the author and his Göring. The latter thinks being devilish is the grandeur of Germany; Klaus Mann sees it as its disaster. The importance of this paragraph is that it illustrates how Göring examines himself and his life in the light of his Faust and Mephisto, even if it is a misinterpretation of the play. His world is divided into two basic paths: that of Faust and that of Mephisto. The worship of power and the lack of moral restraint lead him to a spiritual and emotional identification with Mephisto. The link here between the character of Mephisto in Faust and Nazism is complex, never over simplified. The association is between Nazism and the German cultural heritage, a tradition in which Faust has a central role. However Klaus Mann points to the misinterpretation of the play by Nazi leaders, who choose to ignore its moral spirit. The novel introduces other interpretations of Faust: unlike Göring who believes Mephisto is a true German hero, Theophil Marder and Bruckner state that the Nazis misunderstand Goethe’s spirit, attempting to dictate a new “spiritual heritage.” The Faust legend created a dualistic world in the German mind, a world with juxtaposed ends, that of Faust and that of Mephisto. The play underscores the belief that there is a fundamental choice between Faust and Mephisto, and to succeed in this world one has to choose the latter. Though the play depicts the pact in a negative light, it fixes the need to turn to the devil in order to obtain one’s ambitions. Goethe’s spirit was far from Göring’s understanding of it. However Goethe created a spiritual framework in which there is justification to act immorally for the sake of success. Göring did not invent Mephisto. This literary character was part of his world, a source for an unequivocal justification for his acts. The implicit statement here is that although Goethe saw Faust as his hero, the ambivalence towards moral ideals is embedded in the play itself, and it is this ambivalence that enabled some Germans to find support in the play for ruthless acts. Though Göring deviates from the literary tradition of the pact with the devil – which always condemns the pact – his perception remains within the general framework of Goethe’s literary interpretation of the deal with the devil. Klaus Mann could have chosen the title “Faust,” but he preferred “Mephisto.” He portrays an entirely human world. “Mephisto” is not a demon but a human

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attribute. But the deviation from the tradition does not necessarily imply that it is overturned. In his book on André Gide Klaus Mann cited Gide on the interpretations of Faust. Gide argues that Richard Wagner (whom he condemns) is more of a typical German than Goethe. Who could be more German than Goethe, asks Gide, answering that a Prussian interpretation of his work should be blamed for the misunderstanding of Faust. But the misinterpretation is already deeply rooted in German culture, “Goethe was the most un-German of all Germans.”20 Throughout the years the erroneous reading of the play also became part of the German tradition, argues Gide. Most readers see Faust as the German hero, but the reverse interpretation became part of the German heritage as well.21 Juxtaposed with Mephisto, acted by Höfgen with much talent, is the character of Hamlet. Höfgen fails to play the Prince of Denmark, as he concedes. The narrator describes Höfgen’s Hamlet as “a slightly neurotic Prussian lieutenant” (p. 255). And it is Hamlet who is contrasted with Mephisto, not Faust. In an imaginary dialogue between the noble Prince of Denmark and Höfgen, the literary character warns Höfgen he cannot play this part, “you are merely a monkey of the power, a clown to entertain murderers” (p. 254).22 The choice of Hamlet as a contrast to Mephisto suggests a universal protagonist, a literary figure that did not emerge from German tradition.23 Though he certainly believed Göring distorted the spirit of Goethe, he chose to contrast it with a character that became a symbol of morality and nobility. Is it not an indication that Klaus Mann was not sure whether Faust could truly overpower Mephisto? Is he not suggesting that the moral currents in a culture that embraces the pact with the devil are not strong enough to defeat evil and that they are searching for a foreign character to assist them? Two secondary characters deepen our understanding of Klaus Mann’s perception of the German literary tradition. The first is Theophil Marder, a satirical 20 Klaus Mann, André Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought, p. 56. 21 Klaus Mann discussed German nature as the core of Nazism in his autobiography, The Turning Point. Contemplating German nature he writes: “What is wrong with the Germans? They are mangled by resentment and foiled ambitions; constantly obsessed by the idea of being persecuted, cheated, attacked by all other people […] I might have been a more efficient fighter if I had bothered to scrutinize the depth of the German psychosis. My illusions sprang from inadequate knowledge. I failed to understand their swagger and suffering, their latent madness, their painful inferiority complex” (pp. 237–238). 22 Klaus Mann discussed Hamlet and the German culture is several publications. In Andre Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought, he quotes Gide saying that he loves the German people for their “Melancholy estrangement from reality, the Hamlet complex, of German genius” (p. 57). 23 In his address “The War and the Future” in the Library of Congress Thomas Mann quoted a common saying that “Germany is Hamlet.” Hölderlin used to say “lacking in deeds and rich in thought” (Thomas Mann, Addresses, p. 32).



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playwright, known for his sharp words on German politics and society. Before the Nazis gain power he publishes the play Knorke, in which he strongly criticizes the German middle class: Knorke was one of a series of satirical plays that scornfully portrayed the German middle class during the reign of Kaiser Wilhelm II. The hero was a social climber who, with his cynically won fortune, course enthusiasm and unscrupulous, vulgar intelligence, won power and influence in the highest reaches of society. Knorke was grotesque, but at the same time impressive. He represented the typical pushing bourgeois bubbling over with life and irredeemably philistine. (p. 60)

Marder feels that the uninhibited desire to climb the social ladder and profound cynicism would lead the German people to disaster. When asked about the future of Germany he declares: The worst will happen. Think of me, children, when that day comes. I have foreseen it and predicted it. Our age is corrupt. It stinks. Think of me – I smell it out. I am not deceived. I sense the coming catastrophe. It will be like nothing that has ever happened. Everything will be swallowed up. (pp. 70–71)

In his work he portrays a “new German” that will generate this catastrophe: rich, vital, conscienceless, cynical, impressive in a distorted way and philistine. He heralds the rise of Nazism. After the Nazis gain power Marder loses his aggressive insolence. He leaves Germany to live in a small French town, “his horror over the German catastrophe had reduced him to silence” (p. 211). He seems to hear the torturers and their victims in Germany, saying that the torturers play a gramophone during their horrible proceedings – a surprising insight into the future. Marder cries that he warned this was about to happen, and in his despair he realizes that his predictions have been fulfilled. With a disillusioned vision into the future he says, And yet everything that’s happening today, the whole unspeakable calamity, is no more than a trifling epilogue to my prophetic work. Everything is contained in my work. Everything is anticipated there, including what is yet to come – the worst, the final catastrophe. I have suffered it already through and through. I have already given it a form. (p. 212)

He is a broken man, unable to fight evil as he had done earlier. Another character addressing the question of a “German nature” is the secret advisor Bruckner, Barbara’s father, inspired by Thomas Mann. Before the Nazi era he is a distinguished and influential man, especially since he has a unique friendship with a Social Democrat minister. He married a general’s daughter but his writing reveals a Marxist influence. He uses any opportunity to express his

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rejection of Nazi ideas. Both hailing supporters and scornful opponents attend his lectures, but he always has the upper hand, answering any question. As the Nazis gain power he decides to leave Berlin. No longer is he a part of the upper social circle, in which Höfgen celebrates his victory. He moves to a small town on the French Riviera. The Nazi regime revokes his German citizenship and confiscates his belongings. In a small ad in the newspaper he reads that he is not considered German anymore. As he watches the Mediterranean Sea, he writes to his daughter: I have forgotten how blue the Mediterranean can be. All Germans worthy of the name have yearned for it; and they have all venerated it as the sacred cradle of our civilization. Now it has to be hated in our land. The Germans want to free themselves from its power and its grace. They think they can do without its beautiful clarity; they howl that it disgusts them. But it is their own civilization that they are rejecting. Do they want to disown all the greatness that they themselves have given to the world? Ah, these Germans. How much they will still have to suffer, and how horrible they are going to make everyone else suffer. (pp. 209–210)

A few days after reading about the revocation of his citizenship he begins to write a book about the German people. It will be a long book, he tells his daughter Barbara, titled “The Germans.” In it he will collect all his knowledge, his fears and hopes – adding that he has plenty of knowledge and some hope. Bruckner – like Thomas Mann – perceives the German people as oscillating between two ends: the first are the spiritual treasures with which Germany has endowed the world; the other are the currents which shape Germany in the thirties: aggressiveness, brutality and a dull spirit. Bruckner’s depiction of Germany is rather similar to the explicit statement of the author on Nazi Germany, “Woe to this land, for it is defiled, and no one knows when it can be made clean again. What must be the penance? What mighty contribution to the well-being of mankind must this land make to atone for so boundless an infamy?” (p. 155). The “mighty contribution” of Germany to world culture is evident, although it is associated with a “boundless infamy,” a shame that cannot be erased. The general, comprehensive framework in which the German culture is depicted here is fundamentally polarized, almost as if the author himself saw Germany in terms of Faust and Mephisto. It consists of both unique talents as well as of vulgarity, brutality and cynicism. Mann’s portrayal of the “Mephistian” side of German culture emphasizes that it is enveloped in deceit: The foul lie usurps power in this land. It roars in the congress hall, from microphones, from the pages of newspapers, from the cinema screen. Its mouth gapes wide, and from its rage comes the stench of pestilence. (p. 155)



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Lies are accepted, deception takes over political activity. The Nazis conceal their acts, and their promises are vain. Pointing to the deception within Nazi propaganda implies that the role of the racist theory is decreased. The Nazi regime is depicted here as almost nihilistic. Though the historical question of whether the description of Germany in this novel is accurate is not the issue of this book, it should be pointed out that many scholars tend to agree with this view, especially regarding the nihilistic nature of the regime.24 Thus, portraying Nazism as founded on lies devalues the systematic nature of both the racist ideology and its application. Thomas Mann’s perception will be discussed in the fourth chapter of this book, in particular as it was presented in his lectures at the Library of Congress in the forties. However since his view is close, not to say similar, to that of his son, some notes are provided here. Thomas Mann used the German term inwardness (Innerlichkeit) in his discussion on German culture. He depicts it as a state of mind, somewhat vague, and therefore hard to describe in detail. Its general meaning is full attention to the subjective world of the individual, a perception of objective reality only as a reflection of the inner world. Thomas Mann uses “emotional lyricism” to depict it. It may lead to softness, deep emotions, pure thought – which are all embodied in the unique nature of German culture, in philosophy, music, science. However it may also lead to self-seclusion and unleash destructive forces.25 Thomas Mann draws a connection between inwardness and German Romanticism. He, too, sees it as a major source for the evolvement of Nazism. In his eyes German Romanticism is neither sentimental nor weak. It springs from inwardness, connecting it to demonic forces within German culture. The lecture is concluded by a generalization about the German people: they are very gifted but have an element of extreme emotional attitude, which exists in moderation in other nations as well. The similarity between the father and the son is evident. Klaus Mann saw the unique gifts of the German people, but attributed them to an extreme emotional component. Inwardness is embodied in the characters of Mephisto representing contemporary Germans: the actor and Göring. They are both somewhat blind to reality. The overpowering personal and professional ambition creates a perception of objective events as echoes of their aspirations. The actor sees nothing but himself; the events unfolding around him are of no consequences to him. The 24 The well known historian Bullock tends to agree with his view. He elaborated on this matter in his book comparing Nazism and the Stalin regime, Hitler and Stalin: Parallel Lives. 25 On the German term “Innerlichkeit,” see Ulrich Christoffel, Deutche Innerlichkeit; Werner Kohlschmidt, Form und Innerlickeit.

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same is true for Göring; he is part of a leadership that led the German people to commit monstrous crimes, but he is interested only in the fulfillment of his political and military ambitions. Mephisto was one of the first novels to discuss Nazism, published in 1936 before the calamities reached their frightful peak. Most literary works dealing with Nazism were created after World War II, as the world learned about the Holocaust. Since these events are almost beyond human understanding, various explanations were suggested, from simple historical arguments to spiritual, religious interpretations. This novel is unique in the sense that it presents the deep cultural roots of Nazism at a time when the scope of evil that would be revealed was unthinkable. The interpretation here deviates from traditional historical arguments. It depicts a fluid world, in which moral values and emotional drives are altered rapidly, distorted and deformed. The actor ignores his simple, primordial sentiments and makes his life into an endless performance. He plays a role in his life and he is authentic on stage. The emotional boundaries are broken, his life lacks a stability that springs from clinging to elementary emotions and primary values. Klaus Mann wished to uncover the hidden roots of the German cultural heritage that generated Nazism. Mephisto, then, is an attempt to understand absolute evil, even if it is human, as it was embodied in the ambitions and actions of the protagonist and his contemporary Germans.

Chapter Three I and I by Else Lasker-Schüler

I and I by Else Lasker-Schüler

A student of Else Lasker-Schüler’s work, even an ardent admirer of her poetry, would find that understanding her play I and I (Ich und Ich) is not an easy task. The complex and intriguing metaphorical language of her poems is apparent in the play, inviting the reader to become immersed in her unique spiritual world, which, at times may appear completely detached from real life. Several paragraphs of the play are in fact poems that were published earlier. The transition from poetry to playwriting was not natural for Else LaskerSchüler. Playwriting is a wider, more elaborated artistic form. It may not be as concise as a poem, it may lack the intensity of the poetical images, but it must have a coherent structure, the characters must be intelligible, and most plays relating to a certain historical era provide some facts to support their theme, as is the case with Hochhuth’s The Deputy. The first encounter with I and I leaves the reader perplexed, almost unable to determine the unfolding of the plot, and wondering whether it is indeed a play or an extremely long poem. Lasker-Schüler wrote three plays, all carrying the enigmatic nature of her poems. Born in 1869 in Elberfelg, Germany, to an assimilated Jewish family, at the age of eleven she left school due to an illness, and later was taught by private teachers. At the age of thirteen her beloved brother Paul died. Eight years later her mother, who was both parent and a source of inspiration, also passed away. Lasker-Schüler married and divorced twice and bore a son whose father was unknown, an extremely uncommon thing at the time. In the first and second decades of the twentieth century she was a key figure in Berlin’s bohemian circles, her published poems were highly appreciated. Extravagantly dressed, ignoring any social conventions, she adopted the persona of Prince Yussuf of Thebes, an imaginary figure from ancient Egypt. Though very poor, she wandered around Berlin’s coffee shops with her son. In those years it must have been impossible to foresee the calamities that were about to happen in the coming decades. In 1927 her son Paul died of tuberculosis. In 1933, at the age of sixty four, she was beaten in the street by a group of Nazis thugs. Immediately after this brutal event she immigrated in haste to Switzerland, without any notice to her friends. Before she was found safe she was considered for a while to be a missing person. In Switzerland she often complained of harassment by the immigration police. Lasker-Schüler made three journeys to Palestine. The first two left a deep impression and inspired some wonderful drawings and poems. In 1939, at the age of seventy, she traveled for the third time to Jerusalem, but as World War II broke the Swiss authorities prohibited her return to Switzerland.

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Lasker-Schüler spent the last six years of her life in Jerusalem, suffering from poverty, illness and solitude. She was often seen feeding birds and street cats while talking to them, had very few friends, mostly German immigrants living in Jerusalem. An Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, remembered the children of Jerusalem mocking her. He said she was “the first hippie I ever knew, before it became fashionable.”1 Lea Goldberg, also an Israeli poet, described Lasker-Schüler in Jerusalem: “The café was almost empty. She sat in her usual place, gray as a bat, small, poor, withdrawn … this dreadful poverty, the terrible loneliness of the great poet.”2 But in spite of the hardship, these were fruitful years. In 1941 she completed I and I and in 1943 her book My Blue Piano was published in Jerusalem. Also, in 1941 the Der Kraal literary club was founded in Jerusalem. Lasker-Schüler read her poems dramatically, to the great enjoyment of the German-speaking audience. And in spite of all the hardship there was one spot in Jerusalem in which she found comfort and consolation, the peaceful garden in the home of the painter, Anna Ticho, and her husband, the ophthalmologist Abraham Ticho. In 1945 Lasker-Schüler died. She was buried in the cemetery on Mount Olives. I and I was published only in 1980. Lasker-Schüler’s friends who wished to protect her reputation believed it was a senile babble and prevented its publication. When Martin Buber was consulted on this matter, he suggested that only few segments of the play should be printed. Only in the late sixties Heinrich Böll declared that it is a work which had “grown into future time,”3 and two decades later a full version was published. It should be pointed out that there was some justification to Lasker-Schüler’s friends’ decision to prevent the publication of the play. Even an empathetic reader would find it hard to fully comprehend it. Though the language is rich and metaphorical, closer to that of a poem than a play, it has almost no plot, not according to the common use of the word. The abundance, not to say excess, of characters, some of whom seem utterly unnecessary even to the surrealistic unfolding of events, may drive the puzzled reader away from the play. But a closer, more critical approach to this unique work of art reveals a profound and original understanding of Nazism in a German and Jewish context. The elementary flaws of the play spring from the transition from poetry into playwriting. It requires expanding the short and condensed language of poetry into a detailed, somewhat lengthy literary form of a play. In a way, Lasker-Schüler 1 Else Lasker-Schüler: a Poet who Paints, p. 11. 2 Else Lasker-Schüler: a Poet who Paints, p. 12. 3 Böll’s letter is cited at Hallensleben, Hollogramme der Kunst: avantardismus im Werk LaskerSchüler, p. 289.



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never truly expanded this lengthy poem. There are too many characters, most adding nothing to its richness and to the historical insight but merely confusing the reader. It is this flaw that made Martin Buber suggest that only segments of the play should be read. He felt that a wise editor would have improved it immensely, making it intelligible and more lucid. And, indeed, Buber was right. An analysis of the play should overlook several segments and concentrate only on its core: the relation of Goethe’s Faust to the evolvement of Nazism in Germany, an examination of the characters of Faust, Mephisto, the Nazi leaders and the Poet. The only other theme that will also be discussed here is Lasker-Schüler’s attitude towards Jerusalem as a metaphor for her complex and ambivalent stand towards Judaism. Her trip to Palestine, which led to a forced exile, is fascinating since it juxtaposes spiritual and material aspects of Jewish tradition. Ever since she embraced her Judaism, an image of Jerusalem was created in her mind. It was not a mundane city, a real place in the world, but closer to eschatological images of Jerusalem: the Garden of Eden was as tangible to her as the main street of the city.4 Her drawings of Jerusalem are commonly categorized as Orientalist, full of images of Arab men and women, dressed in colorful robes. The Jewish images also have pronounced Eastern features. But describing her drawings, as well as her depiction of Jerusalem in I and I, as Orientalist is a very narrow interpretation of her complex path of adopting a Jewish identity. Born into an assimilated family, Jewish ideas and customs were unnatural to her. Like many German Jews she tended to look down on Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe, perceiving them as petty merchants, peddlers, their idea of Judaism provincial and unsophisticated. She was drawn to the great myths of the Bible, to fundamental truths revealed in the Holy Book, to the fascinating character of the Jewish ancestors. Thus, in her mind she created an image of Jerusalem, not the prosaic one but a poetic, fanciful city. The encounter with the real Jerusalem was a very painful one, as is noted in almost all scholarly literature on Lasker-Schüler. However, one should keep in mind that the six years she spent there were also fruitful. She was very productive, she drew many pictures, wrote I and I, and published her last book of poetry, My Blue Piano (Mein blaues Klavier).5 Thus, understanding these years as part of her view of Judaism must take this into account. Perhaps the encounter between the real Jerusalem and the 4 On Lasker-Schüler’s unique life, see Betty Falkerberg, Else Lasker-Schüler: a Life; Jacob Hessing, Else Lasker-Schüler; Sigrid Bauschinger, Else Lasker-Schüler: a Biographie. 5 On Lasker-Schüler’s experience in Jerusalem and how it was reflected in her art, see Hans W. Cohen, Lasker-Schüler: the Broken World, pp. 149–151.

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imaginary one was not as destructive as is commonly believed. The real city combined a universal spirit, various religious and cultural symbols so many cherish, with a state of mind of a small town, as is often depicted in books on Jerusalem.6 Though Lasker-Schüler was mocked by children and seen as a bizarre, not to say deranged, woman, she was also engrossed in the religious spirituality of the city. The Israel-Arab conflict and the suffering it created, the depressing poverty of some of its quarters, pilgrims of all religions, even the intellectual atmosphere among German Jewish immigrants, which was never quite free spirited and open minded as the atmosphere of pre-Nazi Germany – in her mind these were all small details of a wider and more encompassing truth. Against the background of colorful people and monumental buildings Lasker-Schüler strove to articulate her perception of Judaism, her inner experience as a German Jew, torn between the lofty segments of German culture and a German regime she loathed. As for Judaism, though some of the scenes in I and I take place in the Tower of David, there are no specific details as to how it should look on stage. The tower, in this context, is purely metaphorical; it implies that the playwright, or rather the Poet, is formulating her artistic and historical truth from a Jewish perspective. From the cradle of Judaism she is observing the unfolding of events in Germany, putting them into the historical perspective of the entire Jewish history. Living in Jerusalem as the terrible news came from Germany, her conflicting feelings towards German culture became more acute and painful. It is often argued that even when she was in Germany she was always somewhat of a stranger; her eccentric appearance and nonconformist life style were not always accepted, not even the talented poet that she was. Scholars speak of her self-conception as an expatriate from Germany, and outcast; she is in a state of “withdrawal.”7 Examining Germany from Jerusalem accentuated this aspect of her personality. Lasker-Schüler consciously situates herself outside German culture, analyzing it with the hope of reaching an objective understanding of its nature.8 A reader open to the insightful perception Lasker-Schüler will avoid any distractions in the text, the marginal characters or superfluous parts of the plot. The heart of I and I is an examination of the roots of German culture, set alongside what Lasker-Schüler considered to be the heart of Judaism. 6 On the history of the portrayal of Jerusalem, see Frank Peters, Jerusalem: The Holy City in the Eyes of Chroniclers, Visitors, Pilgrims, and Prophets from the Days of Abraham to the Beginning of Modern Times. 7 Hans W. Cohn, in Lasker-Schüler: the Broken World, third chapter. 8 Hans W. Cohn speaks about an “objectification of personal experience” in her poems (pp. 58, 78–80).



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Immanent Contrasts The complexity of I and I is not only the result of poetry transformed into drama. It has another prominent source: the explicit and intended conflicts within the protagonists. Beside the characters of the Nazis, which are flat and almost tedious, lacking any depth, the central figures – the Poet, Faust and Mephisto – struggle with immanent inner conflicts. The nature of each one of them integrates segments that do not agree with each other.9 The first inner contradiction the reader encounters is that of Lasker-Schüler herself. The play is titled I and I to portray two aspects of herself: she is drawn both to German culture and to her Jewishness. To emphasize that the two aspects exist simultaneously she presents them as two perspectives of herself: And since the tale I tell is true, Banish every doubt: What you see is not an apparition, For I divide myself into two halves shortly before dawn, Into two parts: I and I! … Where the profile meets the en face And the en face meets the profile. I’m bleeding from it still, all by myself. For I called out for myself all my life and heard myself at last, And now I am freed from infinite solitude! Though I and I never came together in life, My two halves have now achieved the bold rendezvous in an instant. (p. 225)

Here Lasker-Schüler lays the foundation for understanding the play: during her lifetime her two parts were never united. The encounter between them was painful, the bleeding from this wound was never stopped. And the two parts are depicted as two physical perspectives for perceiving herself: from the front, en face, and in profile. The union between the two parts after her death proves that theoretically they could have been united; there is no profound contradiction between them, at least not in a divine sphere. But during her lifetime, and in particular from 1933, they could not have coexisted. Lasker-Schüler elaborates on her inner conflict: it creates an eternal solitude. It follows that since she could never fully identify with either side, always torn between two parts of herself, she lacked a sense of relating to a single cultural 9 Hans Thiel argues that Lasker-Schüler’s dualistic perception, of I and I, “represents a fluctuation between two different embodiments of one soul, and it became the principle of her world view.” See Calvin N. Jones, The Literary Reputation of Else Lasker-Schüler: Criticism 1901–1993.

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heritage. Her “calling for herself” is yet another form of alienation common in her work,10 placing herself as both the subject and the object of the search. But in the context of the attempt to unite the two cultures, the solitude is a result of a failure to integrate two spiritual worlds. She felt part of both of them, and juxtaposing them created isolation from either one. As Lasker-Schüler points to the place of German culture in her life, she adopts a very personal tone, pointing to the influence of her mother: To my mother, these lines, The devotee of Goethe: she is the grandmother of my two halves. (p. 225)

Indeed, her mother, a poet herself, was an ardent admirer of Goethe. She introduced to young Else’s world Goethe’s rich imagery. Possibly Else learned about Faust and Mephisto at an age in which most children are acquainted with witches and fairies. The illness that made her leave school at a very young age intensified the influence of the mother.11 It would be safe to assume that Faust and Mephisto were deeply rooted in her spiritual world at a young age. And as she becomes an artist herself, she was fully aware of the unique role Goethe’s work played in her mind and in her art. One wonders in what way was her mother the grandmother of the other half, that of being Jewish. Clearly there is the genetic aspect – being the daughter of a Jewish mother and father makes her a Jew herself, particularly since from a strictly religious perspective, in Judaism it is the mother who determines the religion of the child. Yet Lasker-Schüler grew up in an assimilated environment, and had practically no knowledge of Jewish themes and customs. Her journey to find her Judaism took place when she was already an adult; it was not an integral part of her world when she began writing.12 During the seventh decade of the nineteenth century waves of anti-Semitism swept Germany accompanied by the evolvement of secular Jewish self-determination, both Zionist and anti-Zionist. Several secular Jewish centers were founded, some with a manifested anti-Zionist tendency. Lasker-Schüler’s family never took part in these centers. Her parents felt remote from any Jewish milieu. An exam10 See Andrew Webber’s extensive description of her alienation techniques, in “Inside Out: Acts of Displacement in Else Lasker-Schüler.” The Germanic Review, Spring 2006: 81, pp. 143–162. 11 On the unique relations between the mother and the daughter, especially in matters of literature, see Jennifer Redmann, “Else Lasker-Schüler: Writing Hysteria,” pp. 202–224. 12 On the conflict between German and Jewish identity in Lasker-Schüler’s work, see Donna K. Heizer, Jewish German Identity in the Orientalist Literature of Else Lasker-Schüler, Friedrich Wolf, and Franz Werfel, the third chapter.



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ination of her early works shows almost no evidence of Jewish themes. Even at a later stage in her life, when she was drawn to the mythical figures of the Bible, her addressing of biblical themes, as in the Hebrew Ballads, reveals that she was unfamiliar with them until adulthood. Some students of her work point to a different aspect of this estrangement – she examines the biblical heroes with a fresh look, unbiased by traditional exegetics. And it should also be kept in mind that her knowledge of biblical stories exceeded that of most women of her time.13 So how was Lasker-Schüler’s mother the grandmother of both sides? If we ignore genetics, it could be argued that she felt she inherited from her mother a cosmopolitan approach to Judaism, the wide perspective of the humanist, the open minded approach to other cultures, and perhaps more than anything, the willingness to integrate into one’s spiritual world new elements, once strange and unknown. The Poet, well aware of the inner conflict both within herself and the characters she created, suggests that even if they form an unclear, ever obscure picture, they unearth profound truth unknown to the reader. The Poet’s insights may appear dream-like, detached from reality. In an ironic note she remarks in the Prelude: For a poet’s unbounded dream There is truly no room in your constructed world. (p. 223)

The “constructed world” lacks complexity and more subtle shades, as it is juxtaposed with the “unbound” spiritual scope of the artist. Already in the Prelude Lasker-Schüler leads the reader to an unconstructed place. Here the Poet’s flaw is her advantage: the lack of a sound, rational structure, apparent in the play, is a submergence into the depths of German culture, in its most prominent and influential symbols, Faust and Mephisto of Goethe’s work. But Lasker-Schüler has full confidence in the ontological place of her poems. After several lines she declares “And only my poems were no illusion!,” thus stating clearly that “unconstructed,” as confusing and unclear as it may be, is not false. On the contrary, unlike what appears as reality, the world uncovered in her poems is not an illusion but truth in its deepest sense.14 It is from this “unconstructed” place, emotionally divided between attraction and repulsion, that the author examines German culture and the rise of Nazism. 13 See Dagmar Lorenz, “1939: Else Lasker-Schüler Becomes Permanently Exiled in Jerusalem when Swiss Immigration Authorities Deny Her Reentry to Switzerland,” pp. 563–570. 14 This perception of art prevails in her poetry, where it is often described as a “co-creator” with God. See Bernhardt G. Blumenthal, “The Play Element in the Poetry of Else Lasker-Schüler,” pp. 571–576.

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Her aim is not to portray a coherent, extensive picture of German culture, but to unearth hidden elements that led to the evolvement of Nazism and the Holocaust. This also agrees with the Romantic spirit of Goethe’s work, in which the profound secrets of existence are to be found in a place beyond reason. Clearly there are many references to Goethe’s Faust in Lasker Schüler’s play. Yet our interest here is to trace the links between the characters of Faust, Mephisto and the Nazi leaders in I and I and the historical phenomenon of Nazism. It is solely in this context that these characters will be examined. Surely the play may also be seen as part of Lasker-Schüler’s poetry; this would be an intriguing and fascinating subject for another study.

Faust The “unconstructed” nature of the play is apparent not only in the ambivalent attitude of the Poet towards various cultural aspect of her life. It is also manifested in the characters of Faust and Mephisto. Not only is the Poet divided between I and I – so are Faust and Mephisto. Inconsistency is the key to understanding Lasker-Schüler’s complex historical observations.15 An analysis of Faust should begin at the end of the play and trace back to previous scenes. At the second and fifth episode the audience witnesses both the extent of Nazi power and its destruction in Hell. At the very end of the fifth episode, after the Nazis are thrown into the lava of Hell, a dialogue between Faust and Mephisto is as follows: FAUST: The heavens, solicitous angels, Weave wing around our shoulders … Soon we’ll be in the blue meadow – And looking back at the world we have left. MEPHISTO: as they buried you, my heart’s joy, and me. FAUST: The two of us – silently joined in the body: I and I. MEPHISTO: And in their original language, Old Hebrew, the clergy will go into raptures over our noble reconciled body. FAUST: Though we are through with earthly life! (pp. 268–269)

This paragraph ends the fifth episode, in which the Nazis conclude their part in the play and are led to eternal Purgatory (the description of the Nazi will be discussed later). But as the Nazis are finally exterminated, Faust and Mephisto leave 15 On the double nature of Faust, Mephisto and Lasker-Schüler – and the problematic nature of its staging – see Katerin Sieg, “I-and-I by Else Lasker-Schüler,” pp. 249–252.



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the earthly life. At this point of departure from the earth, Faust, much like Lasker-Schüler herself, reveals a segment of his double nature: he is composed of both Faust, the well known literary character, and a grain of Mephisto. In the afterlife his two parts can be joined into one body. The reader, well aware of the complex nature of Faust, learns that what could not have occurred before is finally taking place: two parts of Faust are joined in one body. At this point the reader attempts to grasp the various aspects of Faust as they are depicted in this play and to divide them into two fundamental entities, two distinct aspects that are joined together in the afterlife. These lines suggest that the border between Faust and Mephisto is somewhat blurred, as there is no devil and a man that makes a pact with the devil, but a mixture of the divine and the human. This blend is apparent also in the characterization of the devil – he declares that he is partially human. Our first encounter with Faust is in Act 1, which is, together with Act 6, a play within a play. It takes place in Jerusalem, near the Tower of David, called “Hell’s ground” by the habitants of Jerusalem, as Lasker-Schüler points out. The dialogue between Faust and Mephisto refers to events unfolding in Nazi Germany. Mephisto, on the terrace of his palace in Hell, sees Faust is angry and frustrated. When asked the reason for his discontent, Faust replies: Devils that you sent into the world report that my drama, the first part and the second part as well, has been booed and burned once and for all in the marketplace of Weimar.

To this Mephisto answers: No need to brood about it, Doctor Faustus; the Testament written by God was also burned, the first part of the Bible and second part as well. (p. 227)

Not only does Lasker-Schüler compare Goethe’s Faust to the Bible and the New Testament, with a humorist tone, they both have “two parts,” she depicts them both – including Faust – not as descriptive works of art but as revealing absolute truth. It has been suggested that the influence of Goethe’s Faust on the German people is comparable to the defining role of the Bible for the Jewish people. Though it seems nothing shaped Western civilization as much as the stories and values of the Bible, the comparison is intended to stress the profound influence of Faust on shaping the modern German spirit. Lasker-Schüler exceeds the boundaries of an illustrative analogy. In this paragraph, the literary character of Faust talks about “my drama” as if his existence is as true and tangible as that of a real person. In her view art has an ontological stand: it is not only descriptive, it is truth itself.

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The analogy to the Bible should also be seen in a historical context. Together they form a body of spiritual treasures that were rejected by the Nazi elite. Clearly the Bible, the heart of the Judeo-Christian tradition, was denounced and Goethe’s work was rejected for its humanistic nature. Faust’s public rejection in this play creates heretical thoughts. He then confesses his doubts to Mephisto: Yes, late at night I ask in prayer – forgive me – whether Earth and Heaven and Hell were really created by God, whether they didn’t somehow form themselves according to some model – … If they don’t just exist in the human mind, I mean, the world – what does the Public think? That it was a fantasy, in the human imagination? In the human imagination? (p. 227)

The first part of this sentence testifies to Faust’s innate skepticism, to his constant drive to investigate “the secrets of the universe.” This is a traditional feature of Faust. It is the contemplation of whether they exist in the world or merely within the human mind, a fantasy and nothing more, which is intriguing. Lasker-Schüler is pointing to the German inclination to see reality only as it is reflected in the human mind, an inclination associate with the Reformation, and especially with Pietism.16 Both Klaus Mann and Thomas Mann elaborate on the perception of Innerlichkeit. In Lasker-Schüler’s play the confusion between existence in reality and a human fantasy is created not only in the mind of Faust himself but also in that of the “Public.” She projects Faust’s tendency of seeing reality only as it is reflected in the human mind onto the entire German public. However, her own attempt to see literary figures as ontological creatures indicates that she, too, was part of this German inclination to prefer the inner experience over objective reality. Mephisto, as we shall see later, is the one who points to real, historical events, unfolding under divine providence. But as Faust looks at his fatherland, Germany, the brutal reality seems to awaken him from sinking into his subjective view. Lasker-Schüler blended a poem she had published earlier, called ‘The World’s End’ (Weltende), into the play. It begins with the lines: I beg the Lord, I, his child, implore him – for light. There is weeping in the world, As though the Dear God had passed away. (p. 231)

As this point, Faust is only referring very generally to “weeping in the world,” without directing his words at Germany in particular. The image of darkness sug16 See the first chapter of this book, “The Image of the Devil in Western Culture.”



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gests misery and pain, but it is still somewhat vague. Later in the play he elaborates on his feeling as he sees the unfolding events in Germany. In the fourth act, Mephisto and Faust play chess, while the German soldiers are marching to Hell. As the Nazis march along, Faust says: The wailing of the soldiers, Satan – my heart, it can’t stand It –

A bit later in this scene Faust confesses: Satan, set my pulse back … I cannot stand my country’s fate. (p. 254)

So how are we to understand Faust stand? There is not a hint of condemnation in his words, not the slightest reservation about what the Nazi soldiers are doing. On the contrary, he feels sorry for the wailing soldiers, not for their victims. Throughout this dialogue he is sympathetic to the German fighters, murmuring “Oh God, the murderous marching is louder now.” His feels full and boundless solidarity with Germany, no matter what German soldiers have done. The blurring of the line between Faust and Mephisto is evident. There is no trace of morality in Faust. But the Nazi soldiers are the ones who disapprove of Faust, as will be discussed later. They look down on him and ridicule him. To them, Mephisto is a hero, and Faust is nothing but a pale man standing next to the devil. But Lasker-Schüler is very clear on this matter: it is not Faust who denounces the Nazis, it is the Nazis who wish to banish Faust. Faust, in her mind, is not morally superior, better than the Nazis; he is simply weaker, perhaps more refined. An interesting remark on the link between Faust and Nazism appears in the fifth act. As the Nazis step towards sinking in lava, the dialogue between Mephisto and Faust continues: FAUST: I would gladly sink into death there with the host! (He throws the chess pieces violently together on the board) My heart, my brain, and all of my vitals are collapsing. I beg Prince, stir up the flames of Hell yet wilder and let me die – me, the poet son of Germany, together with the son of my German Fatherland, together with my people. MEPHISTO: O this world of humankind! If God weren’t God, He Would have lost his mind. [to Faust] You put up with much Worse – the world always gave you a problem to solve. (p. 263)

Again, Faust is endlessly faithful to Germany, he wishes to die with the German soldiers; he calls himself “the poet son of Germany.” We see his unequivocal atti-

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tude, lacking any moral hesitation. Mephisto’s words, unlike Faust’s, are enigmatic. He mocks Faust for his boundless loyalty, but the last sentence provides an insight into his moral indifference: Faust’s most prominent feature, “a problem to solve,” his endless curiosity, his desire to always expand the limits of his knowledge, is a subject of mockery. As passionate as he is to die with the German soldiers no matter what they have done, he finds that ignoring his personal, egoistic drive is compelling. Mephisto may be alluding to Faust’s selfishness; the drive for self-fulfillment is overpowering, and no empathy is comparable. It would be worthwhile to quote Goethe on this matter. In 1829 he said to Eckermann: “while the Germans worry about the solution of philosophical problems, the English, with their great common sense, laugh at us and win the world.”17 Later in the scene Lasker-Schüler provides another perspective of Faust’s longing for Germany. Faust weeps as he reveals his motivations: I cannot find myself again In an eternal blessedness that is foreign to me – In between the first night of total anguish. I wish that a great pain would rise up – And fling me cruelly down! And rip me suddenly unto myself! And that an urge to create would lay me Once again in my homeland Under my mother’s breast. (p. 265)

Unlike the Poet, who finds the reunion of her two parts after death comforting, eternal blessedness18 creates agony in Faust. He wishes to return to his human form, to his life before the pact with the devil. He wishes to be “ripped” from himself. The imagery may suggest giving birth – great pain, something is ripped, and the process is concluded with his mother’s breasts. It is the reverse of a normal birth into life; Faust wants to be “born” back to life after his death. The fascinating image of a “reverse birth” is part of Faust’s self-image, of his artistic nature. In the first lines he admits that he is at a loss, the eternal blessedness did not provide any sense of self-fulfillment and peace. On the contrary, he feels detached from himself. He then continues to elaborate on what is lacking: the creative urge, which could only be satisfied in his homeland, Germany. The images of the homeland deserve special attention. The poetic drive is interlaced with the most primordial act – breastfeeding. More than that, it is the 17 Quoted by Thomas Mann in one his addresses, “Goethe and Democracy,” in the Library of Congress, in May 1949. 18 These lines were published earlier in the poem, Chaos. In the poem instead of “eternal blessedness” Lasker-Schüler wrote “death abandonment.”



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artistic drive that places him, once again, in his homeland. It follows that he could not have created elsewhere, only in Germany. His mother’s breast is a figurative description of his cultural roots, his spiritual foundations. This short paragraph was published earlier, before I and I; it is a part of the poem Chaos. It could be read separately as well, as a distinct literary piece. Its totality springs from the full spiritual process it describes: from displacement in the afterlife with the devil, backwards to life, to artistic creation, to Germany, to his mother’s breasts. Every step of this process is necessary. It cannot be fulfilled, even in his imagination, if one stage would be missing. Lasker-Schüler wrote the play in 1941. Living in Jerusalem she may have not known the full scope of the catastrophe in Germany, but she followed the events as closely as she could. She made a persistent effort to read German newspapers, and kept up some correspondence with friends in Germany. The references to historical events in the text indicates that she was eager to embed this play on Faust and Mephisto in contemporary history, even with references to specific battles of World War II. The characterization of Faust should be seen against this background. Klaus Mann interpreted “being Mephisto” as an inclination to see reality merely through subjective eyes, simultaneous with unrestrained ambition. Though any discussion of Faust should be taken within a German context, his interpretation leaves room for a universal approach to dictatorship. For Lasker-Schüler, the entire essence of Faust is German; he longs for Germany, he feels full solidarity with German soldiers regardless of their crimes, his creative drive and talent can be fulfilled only in Germany and nowhere else. And also, it should be added, the implicit assumption that in order to succeed one has to have a pact with the devil is always suggested here, even if only by implication. A note should be added on the wider perception of Goethe in this play. In one monologue Mephisto suggests that he had a short marriage with “mother Goethe”: “mother Goethe played right into my hands! She had nothing at all, upon my soul, against a short affair! Against a one-day marriage for my sake” (p. 240). This suggestion, that Goethe himself may have had a pact with the devil, or that Faust is half diabolic, reveals more than anything Lasker-Schüler’s profound reservations with regard to the great German poet, in spite of his genius. While other interpretations of Goethe’s work see moral ambivalence, or a complex attitude to moral issues, Lasker-Schüler had an unequivocal view of Faust, the great German hero: he overlooks moral considerations, he identifies with Germany regardless of any ethical standards. If there is a moral view in the play, it is articulated by Mephisto, not Faust. Strangely, the German leaders are entirely indifferent to Faust. While they try to capture the devil’s attention, constantly insinuating that they are somehow related to him, perhaps even through family ties, they see Faust as an unimport-

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ant character. Only once do they wonder who is the man the devil introduces as his friend. Von Schirach says to one of the devil’s servants: “what is the name of that pale man he calls ‘noble friend’?” adding that “he looks as pale as the marble bust of Rosalinda we brought with us in the crate” (p. 234). But other than mocking remarks about his paleness they ignore him all together. His fervent patriotic sentiments are of no importance to the Nazi generals. They are eager to resemble the devil, to approach him, to prove their diabolic features. The pale man, an introverted intellectual in spite of his patriotism, is insignificant. There is one incident in which Herschel Grynspan, a seventeen year old Jewish young man, whose assassination of a Nazi officer in November 1938 was the pretext for Kristallnacht, is brought into the room where the Nazis dine, beheaded, holding his own skull. Goebbels celebrates the opportunity to accuse him again, but here Faust is taken aback by the obtrusive violence of the Nazis. He then argues that God has given Grynspan the same strength as the prophets in Egypt, which leads in return to offensive remarks on Faust’s nature. Goebbels calls him “chalk-face,” Schirach says that Himmler should have pulled out his tongue, and with a diabolic laughter they all shout that Faust should be led to “the wall” (p. 238). Only when facing these obnoxious remarks Faust expressed some reservation about Nazi leaders. He is offended not only by their vulgar aggressiveness, but surprisingly also by their disbelief in God. Though his skeptical nature generates religious doubts, articulated more than once in the play, he finds the disbelief in a divine power repelling. In Mephisto Klaus Mann suggests an ambivalent sentiment towards evil embedded within Goethe’s work, an ambivalence that was misinterpreted and distorted by the Nazis. Lasker-Schüler has an altogether different view of Faust: she sees him as having no moral aversion to the Nazis, and all his creative faculties are dependent on him being German. If it were possible, he would have returned to his homeland, and perhaps even taken part in the Nazi regime. If one can find traces of moral inhibitions in the play, they are articulated by Mephisto.

Mephisto Let us begin our discussion on the devil with the same sentence on the relation between the Bible and Goethe’s Faust, cited before: “The Testament written by God was also burned, the first part of the Bible the second part as well” (p. 227). But now we take a closer look at the first part of the sentence: Mephisto suggests, plainly and without any sarcasm, that the Old and New Testaments were written by God! A reader familiar with the history of the devil in the West would find this unequivocal statement puzzling: the very essence of the devil challenges the



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belief in God. And if in spite of his conscious efforts to defile any religious belief he somehow sustains it, it is always in an implicit, suggestive manner. The intrinsic tension within the devil never ends. Defined by his association with God as the fallen angel he wishes to refute God’s existence or to prove himself greater. Mephisto refers to his double nature as he declares: But my own self, divided after its original creation, Bestows a new life upon me – And through the latest evolving Of I and I I come enlightened and purified to myself. (p. 268)

In this respect Lasker-Schüler’s devil agrees with Judeo-Christian tradition. At first Mephisto was part of the divine hierarchy. After he fell from Heaven he became the embodiment of evil, who wished to prove God doesn’t exist and to abolish the belief in him. However, the first encounter with Mephisto in I and I reveals that it is a different, unusual devil: FAUST: And you, Mephisto, benighted man? MEPHISTO: Myself you’re asking–As the eternal One planned, I crept into the darkness of my homeland. [Bragging] And God’s Earthly kingdom died from my serpent’s bite. (p. 228)

This short dialogue merits special attention. The devil declares immediately that he is acting in accordance with a divine plan, and not against it. He then continues to shed light on his nature: Germany is his homeland, its “darkness” existed before he entered it, but as he came his acts are about to destroy the “earthly kingdom” ruled by God. This surprising interpretation of Mephisto makes the reader wonder what kind of devil he is facing. Not only does he see himself as subordinate to the divine plan, but he also immediately connects himself to Germany, which he calls his homeland. He then continues to argue that he has a role in the divine plan: the earthly kingdom, perhaps Germany, or all of Europe, will be destroyed by his powers. What exactly is the “darkness” that emerged in Germany? Is he referring only to historical events – the rise of Nazism, the outbreak of World War II, the Holocaust – or is he suggesting that all these are the result of a darkness that prevailed in Germany throughout the ages, and materialized in the concrete forms of Nazism and the Holocaust? At this point there is no definite answer. The metaphorical suggestion of a short marriage between Mephisto and Goethe may point

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to a profound cultural explanation dating back to the eighteenth century and possibly before that. As the dialogue between Faust and Mephisto continues the reader is bewildered again. Mephisto complains about the despicable nature of human beings, admitting that “when I look at them I want to throw up.” Faust agrees that there is no light, only endless darkness, to which Mephisto responds by revealing that he, too, is looking for the light, “for I am, Herr Faust, a human being like you!” (p. 228). Later in the play he also announces that “humankind is falling!” (p. 250). Not only is Satan human, but all of mankind is destined to fall, exactly as he, the fallen angel, was expelled from Heaven. Lasker-Schüler is attempting to blend the human and the superhuman, or, rather, the human and the diabolical. It is a conscious, deliberate effort to blur the boundaries between human beings and superhuman powers. Mephisto, who claims to be human but is the master of Hell, was sent to confront the “darkness” of Germany, his homeland. Yet he admits he is executing a divine plan. He then confesses that the Hell he shares with Faust is “a modernized Hell, not God’s.” The portrayal of Germany as diabolic, not only metaphorically but literally, is not surprising in itself. Lasker-Schüler expresses a popular sentiment that Nazism and the Holocaust are beyond human understanding, and therefore must be the doings of the devil. This line of thought is typical of a religiously inclined interpretation of the Holocaust, both Jewish and Christian. Hochhuth, whose play is discussed in the last chapter of this book, created a direct and immediate link between Nazism and the image of the devil. One can either accept or reject this notion; however, its source is intelligible. Yet in I and I, the interesting aspect of this devil is his attitude towards German culture and the historical framework in which he perceives Nazism. On the one hand, sometimes Mephisto refers to the Nazi leaders enjoying Hell before they drown in lava as family relatives. He calls Hitler “Cousin Adolf.” As he invites them to dine in Hell before they sink into eternal Hell he politely asks them what they have done. There seems to be an intimacy between the devil and his Nazi visitors, though they end up in flames. In this respect Mephisto partially agrees with the traditional image of the devil, planting death and destruction everywhere. He describes himself: But I foam over the watering places And ignore the commandments of the congregations. I spit devilish arbitrariness into life’s face, Give birth to death and extinguish the light of life, I like to paralyze and weaken the elements. And spur them on to kill time with storms. (p. 251)



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Here his says he spreads suffering and death, ignores any religious beliefs, and most importantly creates chaos, which is perhaps an insurmountable obstacle in a believer’s path to faith in God. However, Lasker-Schüler’s Mephisto, like the Poet and Faust in the play, has a double nature. He, too, has an I and an I. Unlike many interpretations of the devil, he constantly points to his divine source before falling from Heaven. The image of the devil in the play is rather similar to the biblical one, especially in the Book of Job. He is part of the divine power, more a messenger of God than his eternal opponent. Mephisto frequently declares that God exists. When Faust is immersed in religious doubts, it is Mephisto who assures him that God exists, saying: “I am His witness – God is here!” (p. 231). In a fascinating dialogue between Faust and Mephisto we learn how the devil sees himself: FAUST: That, Your Highness, you have now from the son of earth! MEPHISTO: He speculates on my throne. But my hand’s in the game, just my one passion here in exile. FAUST: Your Hell exile for you? MEPHISTO: Only eternity is not exile. To find your way to it, Heinrich, you roamed – not always virtuously, but always unsullied – through the vale of Earth: the land of – sins. (p. 248)

When Mephisto engages with Hitler, who challenges his throne as the ultimate embodiment of evil, he confesses that he longs to return to “eternity,” and that his Hell is anything but a permanent abode for him. His longing to join God is a unique feature of the devil, even in comparison to the biblical figure from the Book of Job. The ancient devil wanders “to and fro on the earth,” a nomad who never expresses any desire to abandon his endless traveling. Lasker-Schüler’s devil is fundamentally different. He perceives his acts in the world as a duty, a role in the divine plan. Only on his return to Heaven will he not be in exile anymore. This eschatological note is enhanced by an illuminating distinction between himself and Faust, which appears more than once in the text: “You are immortal, Heinrich, preserved by the world in marble clay, and I – cannot die” (p. 259). His repeated claim that he cannot die suggests a desire to conclude his diabolic role and to return to Heaven, a desire that cannot be fulfilled since it is an eternal role, ascribed by God. But apart from his general sympathy towards the Nazis in his Hell, his divine part creates different historical observations of Nazism. As Faust complains about the wailing of the German soldiers, Mephisto answers him:

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I did bet that their murderous doing would pass away, Even though an unsolvable problem for Doctor Faust. The Problem’s solution – their well-deserved destruction – pains his German heart. (p. 254)

He calls the acts of the German soldiers “murderous” and states that the destruction of Germany that he is about to generate is “well-deserved.” This purely moral stand seems more suitable of a divine messenger than of diabolic agent. Later he repeats his stand. In the fifth episode, as the audience sees the Nazis sink in the lava flood, Mephisto says about Hitler: He poisoned the wine blood of Germans. He failed to bring the spirit of sacrifice into the battle. He stirred the youth up to murder! A cowardly dissonance in the whirling chord of humanity! He leaves behind no ashes, not a smallest pile of rubble! And unredeemed death for the anti-Christ and anti-Jew! (pp. 267–268)

The first line leaves the reader puzzled: is this the I and I of Lasker-Schüler herself? After suggesting that Goethe has a diabolic connection with the devil, and describing Faust, the German hero, as lacking moral sensitivity, she suggests that Hitler somehow spoiled a more noble, ethical spirit of the Germans. Be that as it may, Mephisto argues explicitly that Hitler had stirred young Germans to engage in murder, which is also a cowardly act. The line describing how Hitler would leave no ash behind him, not the smallest residue, evokes an image of his annihilation. He is contrasted with all the other Nazis, who in spite of their expected burning in Hell would leave something behind, perhaps a gravestone. But it is the last line that puts the devil’s bitter words into a wider perspective. Calling Hitler an Anti-Christ places the entire Nazi phenomenon within a theological framework as part of Christian Dogma. A perception of Hitler as the Anti-Christ, the ultimate human evil that will emerge before the Second Coming of Christ and will be overcome by Jesus himself, has some intriguing spiritual implications. The first is that Hitler is evil in a way no man has ever been before. The AntiChrist is the most developed form of human evil and will succumb only to Christ himself. Within the ongoing discussion whether Nazism is a unique phenomenon in world history, Lasker-Schüler ascribes to Hitler the attributes of the most extreme possible form of human evil. If that is the case, his defeat marks the end of days, which according to Christian belief will mark at the Second Coming of Christ. It could also be interpreted as the end of the world as we know it. But describing Hitler and the Anti-Christ implies too that Hitler, at least to some degree, is also part of a divine plan. The evil that will be revealed before the



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Second Coming is part of an eschatological plan in which Anti-Christ or Hitler have a predetermined part. It is unclear whether Lasker-Schüler was immersed in theological contemplation as she called Hitler the Anti-Christ. She may have used it as a metaphor for ultimate human evil. The religious sentiments revealed in her work tend to emphasize the personal, spiritual experience of the individual and not a theological exegetics. Also, she adds the attribute of “anti-Jew,” which points more to a general view of Judeo-Christian culture juxtaposed with Nazi ideology and ideas. Goethe’s Faust, with all its complexity and poetic grandeur, is often seen as the basic frame of modern German culture, the setting that stands at the background of every aspect of German life. The interpretation of Faust and Mephisto, the relations between the two, the emotional and intellectual themes each one represents–are instrumental in understanding the German mind. Some thinkers, also discussed in this book, created a link between Goethe’s genius work and the rise of Nazism. Klaus Mann argues that although Goethe himself never meant Mephisto to be an authentic German hero, he laid the foundations for such an interpretation. The moral theme is ambiguous, Faust’s choices and Mephisto’s temptations are never fully condemned, and more than anything, Faust contains the belief that in order to fulfill one’s ambitions one has to have a pact with the devil. In this context, Lasker-Schüler presents a different perspective on Goethe’s work and Nazism. She maintains the polarized structure, the human Faust and the diabolic Mephisto, but alters their characters. Faust is dissatisfied, he is eager to return to Germany to engage in creative activity. He has neither moral inhibitions nor intellectual complexity. He is utterly German; when faced with World War II and the Holocaust he feels only for the Germans, not a word about the victims of their murderous acts. The difference between Faust and the German soldiers is superficial – he is a pale, inhibited man with a mild temperament – but not in essence. He says nothing about Nazi ideology, its consequences, the destruction it inflicted in Europe or about the genocide of the Jewish people. In a single incident, almost negligible, he resists the Nazi desire to take another revenge on a young dead Jew, arguing that he is as courageous as his ancestors. But there is not even the slightest reference to anti-Semitism as an extensive phenomenon, to Nazi aversion to Judeo-Christian culture and their support of “social Darwinism.” Lasker-Schüler’s Faust does not confront Nazi ideas, nor does he explicitly support them; his heart is with Germany, whatever happens. His creativity would vanish if he does not return to his homeland, to the German language, figuratively described as “his mother’s breast.” If Faust is her way of characterizing the Germans, Lasker-Schüler sees them as morally indifferent, attentive only to their

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own pain, neither supporting Nazism nor renouncing it, and more than anything, immersed in self-fulfillment, that could not have materialized outside Germany. Thus, in comparison to Faust the diabolical Mephisto has some favorable aspects. The cynical, cunning, clever devil from Goethe’s work, acting both as an exterior entity and from within man, is somewhat transformed here. Though he keeps his demonic features, he is the one to articulate, even if in short, a moral perspective. Balancing the human with the diabolic, Lasker-Schüler finds the latter more favorable.

Judaism One would have thought that a play by a Jewish author on the rise of Nazism would have included a discourse on Judaism. But this play, insightful and unconventional as it is, touches very briefly upon the place of Judaism as part of the historical circumstance it discusses. Two acts, the first and the sixth, take place in Jerusalem. Also, the characters of King Saul, King David, and King Solomon are present to some degree in the play. The first act begins with detailed instructions: near the Tower of David, called Hell Ground by longtime residents of Palestine. In the royal box crumbling old stones, in elegant armchairs, sits KING SAUL, KING DAVID, and KING SOLOMON, eerily motionless, painted with gold and many colors like figures in a wax museum (p. 224).

The reference to the Tower of David and Hell is derived from biblical Hebrew. Hell, in Hebrew Gehinnom, is also a valley near the Tower of David. Literally is means “Valley of son of Hinom.” The oldest historical reference to the valley is found in Joshua 15:8 and 18:16. It was called Hell since it was there that the Israelites followed Baal and other Canaanite gods. In the New Testament it is called “Gehenna.” Jesus refers to it several times, speaking of a place where body and soul can be destroyed, and of an “unquenched fire” that may appear. Thus, when Lasker-Schüler speaks of the “longtime residents of Palestine” she is referring to ancient times, to the Old and New Testament. The play commences at the cradle of Western civilization, which is also the place that according to Judaism and Christianity the people were tempted to go astray. The modern Hell, in which Mephisto, Faust, the ancient Jewish Kings and Baal dwell, is the place in which Nazism takes place, where Nazi soldiers sink into lava. The link between the biblical times and modern Hell puts Nazism into a wider historical perspective. It could be argued that it decreases its tragic place in history, since



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it invalidates the perception that it is a unique historical phenomenon. However, Lasker-Schüler’s intention was probably the very opposite. She must have felt that by placing the Nazis alongside an enduring Jewish history she was creating an omen for victory over Nazi Germany. In fact it is an old Jewish way of coping with hardships and persecutions. Jewish leaders often turned to the survival of the Jewish people throughout the ages to demonstrate its immanent powers: though contemporary enemies and persecutors may be threatening and offensive, our long history proves that eventually the enemies will disappear and the Jewish people will prevail. However, the instructions also illustrate Lasker-Schüler’s perception of the biblical heroes. The three kings of the Old Testament, Saul, David and Solomon, are nothing but statues now. Though they sit in a royal box in elegant armchairs – fitting for their place in history – they are nothing but crumbling stones. There is something surreal about these carved statues; they are colorful yet they look like sculptures in a wax museum. No doubt they are portrayed as figures of the past, powerless, insignificant biblical protagonists that nowadays can only be placed in a museum. And also, they take no part in the dialogues in Jerusalem and in Hell. Aside from a couple of sentences of King David in the last act, the biblical images are silent. Even Baal, the Canaanite god, has a more important role in the play. The silence of the three kings is agonizing. The reader expects them to disgrace the Nazi leaders, to see their grandeur juxtaposed with Goebbels’ vulgarity or Von Schirach’s wretchedness. But this naïve hope only generates disappointment. As the play progresses the heroic figures remain mute and almost transparent. As fond as she was of the mythical biblical figures, dear to her heart and often present in her work, at the time the play was written Lasker-Schüler may have felt that in the face of the Holocaust they appeared weak and helpless. The Jewish religious ancestors provided no spiritual support at this time of crisis, the tradition they were part of seemed on the verge of annihilation.

The Nazis As we have seen so far, the Poet, Faust, Mephisto and the other characters are all segments of a wider picture Lasker-Schüler creates in this play of an unstable world, with the characters oscillating between contrasted parts of themselves, creating an atmosphere of turbulence and uncertainty. In 1941, looking at Germany from a distance, she saw a broken, volatile world, on the verge of destruction. There was no solid ground within German society, no clear voice actively rejecting Nazism, except for German immigrants in Europe and the United States. This fluid reality is well reflected in all aspects of the play.

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The Nazi leaders entering Hell stand in sharp contrast with all other characters: they lack hesitation and doubts, they are determined to demonstrate their diabolic nature – they certainly do not have an I and an I. They are blunt, vulgar, aggressive, competing over who resembles the devil the most. In the second act the reader first encounters the Nazi leaders. In a dining room in Hell Palace, Göring, Goebbels, Hess and Von Schirach rise as the devil appears, recognizing him only as he fully turns towards them. Mephisto invites his guests to dine with him, his servants eager to satisfy the guests. As Mephisto suggests that each guest would “discuss his business” with the devil, Goebbels whistles to Göring that the devil is “Hell swine” (p. 235). Mephisto then declares that their “business” is delivering petroleum, to which they answer in a loud voice “Heil Hitler! For Germania and for Rome.” As the conversation continues, they often shout “Heil Hitler,” fill their beakers, pat each other on the shoulder, swear loudly, a merry group that perfectly fits the diabolic flames and the sounds of shooting in the distance. Their vulgarity is apparent immediately. Göring “snorts like a tiger” and then he is “dead drunk” (p. 237), Goebbels is “completely drunk” (p. 238), Von Schirach shouts “death for the Jews” once in a while. They are so base and repulsive that Mephisto finds it hard to stand them. He “rises aristocratically, disgusted, after him Faust” (p. 239), and walks away. The scene ends “by a hoarse, uncontrolled voices of the Nazis: ‘Five times a hundred thousand devils’” (p. 240). Even before they articulate their racist views, their coarse nature is revealed. Juxtaposed with them is the devil, with an aristocratic touch. Lasker-Schüler carefully composes this picture of the Nazis gorging in Hell, a point of departure to her addressing the Nazi issue. Though later she develops their historical view and their perception of Hitler and Germany, it is their gruesome nature that is engraved in the reader’s memory. And their vulgarity appears even cruder against the background of the refined and versatile Poet, Faust and Mephisto. There is no question that Lasker-Schüler loathes the Nazi leaders she is depicting, yet the artistic choice of presenting their vulgarity merits special attention, especially as it implies contrasting them with all the other characters. She suggests a duality in the German culture. The idea is not fully developed here but merely implied by the contrast among the various characters. A couple of years later Thomas Mann will develop this theme, fully articulated it in his address in the Library of Congress on May 1945 (discussed in the fourth chapter of this book). The desire to create characters who lack the inner conflicts and contradictions of the Poet, Faust and Mephisto could have generated simple-minded protagonists, dull, perhaps materialistic – but not necessarily vulgar. But the picture of the Germanic as is emerges from this play is composed of two elements: complex, sophisticated thought and creativity, alongside baseness and vulgarity. Thomas Mann contemplated whether these two parts of the national culture



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could coexist; Lasker-Schüler only illustrates them. She suggests that intellectuals like herself, or those embodied in the character of Faust, were consumed by their inner conflicts and contradictions to the point that they became indifferent to the emerging Nazi movement, overlooking its potential danger. At the same time, the aggressive, bold element of German culture gradually materialized and took a monstrous shape, leading to World War II and to the Holocaust. The idea of vulgarity alongside the creativity and sophistication in not fully elaborated in this play; it is only suggested by the nature of the characters. The cultural observation is not articulated explicitly, but only emerges as we see that the Nazi leaders are fundamentally differently from the Poet, Faust, and Mephisto, who walks away disgusted. It may appear strange at first, but it agrees with a certain line of interpretation of the traditional devil. Sometimes there is something majestic about him, he arouses awe, whereas the Nazi officers are drunken hooligans, swearing and shouting, competing with each other about who is the most vulgar. During their dinner at Hell, a strange conversation takes place between the Nazis and Mephisto. It is brought here almost in full: SCHIRACH: My old master already cold at fifty! They’re ahead of us here in Hell: human beings are advanced to devils, Their flames of life stirred up anew – they go right on breathing Forever. GÖRING: [satiated] absurd! [he snorts like a tiger] Is it allowed – sewed up in these damn clothes – to let out my Belt? [dead drunk, to Mephisto]: and humbly ask for oil! HESS: [sober, interrupting Göring]: And the monopoly for delivering oil to Germany, Your Satanic Majesty, and to Rome. MEPHISTO: as thanks for the pact, I’ll take that musical little city in the Eiffel. What is it called in your poetry, Heinrich? GOEBBELS: [affectedly]: whatever it is called – and no doubt, complete with cat and mouse, my Führer will gladly sweep it out of his land as a return favor to Your Majesty. SCHIRACH: Generous as the Führer is, Goethe was basically too much of a Christian for him. He said that Prometheus was created on order, too. MEPHISTO: [to Faust] I’ll dig up Hermann and Dorothea for you before you see another morning. GOEBBELS: those two long dead misbaptized Jews? [completely drunk] As let them graze with the lambs in the pasture … woe to the German race who polluted their German blood with Jewish seed, woe to all Jewry! SCHIRACH: Rise up, Germany! Death to the Jews! GÖRING, GOEBBELS, HESS and SCHIRACH: Woe to all Jewry! Heil Hitler! (pp. 237–238)

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The opening argument, that humans – that is, the Nazis – are superior to the devils in Hell reveals Von Schirach’s haughtiness. Yet the tone of his words is somewhat surprising, since it discloses a sense of weakness, a fear that other people will surpass them, no matter in what way. It also illustrates the Nazis’ ambition to be Gods, perhaps demi-gods, as Klaus Mann sarcastically called them. Their economic drive is highly emphasized. The Nazis often ask about the monopoly of delivering oil to Germany. In fact, in this paragraph it is presented as part of a pact with the devil: he will grant them the monopoly on oil and get Paris in return. Not that they disapprove of Nazi ideas on race and anti-Semitism, but their desire to take over the oil supply of Germany is stressed several times, driving the reader to speculate on what their primary motive is. But the main point, their attitude to Goethe and to his Hermann and Dorothea, is especially interesting. Though they all seek to resemble Goethe’s Mephisto, his creator is “too Christian.” Here, again, as in Klaus Mann’s Mephisto, Goethe’s great work stands separately from its author. The play is interpreted regardless of Goethe’s intentions, which are too humanistic in Hitler’s eyes. But in spite of their misinterpretation, the play creates a cultural structure through which Nazi leaders examine themselves and Germany. They identify with Mephisto, but look down on Faust; Goethe’s spirit is too Christian. Their reservations about Goethe lead them to declare his two literary figures, Hermann and Dorothea, a Roman Catholic and a Protestant, Jewish. Without delving into the complex nature of this work, which is the subject of many studies and beyond the scope of this book, it should be noted briefly that the link in I and I between Hermann and Dorothea and Judaism is not random. In 1797, as Goethe was about to complete this epic verse, he began writing Israel in der Wüste, an interpretation of the biblical story of Exodus. Both in his article and in Hermann and Dorothea he takes the biblical Exodus from Egypt as an original model for establishing a cultural narrative.19 Presenting Hermann and Dorothea as “misbaptized Jews” who contaminate German blood is nothing but ridiculing Nazi leaders for their ignorance. The entire dialogue demonstrates their thought mechanism: though they are somewhat familiar with Goethe’s works, their understanding of it adds up to some superficial observations, sometimes halves truths sometimes complete ignorance, and it all ends in a desire to murder the Jews and shout “Heil Hitler.” The Nazis in this play, as is the case with Klaus Mann’s Mephisto, regard Judaism and Christianity as one entity. Lasker-Schüler deepens the connection between the two in the third episode, as Goebbels articulates his thoughts on 19 See Karin Schuljer,“German Epic/Jewish Epic: Goethe’s Exodus Narrative in Hermann und Dorothea and ‘Israel in der Wüste,’” pp. 165–184.



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Christ. Martha Schwerdtlein refers to Jesus Christ as the “savior,” to which he abruptly responses: GOEBBELS: The old Jew doesn’t count anymore! (MARTHA SCHWERDTLEIN is surprised). The Führer sent him back to Bethlehem with his New Testament, Where the Jewish Priest was born – by return mail via the poor sinners-trolley and then a pleasant water journey in the apple boat – MARTHA SCHWERDTLEIN: That is hard for me to believe. GOEBBELS: He should leave us Aryans alone. Heil Hitler! MARTHA SCHWERDTLEIN: what is the name of your god, then? GOEBBELS : (sarcastically) Adolf Hitler! MARTHA SCHWERDTLEIN: and the Madonna, who bore god? GOEBBELS: She resembles you, Martha Schwerdtlein, to a hair. (p. 242)

Calling Christ “a Jewish Priest” is meant to blur the differences between Judaism and Christianity, to perceive them as the same belief. He contrasts the monotheistic religions with Aryans, expressing the accepted Nazi view on Judeo-Christianity tradition versus the “religion of nature.” The image of Christ “returning” to Bethlehem illustrates a Nazi desire to reverse historical development, to decrease the spread of Christianity in Europe. But the vulgar remark of sending Christ “by return mail” alongside the demand that “he should leave us Aryans alone” is surprising – since it implies that the Nazis are somewhat afraid of Christ. Nazi propaganda emphasized the power of Germanic culture, in contrast to the weakness of Judeo-Christian culture, yet Goebbels dreads the influence of Christianity in Europe. The last sentence, Martha Schwerdtlein’s question about the Madonna, is interesting. Though Martha is a marginal figure, her naïve question on the nature of the Nazi God is enlightening. It is parallel to Nazi view of Goethe’s Faust. She, too, like the Nazi leaders, adopts a framework of belief without adopting its content. She knows one must have a God and a mother who bore him, but she ignores the true Christian spirit of Christ and the Madonna. Like Goebbels who thinks in terms of Faust and Mephisto but overlooks Goethe’s humanistic spirit, so she is looking for the one God and the mother who gave birth to him, ignorant of the unique place of Christ. Goebbels’ short courtship of Martha Schwerdtlein, with its sexual insinuations, comes to an abrupt end. Though in the third act he flatters her, offering her to show him through Hell in a coquettish tone, in the fifth act the spirit of his words is altogether different. He calls her “stupid cow” and then cries “drown her.” His short-lived graceful behavior towards her terminates in a cruel and vulgar way that agrees with his general portrayal.

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Hitler himself makes a short appearance in the play. In the fifth act, as the Nazi soldiers are sinking in the boiling lava, he appears in the gate of Hell, armored, with his loyal bodyguards, Ribbentrop, Himmler and Rosenberg. His entrance into Hell is different from that of the other Nazis – in an assertive, commanding tone he demands to know where Satan is. And unlike other Nazi leaders who wish to resemble the devil, Hitler addresses him in a dictatorial manner, as a commander accustomed to total acquiescence to his orders. Baal, the ancient Mediterranean god dwelling in Hell, sarcastically suggests that Hitler should enter the “luxury pool,” that is, the boiling lava. He then declares that Satan has capitulated – to God. However, Hitler, here depicted “boasting like a megalomaniac” (p. 267), believes that Mephisto has surrendered to him. Then the entire Nazi group sinks into the lava. In this very brief appearance, with only a few sentences, the reader acknowledges Hitler as conceited and pompous, confidant that everyone will immediately fulfill his orders. Lasker-Schüler depicts him as distinct from the other Nazi generals, though in a subtle, implicit way. Where others wish to imitate Mephisto, he addresses him in a commanding tone; one might think that he wished to subject him to his rule. But like all other Nazi characters, he lacks any inner conflict or complexity. He is nothing but an arrogant man wishing to rule everywhere, including Hell. The Nazi figures are sketched very carefully, with the same intense effort as she, the Poet, portrays herself and Faust and Mephisto. In spite of some details that are intended to create some complexity, their most prominent attribute is their flatness. Irksome, tedious men; had they not been the conquerors of parts of Europe no one would have taken the trouble to examine them. They evoke curiosity neither in to their motives nor in their past and present lives, in contrast to the three literary protagonists. The reader finds it hard to detect any complexity in them, any I and I, against the background of the crude vulgarity. I and I is more of a poem than a play. It reveals profound historical observations on the role German culture played in the birth and growth of Nazism. Yet the insights are not entirely developed, they are not articulated in full. Goethe’s Faust as the fundamental framework of German self-perception, the support the Nazis found in its complex and ambivalent spirit, the vanity of Faust – they are all suggested by Lasker-Schüler but not fully developed in the play. Very similar historical observations, almost identical, are clearly and systematically formulated by Thomas Mann in several lectures he gave at the Library of Congress, both during World War II and after its termination.

Chapter Four Germany and the Germans by Thomas Mann

Germany and the Germans by Thomas Mann

On the evening of May 29th, 1945, three weeks after the surrender of Nazi Germany but before the nuclear bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the world-known German author Thomas Mann gave a lecture at the Library of Congress. As the Nazis gained power he left Germany, first to Switzerland and then to the United State. There he was appointed Consultant in Germanic Languages and Literature at the Library of Congress. Part of his responsibility was to give an annual lecture on German culture. But this particular lecture was especially gripping; on the verge of full victory of the Allies, the great author was about to articulate his view on the German cultural roots of Nazism. Not only in the United States but throughout the world Thomas Mann was considered a supreme interpreter of German culture. His unique novels and short stories, which granted him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1929, became a prominent part of German literary heritage. He also lectured on German culture before the Nazi gained power. He was a fierce opponent of the Nazi movement; the immigration of the Mann family from Germany, echoed in the international press, contributed much to the universal opposition to Nazism. Born in 1875 in Lübeck, a son of a Senator, he was part of the German upper class, as is echoed in his Buddenbrooks. In spite of evident homosexual inclinations he married a young Jewish woman of a wealthy industrial family. The couple had six children. His brother Heinrich, and three of his children, Erika, Golo and Klaus, were also well known writers. Until the rise of the Nazi movement and their coming to power he could not have envisaged his life anywhere but in Germany (as he testifies at the opening of the lecture discussed here). But both in Europe and in America he was often asked on his views on German culture and the German mind. World War II and the Holocaust generated a huge interest in these complex issues. One could examine his entire literary work in search of observations on Nazism and its cultural roots, as with Klaus Mann, Else Lasker-Schüler and Rolf Hochhuth. The study of his novels, especially of Doctor Faustus, reveals unique insights and a complex view on the place of the Mephisto legend in the German mind. However, such an extensive examination would be far beyond the scope of this study. Not only is his work as a whole a subject for a wide body of literary research; also, many scholars focus on the gradual change in his philosophical and artistic point of view. Describing Thomas Mann at one stage of his life is different from another period in his intellectual development. But even if we confine ourselves to Doctor Faustus, a novel that is the reshaping of Goethe’s Faust and

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focuses on the corruption of German culture in the years before and during the war, its richness and intricacy cannot be discussed in one chapter. The many books and articles devoted to the novel are part of a continuous attempt to reach a wide and full interpretation of this great piece of art. Thomas Mann’s position at the Library of Congress created a unique opportunity to uncover his penetrating observations on the role of German culture in the formation of Nazism. The address is entitled “Germany and the Germans,” and in spite of its rich language, intuitions and metaphors, an abundance of personal memories, some anecdotes on well-known literary figures, it is an abstract: Thomas Mann outlines his concept of German culture and how it led to the creation and development of Nazism. The address reveals that he believed the German interpretation of Faust’s pact with Mephisto to play a crucial role in the emergence of this tragic historic development. It is extremely rare to find such a direct explicit statement on spiritual matters by a great artist like Thomas Mann. The artistic mimesis, by its very nature, is an act of embedding the philosophical, social and psychological observations in the details of the work of art – the characters, plots, social background, the Zeit Geist, even in mundane customs and manners. The readers and scholars would then attempt to uncover them, to reveal the themes of the novel, short story or play. But here Thomas Mann lays bare his historical observations in a constructed manner intelligible to a variety of readers. Unlike his literary style, full of references to literary and historical sources which often requires an extensive knowledge in order to fully grasp its richness, the address is written in an uncomplicated style, the arguments are structured, the sequence is easy to follow and the exposition of his discourse is completely lucid. The address begins with a strong personal note. The author admits that he finds it almost unconceivable that he is an American citizen. Several years ago he could not have imagined it would happen. “I stand here before you, a man of seventy, contrary to all expectations, an American citizen for more than a year, speaking English or at least making an effort to do so” (p. 47). This opening sentence explicitly presents the subject of nationality, of German and American citizenship. He then elaborates on his feelings – it is all dreamlike, unimaginable that after his long life in Germany he finds himself in this unexpected place. He then turns to formulate the fundamental premise of his view of his origin as a German: Any attempt to arouse sympathy to defend and to excuse Germany, would certainly be an inappropriate undertaking for one of German birth today. To play the part of the judge, to curse and damn his own people in compliant agreement with the incalculable hatred that they have kindled, to command himself smugly as “the good Germany” in contrast with the wicked, guilty Germany over there with which he has nothing at all in common, – that too



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would hardly befit one of German origin. For anyone who was born a German does have something in common with German destiny and Germany guilt. (p. 48)

In contrast to possible expectations of the audience, that after the atrocities of war a “good German” would be found and that a distinction would be made between the German origins and the brutal acts of the Nazis, Thomas Mann begins by placing himself – the fierce opponent of the Nazis that he was – alongside all his countrymen. In his eyes, he and Hitler, Göring and Goebbels are products of the same culture. Even though he was forced to flee from his homeland due to condemnation of racist views, he too carries the burden of guilt, since it was the culture that he was part of that begat those tragic historical phenomena of Nazism and the Holocaust. He then adds a short sentence that summarizes the heart of his historical interpretation: German culture consists of a fundamental dualism that shaped its thought and history, “a combination of expansiveness and seclusiveness, cosmopolitanism and provincialism in the German character.” A description of a childhood trip to Switzerland illustrates his experience of the profound difference between the German state of mind and the European one. Crossing Lake Constance was “a trip to the world,” though he adds that Switzerland is far from exemplifying the international spirit of the central cities of Europe. But still, it is not the “arrogant provincialism” of Germany. And as for his childhood experience in Germany, he portrays Lübeck where he was born and spent his first years. The description of the city, only a couple of sentences at the beginning of the lecture, merits special attention: I was particularly able to perceive on account of my personal origin. I think back of the German world that constituted the first frame of my existence, and from which the dreamwave of life swept me here: It was the ancient city of Lübeck, near the Baltic Sea … this exceptionally beautiful City Hall, which my father, as a senator, frequented, was completed at the very year in which Martin Luther posted his Theses on the portal of the Castle Church at Wittenberg … No, in the atmosphere itself something had clung of the state of mind of, let’s say, the final decade of the fifteenth century, the hysteria of the dying Middle Ages, something of a latent spiritual epidemic. It’s a strange thing to say about a sensible, sober, modern, commercial city, but it was conceivable that the Children’s Crusade might suddenly erupt here. (pp. 49–50)

This early childhood memory is the point of departure for the theoretical discussion. The sights imprinted in his early memory, the “first frame” of his existence as he calls it, the fabric of his spiritual world was determined in Lübeck. The description of the city alludes to his future observations: a beautiful old city, its history paralleled to the development of Protestantism. Though it looks like a ordinary commercial center, hysteria of the Middle Ages lingers underneath its

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vital economy. And in spite of the mundane appearance, something as dramatic and unexpected as the Children’s Crusade could erupt any moment. But the childhood memories are not an end in themselves. They are an introduction to a profound contemplation on what a “German character” is, and whether it has immanent features that were predetermined to develop into Nazism.

Luther and Nazism The depiction of the early memories transforms, in a subtle and artful manner so typical of Thomas Mann, into a theoretical analysis of German heritage. As he contemplates the nature of his experiences in Lübeck, he adds that he describes them “because I am trying to suggest a secret union of the German spirit with the Demonic, a thesis which is, indeed, part of my inner experience, but not easily defensible” (p. 51). His effort to establish this secret union begins with Luther: Martin Luther, a gigantic incarnation of the German spirit, was exceptionally musical. I frankly confess that I do not love him. Germanism in its unalloyed state, the Separatist, Anti-Roman, Anti-European shocks me and frightens me, even when in appears in the guise of evangelical freedom and spiritual emancipation; and the specifically Lutheran, the choleric coarseness, the invective, the fuming and raging, the extravagant rudeness coupled with tender depth of feeling and with the most clumsy superstition and belief in demons, incubi, and changelings, around my instinctive antipathy. (p. 52)

The discussion on Luther commences with a premise that he is the German spirit incarnate; understanding him implies a certain comprehension of the German mind. Though Thomas Mann confesses explicitly that he dislikes Luther since he is the source of the part of the German spirit he most resents, he cannot but admit repeatedly that Luther was a great man, a genius. So what was it about Luther that Thomas Mann disliked? What was it that raises his “instinctive antipathy”? A careful examination of this paragraph reveals two things. The first, Luther objects to the European spirit. In his search for spiritual sources he looked at German history and at the Bible. A “Separatist,” a man who favored the enhancement of the German spirit in place of sharing the common values of European culture. The other source of resentment, perhaps a more prominent one, is the inherent contradictions, both within his personality and in his religious belief. Much has been written about the conflicting elements of Protestantism, but here the description is personal: Luther is both vulgar and vindictive – but also tender, with deep feelings. He is a spiritual emancipator and the leader of evangelical



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freedom – but also a simplistic believer in the devil and in ghosts and demons, in an almost child-like manner. Luther was indeed a man of contradictions. Thomas Mann points to the implications of this inner ambivalence on the German mind. A lack of consistency, accepting a spiritual substructure with explicit antithetical elements, sometimes only inconsistent, sometimes the very opposite, were imbued by Luther into German culture, nearly to the point that it was not imperative to act within a rational, coherent framework. Further discussion on Thomas Mann’s depiction of rationality is found in the subsection devoted to German Romanticism. The description of Luther’s innate duality is elaborated, illustrating how he both enriched German and world culture, and impaired it. He calls Luther several times “the incarnation of the German spirit.” In a comparison between Goethe and Luther, he says on the latter: And no one can deny that Luther was a tremendously great man, great in the most German manner, great and German even in his duality as the liberating and the once reactionary force, a conservative revolutionary. He not only reconstituted the Church; he actually saved Christianity. (p. 53)

Even his greatness, according to Thomas Mann, is German by its very nature. It consists of a “duality,” of conflicting elements: on the one hand, liberating Christians from the chains of the Catholics Church, granting the individual power to experience the divine directly. On the other hand, conservative, obstructing progressive ideas in German society. Thomas Mann points repeatedly to Luther’s duality and how it was embedded in German heritage. To him, the root of what later would evolve into Nazism is this fundamental duality. The lack of commitment to a coherent worldview eventually enabled the German people, centuries later, to avoid moral judgment for their acts. But how was Luther a liberator? First and foremost, “by the establishment of the direct relationship of man and his God he advanced the cause of European democracy; for ‘every man his own priest,’ that is democracy” (p. 53). But then Thomas Mann adds insightful remarks on this liberty: He was a liberating hero, – but in the German style, for he knew nothing of liberty. I am not speaking not of the liberty of the Christian, but of political liberty, the liberty of the citizen – this left him cold, but its impulses and demands were deeply repugnant to him. (p. 54)

Luther freed man internally, encouraged him to experience liberty in a direct, personal way. Yet he resisted any political attempts to advance a free society, thus supporting the conservative forces. Thomas Mann describes in detail Luther’s cruel objection to the peasants’ revolt, which he believes could have advanced

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Germany society. “The peasants, he said, should be killed like mad dogs and he told the princes that they could now gain the kingdom of heaven by slaughtering the peasant beasts” (p. 54). As liberating as he was, his opposition to any real, feasible efforts towards social and political reform was brutal and merciless, explicitly encouraging the bloody murder of the peasants. Luther’s persistence that freedom is strictly an inner spiritual experience of the individual, unrelated to the nature of society as a whole, prevented the development of political freedom in Germany, unlike most European nations. Thomas Mann argues that “Liberty, in the political sense, in primarily a matter of internal morality” (p. 56). The collective freedom of individuals of the same nation is transformed into an internal morality. Yet in Germany, national freedom evolved in a distorted, misguided manner, since liberty was only a personal attribute, never a political one. Thus, Germans never felt like a free nation. Their sense of freedom became conditional on other nations. Being German, a free German, was meaningful only in a comparative context: The German concept of liberty was always directed outwards; it meant the right to be German, only German and nothing else and nothing beyond that. It was a concept of protest, of self centered defense against everything that tended to limit and restrict national egotism, to tame it and to direct it towards service to the world community, service to humanity. (p. 56)

Here Thomas Mann takes one step further in his historical analysis. He demonstrates Luther’s wide historical effect on the German people, an effect that would have far reaching consequences centuries after Luther’s death. He created a state of mind in which being German was defined essentially as not belonging to another nation, and not by common values and culture. Being German had no political or social substance, it was not an expression of unifying values, it was not a sanctification of specific historical events – only the joining of individuals based on the formal aspect of nationality. Freedom was individual; freedom in a political context was only turned outwards, directed against others. This created a fundamental drive to overcome and conquer other nations. This historical argument regarding the German perception of freedom is further elaborated. The German urge for freedom is depicted here as “inner enslavement”: Why must the German urge for liberty always be tantamount to inner enslavement? Why did it finally have to culminate in an attack upon liberty of all others, upon liberty itself? The reason is that Germany had never had a revolution and has never learned to combine the concept of the nation with the concept of a nation. (p. 56)



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Nazism, in this respect, is the expression of a detachment between personal and national liberty, created mainly by Luther. It is an inner enslavement because the healthy sense of national liberation is interchanged with enslavement to nationality.1 German nationalism, argues Thomas Mann, should not be confused in any way with the idea of nationalism created in the French Revolution. The French idea of political freedom had two components: internally, it meant a liberal concept of humanitarianism, and externally, it meant spreading its idea of a modern state in Europe. The entire French spirit of politics is based on these two elements: one cannot exist without the other. But the German sense of nationalism lacks any inclination for liberal ideas, and it was motivated by a desire to differentiate between Germany and other European nations. The gap between the German and the French perception of nationalism is so profound that it cannot be seen as a similar phenomenon: It might be a mistake to regard the Germans as a nation, no matter whether they or others do. It is wrong to use the word “nationalism” for their patriotic fervor – it is a misuse of the French idea and creates misunderstandings. One should not apply the same name to two different things. The German idea of liberty is racial and anti-European; it is always very near the barbaric if it does not actually erupt into open and declared barbarism, as in our days. (p. 57)

Here new dimensions are added to the depiction of the German concept of freedom. First, racist and anti-European are equivalents in this sentence. Though he does not elaborate much on what “racist” is in this context (there is only one other reference to racism in the address), we can assume he does not mean sharing a political order, but having the same ancestors. One could argue that it resembles more the idea of a wide family than of a nation. The other new element introduced in this paragraph is that the German sense of liberty is barbaric, or very close to it. To understand this remark we should probably return to his childhood memories from Lübeck. The experience of the young boy who sees latent demonism, a notion that the belief in the devil and in other evil spirit prevails, even if not publically, the fear of the Children’s Crusade that could erupt at any minute, all these testify to his profound experience that “an anciently neurotic substratum” (p. 50) of German culture always exists, even in a time in which life in Germany seems peaceful and quiet.

1 On Thomas Mann’s perception of German individual freedom, see Louis Dumont, German Ideology: from France to Germany and Back. The fourth chapter is entitled “’Unpolitical’ Individualism: German Culture in Thomas Mann’s Reflections.”

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In spite of his brilliant historical observations, the depiction of a barbaric ground on which German culture flourished is derived from his faculties as an artist, not a historian. It would be extremely difficult to prove such a claim, as he admits as he presents this argument, but to him it is as real as any other part of German cultural history. From early childhood he could feel a demonic presence, and it would disappear only as he left Germany, even if for the neighboring Switzerland. At the age of seventy, as he witnessed the rise of Nazism in Germany and the catastrophes it created, it was an unassailable proof that the diabolic was always there, underneath what appeared as a habitual, ordinary life.

Goethe’s Faust and Nazism Goethe was born into a culture that made Luther’s dualism its fundamental spiritual framework. Thomas Mann’s discussion on the effect of Goethe is founded on this postulate. It is against this background that his analysis of Faust should be seen. It rests upon the belief that Goethe adopted Luther’s duality. Examination of his works, mostly of Faust, would reveal a state of mind in which conflicting views can be part of an integrated artistic mimesis. It goes without saying that any great work of art is complex and many sided, but Thomas Mann refers to a conscious stand of the artist, in which conflicting fundamental points of view should not be integrated into a coherent philosophical conception.2 Mann begins with establishing a link between the demonic nature of the German spirit and the character of Faust: I am trying to suggest a secret union of the German spirit and the Demonic, a thesis which is indeed part of my inner experience but not easily defensible? The hero of our greatest literary work, Goethe’s Faust, is a man who stands at the dividing line between the Middle Ages and Humanism, a man of God who, out of a presumptuous urge for knowledge, surrenders to magic, to the Devil. Wherever arrogance of the intellect mates with the spiritual obsolete and archaic, there is the Devil’s domain. (p. 51)

2 Erich Kahler depicts Thomas Mann’s perception of the German nature: “The German character, ‘threatened with being wrapped up in itself like a cocoon,’ with ‘the poison of solitude,’ with the urge to break into the world, is beguiled into a grab for world power that brings nothing but the world’s hatred, and suffering. The nation whose power of abstraction is the highest, whose spirit is the most perfectly and perilously detached, the nation of Kant, Schiller, Hölderlin, plunges ahead of the rest into a subanimal condition. This is the nation that had created the model of modern secularized hell, where the incredible actually happens, ‘without any accounting,’ in soundproof cellars, where torment and lust are commingled.”. See Erich Kahler, “The Devil Secularized: Thomas Mann’s Faust,” p. 121.



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Faust’s duality is established as he is first discussed in this address. But Thomas Mann interprets it in a complex and unique manner. The first observation is that Faust is part of two different historical époques, each with its values and beliefs: the dark Middle Ages and the open minded and advanced Humanism of modern times. He is a religious God-fearing man, yet he is motivated by a modern desire to constantly expand his knowledge. Thus, the historical settings of Faust predetermine his double set of values. The nature of the Middle Ages is “archaic” and “obsolete,” as most history books describe it. Yet surprisingly, the modern age is “arrogance of the intellect,” pointing not to Humanism or Positivism, but to the striving for scientific achievements lacking any moral implications. Faust represents not only the “darkness” of the Middle Ages but a negative aspect of modernity. And the encounter between the two, says Thomas Mann, is diabolic. The devil is the incarnation of an unrestrained urge for power, for the domination of others: And the devil, Luther’s devil, Faust’s devil, strikes me as a very German figure, and the pact with him, the Satanic covenant, to win the treasures and power on earth for a time at the cost of the soul’s salvation, strikes me as something exceedingly typical of German Nature. A lonely thinker and searcher, a theologian and philosopher in his cell who, in this desire for world enjoyment and world domination, barters his soul to the Devil, – isn’t this the right moment to see Germany in this picture, the moment in which Germany is literally being carried off by the Devil? (p. 51)

In order to establish the link between the demonic and German culture, Thomas Mann determines without hesitation that both the devil and the pact with him are typically German. He then elaborates more on humans who seek the assistance of the devil in order to succeed. As for the devil, Mann finds it sufficient to say that both Luther’s devil and Goethe’s devil are German characters, but he does not further develop this theme.3 Faust’s image, the German Faust, is more elaborated. In this short paragraph Faust is giving up his soul for the “treasures and power” on earth. He is a lonely man, immersed in contemplation, hardly a man of action but more a philosopher, one who probably could not obtain fortune and domination without a diabolic intervention. He is still part of a religious world, a “theologian,” yet part 3 When comparing the impact of Goethe’s devil on Thomas Mann’s devil in Doctor Faustus, it has been argued that “Only the devil’s persuasive truth and virtue did not express Mann’s own conviction but rather his idea as to the nature of the moral confusion which had led Germany to tragic guilt.” See Herbert W. Reichert, “Goethe’s Faust in Two Novels of Thomas Mann,” pp. 209–214.

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of him is inclined to secular thinking. There is something poetic about Faust, not to say Romantic, he sits alone in his cell, thinking of his hidden desires which he is unable to fulfill, contemplating on enjoyment and world domination. This Faust, which Mann declares as very “German,” is also dualistic by his nature. He is partly religious, partly secular, his poetic nature is interlaced with a motivation to seek worldly fortune, and his inner solitude is blended with a wish to dominate other people. His complex nature is, as Thomas Mann puts it, the very description of the German at the time the address was given, before the end of World War II, a time in which “Germany is literally being carried off by the Devil.” But then Thomas Mann adds another dimension to Faust, suggesting that both the legend and Goethe’s great play lack something: It is a grave error on the part of the legend and story not to connect Faust with music. He should have been musical, he should have been a musician. Music is a demonic realm; Soren Kierkegaard, a great Christian, proved that most convincingly in his painfully enthusiastic essay on Mozart’s Don Juan. Music is Christian art with a negative prefix. Music is calculated order and chaos-breeding irrationality at once, rich in conjuring, incantatory gestures, in magic numbers, the most unrealistic and the most impassionate of arts, mystical and abstract. If Faust was to be the representative of the German soul, he would have to be musical, for the relations of the German to the world is abstract and mystical, that is, musical, – the relations of a professor with a touch of demonism, awkward and at the same time filled with arrogant knowledge that he surpassed the world in “depth.” (p. 51)

A tendency towards music would have been an accurate expression of Faust’s true nature, he argues, since it is simultaneous order and chaos, both magical and calculated, a form of art that is both mystical and abstract. Music, the “demonic realm,” is the perfect example of how an orderly composition can create a sense of the magical, something which is far beyond any scale, rhythm or chord. Of course, Adrian Leverkün, the protagonist of his Doctor Faustus, illustrates his view on the place of music in German culture.4 The mixture of the “demonic,” irrationality, lack of order, enchantment, mysticism, with the other aspect, of order, rationalism, abstraction, is the full description of Faust as the ultimate representative of German culture. The German relation to the world is “mythical and abstract.” The intrinsic dualism of conflicting spiritual tendencies, irrational and rational, spontaneous and orderly, confor4 The last chapter of Eric Heller, The Ironic German: A Study of Thomas Man, provides an interesting comparison between Thomas Mann and Adrian Leverkün, the protagonist of his Doctor Faustus. Heller inquires what the role of the devil in this novel is, answering that he is “In the novel, only the Devil who can still provide creative enthusiasm, ultimate authenticity, and absolute faith in the relevance of the order revealed through work of art” (p. 271).



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mity and revolutionary, is his most archetypal attribute. And this dualism, says Thomas Mann, is profoundly German. The last sentences of the paragraph are of great interest. Faust, the prototypical German, is a professor of other cultures, suggesting that German heritage, or at least segments of it, is “higher” than other European cultures. The German professor has both demonism and arrogance. He is awkward and vain, a bizarre character, confident in his superiority over others. Yet the field in which he excels, “depth,” is vague, and invites further explanation. Depth, as Thomas Mann explains, is a combination of attributes. He elaborates on this idea: What constitutes this depth? Simply the musicality of the German soul, that which we call inwardness, is subjectivity, the divorce of the speculative from the socio-political element of human energy, and the complete predominance of the former over the latter. (pp. 51–52)

A separate discussion will be devoted to “inwardness,” a major element of “depth.” But as we examine the other parts we further deepen our understanding of his sketch of “the German.” Subjectivity, the utter expression of one’s desires, sentiments, intuitions and ambition, the domain of the feelings, is completely separated from social and political reality. Individuals do not find in the collective entity any room for expression or materialization of personal ambitions. And also, their desires are essentially personal, and do not touch on society as a whole. French revolutionaries, for example, saw in a just society a fulfillment of a personal aim, yet this tendency could hardly be found in Germany. Germans see a gulf between self-fulfillment and social and political ends. Personal fulfillment is far more important than any political goal. One could not read these lines without thinking of the protagonist of Mephisto by Klaus Mann, an exact artistic representation of this view. Thus Faust, like Luther, strives for inner freedom, but cares very little if he is living in a free, advanced society. If anything, being German means not belonging to another nation, and an inherent desire to dominate other nations, a quality Thomas Mann calls “political immaturity.” This distorted sense of freedom, poetical and musical but detached from social or political circumstances, is the ground on which Nazism flourished. German external freedom is accompanied by what Thomas Mann calls “an inner enslavement” in a political context. It is a complete break between the personal sphere and the national one that created it: It was a militant slave mentality, and National Socialism went so far in its exaggeration of this incongruity between the external and internal desire for liberty so to think of world enslavement by the people themselves enslaved at home.

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Why must the German urge for liberty always be tantamount to inner enslavement? Why did it finally have to culminate in an attack upon liberty of all others, upon liberty itself? The reason is that Germany has never had a revolution and had never learned to combine the concept of the nation with the concept of liberty. (p. 56)

Goethe’s Faust imprinted a separation between an inner sense of freedom and external ambitions in the German mind. This separation, which existed throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, emerged in a magnified yet distorted way in the form of Nazism. Goethe himself, as Thomas Mann elaborates, resented this separation that molded political freedom in the form of racism and anti-Europeanism, but was, at least in some sense, a part of it. First, the open-minded spirit of Goethe is portrayed: Goethe was certainly no stranger to popular culture; he wrote not only the classical Iphigenie but also such ultra-German things as Faust I, Goetz, and the Aphorisms in Rhymes. Yet, to the exasperation of all patriots, his attitude towards the wars against Napoleon was one of complete coldness – not only out of loyalty to his peer, the great Emperor, but also because he felt repelled by the barbaric-racial element in their uprising. The loneliness of the great man, who approved of anything of a broad and generous nature, the super-national, world Germanism, world literature – his painful loneliness in the patriotically, “liberally” excited Germany of his day cannot be overemphasized. (p. 57)

Without delving into detailed historical facts of the Franco-German war, it would suffice to say that it had a profound impact on the formation of the modern German state. Goethe was repelled by “barbaric-racial element,”5 yet his reservations about the nature of the struggle on the forming of Germany as a political entity eventually deepened the Protestant dualism of inner freedom and external circumstance: This is a misfortune, a curse, a perpetual tragedy, that finds added expression in the fact that even Goethe’s disavowing attitude toward political Protestantism served only as a confirmation and a deepening of the Lutheran dualism of spiritual and political liberty throughout the nation and particularly among intellectual leaders so that they were prevented from accepting the political element in their concept of a culture. (p. 57)

5 Georg Lucás, in his Essays on Thomas Mann, adds about Goethe’s view of political freedom: “Goethe is not unpolitical but represents a typically German kind of politics, a politics which ignores the idea of an active world ‘below.’ He first expresses this tendency as an enlightener, then in his appreciation of technical and economic changes as autonomous factors of development. ‘I am not worried,’ he said to Eckerman, ‘that Germany may never be united. Our good highroads and future railways will look after the rest’” (pp. 56–57).



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Notwithstanding his blessed contribution to German culture, Thomas Mann argues that in this respect Goethe had a negative effect. His reservations about the healthy process of advancing towards a “mature liberty” in the formation of a modern state – even if it involves a vulgar spirit – intensified the dualism, namely the convergence of the individual into a personal space and a neglect of the public sphere. And this neglect is the ground on which Nazism emerged and flourished. Thomas Mann further stresses the huge impact of Goethe in this respect, to the point that he suggests that he shaped the negative attitude to politics among Germans.6 The disgust towards political activity had far reaching consequences: When a German takes up politics he thinks he has to act in a fashion to dumbfound humanity, that’s what he regards as politics. Since he thinks it is unalloyed evil, he believes he has to be a devil to pursue it. (p. 59)

Both those who choose to turn to politics and the general public share an innate belief that political activity is evil, and that political figures will not meet any positive expectations. Politicians have two imperative qualities: they tend to be pompous and magnificent, not to say megalomaniac, and they are always sinister. Though Thomas Mann does not refer here to the legend of the pact with the devil, the portrayal of the archetype of a politician resembles popular images of the devil. It is impossible to tell whether he intentionally ignored this similarity or was unaware of it. But the character of Mephisto, both Goethe’s and other popular images, could often be described as a mixture of conceited vanity with pure evilness. Though he begins his discussion of Goethe with the statement that Faust is the primary German figure, his line of thought leads to a portrayal of Mephisto as the ultimate German public figure. The route from the image of a diabolic politician to Nazism is a short one. Thomas Mann creates a direct link between this image and the nature of the crimes committed by the Nazis: 6 Some students of Thomas Mann’s work have accused him of this very fault, of avoiding a direct political discussion in his novels, in particular his writing of Doctor Faustus. Martin Swales, in Thomas Mann: A Study, writes: “when Thomas Mann attempts his somber reckoning with the aberrations of Germany in the years preceding the novel’s appearance, he singularly missed the point by telling the story of an artist, a composer. Why, in other words, create a fictive biography of an artist in preference to a novel about political life? Has not Mann succumbed to the old German confusion which somehow transforms political into cultural and metaphysical issues, showing precious little concern for industry and technology, for distribution of economic power and influence? What, in my view, such objections overlook is the fact that Mann’s novel precisely perceives and criticizes the hold of metaphysical and cultural thinking over the German political imagination, and hold that it was exploited by Nazi propaganda” (p. 96).

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We have seen it. Crimes were perpetuated that no psychology can excuse, and they are least of all excusable on the grounds that they were superfluous. For they were superfluous; they were not essential and Nazi Germany could have gotten along without them. She could have carried out her plans of power and conquest without their aid. (p. 59)

It was the vanity of the Nazi leaders, a desire to “dumbfound humanity” as he puts it, which shaped the demonic nature of their ideology and its execution. A striving for power in nothing new in world history, but here the lack of inner boundaries, an attempt to do what has never been done before, is what produced the specific nature of the atrocities. The Nazi crimes, argues Thomas Mann, could almost be called a “luxury”: Their crimes, I repeat, were not a necessary factor in their belated embarkment upon exploitation; they were a luxury in which they indulged from a theoretical predisposition, in honor of an ideology, the fantasm of race. If it did not sound like a detestable condonation, it might be said that they committed their crimes for dreamy idealism. (p. 60)

Klaus Mann, Else Lasker-Schüler, and also Rolf Hochhuth, all tend to underestimate the role of racial ideology in the motivation of the Nazis, and present it as a thin cover for aggressive ambitions. Thomas Mann takes a different stand here. Indeed, he argues, military and political ambitions were driving forces, but the racial ideology was just as important, since it was a materialization of a substantial part of their spiritual world – the need to astonish, to do what has never been done before, to exceed any inner boundaries. It was a “luxury” in the sense that the military achievements did not require any racial values; but it was not a luxury in the sense that it was a manifestation of a significant part of their self-perception as Germans.

German Inwardness and Romanticism The idea of German inwardness (Innerlichkeit) as a source of Nazism is implied in Klaus Mann’s Mephisto. Clearly the father and son shared the same view of this element of German culture. The protagonist of Mephisto is constantly turning his gaze inward, in spite of the historical turbulences of his time. And when he cannot ignore reality anymore we find him almost surprised by the cruelty and barbarity of the Nazi regime, though he had become part of its cultural establishment. Thomas Mann, in Germany and the Germans, elaborates on his perception of Inwardness as part of German Romanticism:



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Or take that quality of the Germans which is perhaps their most notable one, designated “inwardness,” a word that is most difficult to define: tenderness, depth of feeling, unworldly reverie, love of nature, purest sincerity of thought and conscience – in short, all the characteristics of high lyricism are mingled in it, and even today the world cannot forget what it owes the German inwardness: German metaphysics, German music, especially the miracle of the German Lied – a nationally unique and incomparable product – these are the fruits of the German inwardness. (p. 61)

The German Inwardness as such is a deep and fruitful contemplation. The introspection uncovers deep emotions, it is a creative power, “high lyricism” evident in art and in philosophical writings. It is a state of mind that is, in itself, very favorable. However as it is mixed with a lack of interest in social or political matters, a “vacuum” as Thomas Mann put it, it could have tragic consequences. A worldview that is merely a reflection of one’s own desires and ambitions is a very distorted one: The great historical deed of German inwardness was Luther’s reformation – we called it a mighty deed of liberation and, as such, it was obviously something good. But it is evident that the Devil had his hand even in that deed. The Reformation brought about the religious schism of the occident, a definite misfortune, and for Germany it brought the Thirty Years’ War, that depopulated it, fatally retarded its culture, and, by means of vice and epidemics probably made German blood into something different and something worse than it had been in the Middle Ages. Erasmus of Rotterdam, who wrote Praise of Folly, a skeptical humanist with very little inwardness, was well aware of the implications of the Reformation. “When you see terrible cataclysms arising in the world,” he said, “then remember that Erasmus predicted it. (p. 61)

Inwardness is liberation, argues Thomas Mann. It frees a man to immerse himself in his inner world, to engage directly with a divine entity, to bring his emotional and spiritual potential to complete fulfillment. From a historical perspective, it unbound men from the shackles of a corrupt priesthood, made the Scriptures readable, and opened a wide spiritual world, previously unknown to most people. The encouragement to look inside without boundaries and to value feelings and thoughts that were insignificant in earlier times felt like an unchaining of the soul. But examined from a social perspective, the opposite effect was created. Steeping in inner existence both ascribed minimal importance to external circumstances, and also altered the common spiritual frameworks of perceiving reality. Erasmus of Rotterdam foresaw that this would have bloody consequence, speaking about world “cataclysm.” Indeed, the Thirty Years’ War proved him right. But Thomas Mann suggests that the bloody consequence was not confined to the seventeenth century. The Reformation began a historical process that would fully develop in

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the twentieth century, and would burst with the utmost cruelty and brutality in the form of the Holocaust. The discussion of “inwardness” leads Thomas Mann to a wider cultural observation about German Romanticism. He opens the discussion with the positive sides of Romanticism, only to later turn to examine its destructive consequences: German Romanticism, what is it but an expression of this finest German quality, German inwardness? Much that is longingly passive, fantastically spectral, and deeply scurrilous, a high artistic refinement and all-pervading irony combine in the concept of Romanticism. (p. 61)

The longing, the artistic drive mixed with irony, a tendency to the spectral – they were all part of great German works of art and philosophical writings. But then Thomas Mann continues: But these are not the things I think about when I speak of Romanticism. It is rather a certain dark richness and piousness – I might say: antiquarianism – of soul that feels very close to the chthonian, irrational, and demonic forces of life, that is to say, the true sources of life; and it resists the purely rationalistic approach on the ground of its deeper knowledge, its deeper alliance with the holy.

Romanticism has a dark, obscure side, which is generally perceived as an integral part of this cultural movement: an inclination towards the mysterious, an innate attraction to death, an aspiration to be part of nature, and sometimes also a reservation about a coherent system of thought. Thomas Mann depicts German Romanticism in dark shades. He mentions “dark richness” in one breath with affinity to the demonic forces of life, which are “the true sources of life.” The attraction to death, “chthonian” as he puts it, is part of an encompassing tendency towards the irrational. It is part of a profound belief that rationalism is restricted by its very nature, and deeper knowledge is always found in the realms of the irrational. Logic could never lead a man to eternal truth, to the holy. The discussion here of “inwardness” and Romanticism places rationalism and irrationalism in a historical context. Rationalism is the enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, German Romanticism is the counter-revolution: The Germans are the people of the romantic counter-revolution against the philosophical intellectualism and the rationalism of enlightenment – a revolt of music against literature, of mysticism against clarity. Romanticism is anything but feeble sentimentalism; it is depth, conscious of its own strength and fullness. It is pessimism of sincerity that stands aside of everything existing, real, historical against both criticism and meliorism, in short, on the



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side of the power against the spirit, and it thinks very little of all rhetoric virtuousness and idealistic disguising of the world. (pp. 61–62)

The term “counter-revolution” is used here in a wide context. Germans wish to overturn the naïve belief that rationalism will lead to a better world, that objective criticism creates a better art, that technological advances will improve the human condition, and so on. The objection to meliorism, the concept that progress leads to a better world, springs from a strong belief that the deep roots of life and its profound truths are both emotional and unchangeable. No intellectual advancement would change human nature, and no technological achievement will alter the human condition. Music, the ultimate expression of the German spirit, is superior to literature, which is, at most, a “rhetoric virtuousness” that disguises the world. Pessimism is also part of German Romanticism. It is a profound intuition that there is no possible route leading to a better human state, to improve man’s life. At first sight this may appear trivial, an integral part of the disbelief in rational advancement. This pessimism adds a new dimension to German Romanticism. It is a not only a disbelief in improvement, it is reliance on what exists versus what might have been, if rational criticism were adopted. This “pessimism” implicitly juxtaposes the actual turning of events and hypothetical circumstances that might have taken place. It can almost be seen as a fatalistic term, close to religious determinism. Historical developments are seen as a manifestation of an inner logic, events that could not have unfolded in any other way, a perception somewhat close to Hegel’s Dialectics.7 Therefore, it supports “everything existing, real, historical.” Contrasted with it is meliorism, or any other critical approach which implies a different, or better, reality if certain rational steps are taken. Thomas Mann concludes by characterizing the German pessimism in three words: power against spirit. This blunt encapsulation is somewhat surprising, since it does not follow directly from favoring reality over hypothetical developments. Perhaps it should not be seen as a wide, retrospective historical observation, but rather as part of his perception of the German dualism, created by Luther and deepened by Goethe. In this context, preferring the current political entity and avoiding any attempt to reshape it is, indeed, embracing power and abandoning spirit. German Romanticism, as Thomas Mann points out, is fascinating, intriguing; it generated highly imaginative artistic and philosophical observations: 7 Thomas Mann sees the wider contribution of German Romanticism to the modern research of history. He points to Hegel as the philosopher who “bridged the gulf that rationalistic enlightenment and the French Revolution opened between reason and history” (p. 62), which gave historical thinking the shape of science.

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The contributions of Romanticism to the realm of the beautiful, as a science, as an esthetic doctrine, are rich and fascinating. Positivism, intellectualistic enlightenment have no inkling of the nature of poetry Romanticism alone imparted to a world that was dying of boredom in virtuous academicism. (p. 63)

Intellectual enlightenment, then, is extremely boring. Academicism, the adherence to formal rules and traditions, is exhaustive. Intellectually it is very developed, but it leaves no room for human emotions and imagination, for deep insights and profound wisdom. The unequivocal tone here is intriguing. Intellectual enlightenment had some outstanding achievements, and Positivism created Durkheim’s innovative social theories, which are, no doubt, innovative. Clearly Mann himself is not indifferent to the charms of Romanticism, in spite of his profound awareness of its hazardous outcomes. In his attempt to warn against its perils, he points to an intrinsic link between it and mental sickness and decay: The priority over the rational which it grants to the emotional, even the arcane forms of mystic ecstasy and Dionysiac intoxication, brings it into a peculiar and psychologically highly fruitful relationship to sickness; the late-Romanticist Nietzsche, for example, himself a spirit raised by illness to heights of fatal genius, was profuse in his praise of sickness as a medium of knowledge. In this sense even psychoanalysis, which represents a great advantage toward the understanding of man from the side of illness, is a branch of Romanticism. (p. 63)

German Romanticism is not only about adopting the irrational. It ascribes a special role to psychological disturbances and emotional sickness, as they are seen as “mediums for knowledge,” a state in which rational inhibitions are partly or fully removed and the irrational can reach full realization. The reference to Nietzsche illustrates well Mann’s point: his unique talent, the immense contribution to world culture and philosophy, a revolutionary approach to philosophy, and then his emotional collapse and the many years of insanity. But not only Thomas Mann is captivated by the charms of Romanticism. Once again he points to Goethe’s innate dualism, explicitly favoring rationalism and implicitly drawn to irrationalism: Goethe laconically defined the Classical as the healthy, the Romantic as the morbid. A painful definition for one who loves Romanticism down to its sins and vices. But it cannot be denied that even in its loveliest, most ethereal aspects where the popular mates with the sublime it bears in its heart the germ of morbidity, as the rose bears the worm; its innermost character is seduction, seduction to death. (p. 63)

Once again Goethe’s inner dualism deeply imprinted the German spirit. Aware of the perils of extreme Romanticism, he felt obliged to support the Classical versus the Romantic. But just like his Faust, who separates between inner freedom and



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external ambition, Goethe himself, says Mann, has ambivalent feelings about the inclination towards sickness, towards death. Himself an adherent admirer of the “morbid” and not the “healthy,” he felt a moral obligation to admonish against its disposition towards an unhealthy and dominating interest in death. The attraction to sickness and death is not self-evident. Mann is aware that in a certain respect it is contradictory to surrender to irrational drives. An immersion in the irrational could be vital and sensual, “mystic ecstasy and Dionysiac intoxication” as he calls it. The Dionysiac is anything but a morbid attraction to death. It is a celebration of the senses well beyond the boundaries of a civilized culture. Mann describes the combination of the irrational and attraction to death as a “paradox”: This is a confusing paradox: while it is the revolutionary representative of the irrational forces of life against abstract reason and dull humanitarianism, it possesses a deep affinity to death by virtue of its very surrender to the irrational and to the past. In Germany, its true home, it has most strongly preserved this iridescent dualism, as glorification of the vital in contrast to the purely moral, and likewise as kinship to death. (pp. 63–64)

The paradoxical nature of the dualism is not resolved, but elaborated. The surrender to the irrational is juxtaposed with a pure philosophical approach, remote from life. The influence of Existentialism is apparent. Man is detached from abstract theories about the universe, as they mean nothing in terms of daily existence. Dull humanitarianism is, perhaps, a provincial sense of morality, an attempt to reach a formal justice. Be that as it may, Thomas Mann depicts German culture as he sees it. After laying the foundations for his perception of its innate dualism, he approaches contemporary events of his time. Germany is the true home of this dualism, and here lies the profound explanation of the evolvement of the Nazi phenomenon. The Nazi spirit is a glorification of the vitality, of abrupt sensuality and brutality, versus moral value. Nazism also contains an innate allure of death.

The German Spirit The penetrating view of German culture since the Reformation and throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries leads the reader to examine Nazism with a fresh look. After an insightful examination of German dualism – the individualistic, poetic inclination combined with an indifference to social and political circumstance, the perception of the present without moral indecision, the adoration of sensuality and darkness – Thomas Mann turns to examine the political development of modern Germany.

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The German State, he argues, is entirely remote from any European perception of state – lacking democratic or socialist ideas, the aspiration to unify it was a striving for power. Bismarck, “the only political genius that Germany ever produced” (p. 62), wished to unite Germany, but his wish was misunderstood. It was seen as part of a general European movement for national-democratization. However, his sole desire was to found a power structure: Fundamentally Bismarck’s empire had nothing in common with “nation” in the democratic sense of the word. It was purely a power structure aiming toward the hegemony of Europe, and notwithstanding its modernity, the Empire of 1871 clung to memories of medieval glory, the time of Saxon and Swabian rulers. The very thing was the characteristic and menacing factor: the mixture of robust timeliness, efficient modernness on the one hand and dreams of the past on the other, in a word, highly technological Romanticism. Born in wars, the Unholy German Empire of Prussian Nation could never be anything but war empire. As such it lived, a thorn in the side of the world, and as such it is now destroyed. (p. 62)

The specific historic events Thomas Mann is referring to here, or the more general historical discussion on the formation of the modern German state, should be the subject of a different study. Our interest here is in translation of the cultural structures into political terms. Since the German mentality was essentially indifferent to social and political questions and “freedom” was only a personal term, the formation of the modern German state was unlike any other European state. It did not include progressive democratic ideas but banked on the glory of the Middle Ages. It wished to dominate Europe, and not to embrace its modernity. It adopted the efficiency of the modernity, but not its tolerance and civil stand. Mann explicitly states that it was a “war empire,” resting on distorted foundations, and was therefore doomed to collapse, even if after nearly seven decades. The phrase “highly technological Romanticism” merits special attention, since it should be seen as a direct reference to the Nazi regime. Romanticism prevailed, although in a latent manner. Though the appearance of German society is very modernized, with an extensive use of technological innovations, its true essence remains remote from modernistic ideas, and it is, as Thomas Mann puts it, heavily inclined towards German Romantic ideas. Indeed, Nazism had developed the “technology of mass murder” to an unprecedented climax, though it was of course devoid of any progressive ideas. The unification of Germany in the nineteenth century, directly related to the emergence of Nazism, had no favorable spiritual outcomes: Besides, the united power realm was a cultural disappointment. No intellectual greatness came from Germany that had once been the teacher of the world. It was only strong. But in this strength and in all its organized efficiency, the Romantic germ of illness and death



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lived and worked. Historical misfortune, the suffering and humiliation of a lost war, were its nourishments. And, reduced to a miserable mass level, the level of a Hitler, German Romanticism broke out into hysterical barbarism, into a spree and a paroxysm of arrogance and crime, which now finds its horrible end in a national catastrophe, a physical and psychic collapse without parallel. (p. 64)

This short paragraph merits a rigorous reading as it uncovers fascinating historical insights. It begins with the premise that unified Germany was nothing but a manifestation of common aggressive drives. It generated a political empire, lacking any spiritual achievements. The high German culture that once was the “teacher” of the world now vanished. But then Thomas Mann elaborates more on the nature of the German Empire, which later became the Nazi regime. It should be perhaps noted that within the study of Nazism, some scholars agree that two seemingly contradictory features prevailed in Germany at the time: strict order and a sense of anarchy. Though the regime as a whole was orderly – it executed the tragic task of the Holocaust efficiently and meticulously – it also contains seeds of anarchy, and even chaos. Without delving into the wider historical question whether this is indeed true, as a huge body of research is devoted to this question, it would suffice to say that it is an accepted perception of the Nazi regime in contemporary historical study. Thomas Mann not only agrees with this view but also places it in a cultural context, as an additional component of his inquiry into German spiritual heritage. Along the organized efficiency there was also a “germ of illness and death,” German Romanticism as it had been portrayed so far. What historians call “anarchy” Mann calls “Romantic”. It is not simply a lack of order, it is an inner freedom of the individual, a neglect of external circumstances, an attraction to nature, a poetic inclination, an immersion in bodily delights – and an inborn attraction to malady and death. In the next sentence Thomas Mann refutes a common historical argument – that Nazism emerged only due to humiliations inflicted upon Germany after World War I. Not that Germany was not humiliated, he argues, but these degradations alone could not have created the Nazi phenomenon. They only nourished pre-existing inclinations. Losing the war, the immense suffering it created, and the Treaty of Versailles amplified existing predispositions and intensified them, leading to an unprecedented outbreak of German Romanticism. Nazism is not a turning point in German history, but the very opposite; it is the full realization of a historical process that commenced in the sixteenth century. The unhealthy and distorted foundations that created this process, set by Luther and deeply impressed by Goethe, brought destruction on Germany itself, “a physical and psychic collapse without parallel.” Thomas Mann ignores for the

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moment the tragic consequences of Nazism for other nations, in an attempt to see Nazism and the Holocaust from a purely German perspective. The full surrender to the infatuations of Romanticism with a renunciation of rationalism and modernistic ideas led to the destruction of Germany itself. The dualism that prevailed for four centuries, growing beneath the surface like a snowball, erupted in the twentieth century and created unprecedented death and devastation.

After the War Following his fascinating analysis of the underlying currents of German culture, towards the conclusion of the address Thomas Mann adopts again a more personal tone. Again he embeds the historical observations in his personal experience, abandoning the distant voice of the historian and looking at German culture as part of his own spiritual world: The story I told you in brief outline, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of the German “inwardness.” It is a melancholy story – I call it that, instead of “tragic,” because misfortune should not boast. The story should convince us of one thing: that there are not two Germanys, a good one and a bad one, but only one, whose best turned into evil through devilish cunning. Wicked Germany is merely good Germany gone astray, good Germany in misfortune, in guilt, in ruin. For that reason it is quite impossible for one born there simply to renounce the wicked, guilty Germany and to declare: “I am the good, the noble, the just Germany in the white robe; I leave it to you to exterminate the wicked one.” (p. 64)

Nothing would have been more tempting than to declare himself “the good German.” The opposition of the Mann family to Nazism was praised throughout Europe and the United States. He could have easily adopted a lofty approach. Not only did he publicly oppose Nazism, but his German nationality was revoked. However, he offers a different perspective. It is his own culture, his own spiritual world, and an emotional and intellectual world that shaped his fundamental conceptual framework. The dualism that persisted within the German culture did not produce two distinct “cultures,” so to speak. It created one culture with extremely contrasted foundations, which made it inherently unstable. An honest depiction of this culture would have to include both ends. His suggestion that the bad Germany was really the good one, cunningly manipulated, good “gone astray,” and that the good Germany is in misery now, creates an impression of a fluid society. It is imbalanced to such a degree that it could swing rapidly between the highest achievements of mankind and the worst crimes against humanity.



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This raises the complex issue of national responsibility for the Holocaust. Thomas Mann touches upon the intriguing question, whether Nazism and the Holocaust are a purely German phenomenon or they could happen elsewhere as well. Being the great thinker that he was, he offers no definite answer to this hypothetical question, but a framework to examine it. His perspective begins with the individual, with himself, and broadens not only to Germany but to human society as a whole. It may be called a “personal induction,” as it begins with his personal, emotional experience and advances to an encompassing vision of Western society as a whole: Not a word of all that I have just told you about Germany or tried to indicate to you came out of alien, cool, objective knowledge, it is all within me, I have been through it all. (pp. 64–65)

The explicit admission that his entire presentation of German culture is not a theoretical but one that springs from personal experience is the first stage in addressing the question of German guilt. It is a confession that the cultural elements that drove others to be part of a hideous regime were also a major part of himself, the decisive opponent of Nazism that he was. The dualism, the fatal attraction to dark Romanticism, the “inwardness,” they are the foundations of his spiritual world. He then expands his observation to the German people, or, rather, to the future of Germany. After reminding the reader that Goethe expressed a wish for a “German diaspora” like that of the Jewish people, he abandons any fantastic delusions and returns to a more realistic examination of the future. The conclusion of the address is devoted to the question whether in certain historical circumstances the “good Germany” could develop to a point that it would be the major part of German culture. He expresses a hope that the Holocaust, the ultimate manifestation of the “bad Germany,” would create an intrinsic change among Germans: But despite all drastic warnings against excessive expectations, that we have had from the past performance of power politics, may we not cherish the hope that after this catastrophe the first experimental steps may be taken in the direction of a world condition in which the national individualism of the nineteenth century will dissolve and finally vanish, and which will afford happier opportunities for the development of the “good” in the German character than the untenable old conditions? Should it not be possible after all that the liquidation of Nazism may pave the way for a social world reform which would offer the greatest prospect of happiness to Germany’s very inclination and needs. (pp. 65–66)

The magnitude of the catastrophe could be the foundation on which a new German culture would develop. In no way could Thomas Mann be described as a German who supported Nazism or passively accepted it. From his unique stand as a fierce supporter of Democracy and human rights he suggests that the Holocaust brought about a “liquidation” of Germany, a profound crisis in German history

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that would hopefully lead to a collapse of the “diabolic” part of German culture and support positive, productive and talented element of its culture. 8 The following lines illustrate Mann’s historical insight. He lays out a vision on the nature of Western society shaped by the experience of World War II: World economy, the minimizing of political boundaries, a certain depolitization of states in general, the awakening of mankind to a realization of the practical unity, their first thoughts about a world state – how could all this social humanitarianism – the object of the great struggle – which far exceeds the bounds of bourgeois democracy, be foreign and repugnant to German character? (p. 66)

Indeed, the essence of this forecast had been fulfilled. The emergence of globalization, both economical and environmental, a certain decrease in nationalistic sentiments, a common social responsibility that lies at the heart of international interventions in various places around the globe, an advanced, complex perception of democracy, in which winning an election does not grant unlimited power – Thomas Mann definitely saw where Western culture was heading in 1945. A world shaped by this immeasurable tragedy could, perhaps, create social and political circumstances better than those prevailing before it.

8 Thomas Mann himself refused to take part in a scheme involving the rule of Germany after the war. He insisted that future leaders should come from either the concentration camps or underground movements. See Harold von Hofe, “German Literature in Exile: Thomas Mann,” pp. 145–154.

Chapter Five The Deputy by Rolf Hochhuth

The Deputy by Rolf Hochhuth

On February 1963, two decades after the publication of Mephisto, and after the atrocities of the Holocaust were already known, a play by Rolf Hochhuth was presented on stage in Germany, entitled The Deputy. At the time, it was completely unpredictable that it would provoke such fierce emotional reaction wherever it was presented. But Hochhuth’s play became a defining work of art in describing the Nazi regime and the struggle with it. When Klaus Mann wrote Mephisto he articulated the horrors and fear of what would become of Germany. When The Deputy was created the nightmare had materialized in real life. Hochhuth’s play portrays a fundamental, some say unprecedented, crisis in human history. Though it addresses the age-old question of absolute evil, its new face provokes new questions and fears. Uncovering the Nazi calamities in detail created a fresh attempt to understand absolute evil. In fact, some modern thinkers have argued that after Auschwitz evil can no longer be interpreted in the traditional way, and a new category of evil is required to explain it. The Holocaust stirred a new philosophical contemplation of the old and somewhat worn out question of the nature of evil. The play had a surprisingly wide impact. It was presented in more than twenty cities around the world, and translated into more than ten languages. When performed in Paris, supporters and opponents quarreled outside the theater. In London the premiere was halted by demonstrations within the theater. In New York tee shirts printed with “Hate Play” were distributed among the audience. The German government had to apologize for offending the reputation of Pope Pius XII, the Pope during World War II and the subject of the play. Pope Paulus VI condemned the play. The Church published a collection of documents, carefully chosen, which it claimed proved its substantial attempts to save Jews during the war.1 Three groups opposed the play. The first was comprised of Catholic believers who were offended by the very accusation that Pope Pius XII did nothing to prevent the Holocaust. The second, Nazi victims who argued that pointing a finger at the Pope was wrong since the accusation should be directed at the German People as a whole. The third, surviving Jews, who felt that presenting the concentration camp on stage desecrated the memory of the victims. Rolf Hochhuth was born in 1931 in a small village in the center of Germany. His family members opposed the Nazi regime, yet only passively. Still, as a young 1 Goldhagen, The Catholic Church, p. 12.

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adult, Rolf became a member of the Nazi Youth Movement for several months. When asked about it after the war he said that if he could understand why he joined the Nazi youth movement he would have been able to understand Nazism as a historical phenomenon. As the Allies took over Germany the village was divided between East and West Germany, and Rolf’s family remained on the East side. After the war Rolf became obsessed with understanding Nazism. He delved into a profound research of Nazism, some of which took place in the Vatican library in Rome. After two years he published The Deputy. It was first staged in Germany in 1963, directed by Erwin Piscator. The play is not confined to the presentation of historical events. It articulates a universal question of the place of absolute evil in man’s life. The format of the play is unique: it combines concrete historic events and religious questions of the influence of the devil. Hochhuth presents the question from an original and well-defined perspective. The title of the play calls for special attention. “The Deputy” is a concept from ecclesiastic tradition, originally from the New Testament, and it has a special place in Medieval Dogma. Christ chooses Peter to take his place on earth after his Crucifixion, and this role is then transferred to Peter’s successors, the Popes. Thus the choice of this term to depict the Pope is an attempt to emphasize not only his power but also his profound moral obligations. “The Deputy” reveals a divine Providence. As the deputy of Christ the Pope embodies the essential moral stand of Christianity. This title is somewhat ironic since the play portrays the lack of moral stand regarding the Nazis and their acts. The basic historical argument articulated in the play is that Pius XII, the Pope during World War II, did nothing to stop the Holocaust though he was well aware of it. Many expected him to publicly denounce the Nazi regime. Hochhuth points to the silence of the pope, presenting it from various theoretical angels. He argues that though the Church knew about the Jewish genocide, it refrained from any protest against it. The spiritual crisis that followed the Holocaust is widely discussed in religious, philosophical and literary writings. The modern coherent worldview collapsed, uncovering blunt discrepancies in the human world. Hochhuth wished to depict these discrepancies, to force the reader or spectator to confront them. The inconsistencies in the play are evident. No doubt the author wished to depict a chaotic world, to portray both the unfolding of historical events and their spiritual consequences: a collapse of the consistent perception which he felt was the result of the reappearance of absolute evil in the form of Nazism. The play demonstrates how Nazism detaches the West from the enlightened, humanistic tradition and drives it to chaos and turmoil.



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Even from a visual perspective the play reflects a detachment from traditional European thought. It is written as a long poem, not rhymed, resembling a Schillerian2 drama. But unlike it, usually harmonious and balanced, the play intentionally presents an incoherent view of the world, combining modern, rational analysis of history with a profound religious observation of Nazism. Hochhuth preserved that classic façade, but the essence is by no mean traditional; the literary form and the content are contradictory. Hochhuth conducted an extensive research before writing the play. The depiction of both the historical circumstances and figures, as well as of the Catholic Church, is accurate. He also added notes to the play in which he explicitly articulates his historical view. He elaborates on the events described in the play, and justifies any deviation from the real events, the reasons being mostly artistic. The play has two levels: one level is the historical reconstruction of actual events, the people that were involved in them, their personal motives and spiritual inclinations. The other level is a supernatural one. The play portrays a battle between the devil and God. The devil is involved in the events unfolding in Nazi Germany. Doctor Mengele, characterized by the author as a “non-human” being, is the devil. This is no metaphor. In this play Mengele is indeed the ancient devil, reappearing in the modern world in the form of a doctor in the concentration camp. Thus there is a clear metaphysical statement in the play. Another aspect of the play that created much controversy is an addressing of the German collective guilt. Though the Nazi extermination mechanism is portrayed in detail, an explicit accusation is pointed at Pius XII. The characterization of Mengele as the devil may be understood as decreasing of the moral responsibility of the German people. A superhuman power introduces different criteria to moral judgment. Hochhuth does not provide an unequivocal answer to the question of German responsibility, but only draws a complex and intricate picture of various reactions to the Holocaust. The analysis of the devil in the play consists of three parts. The first part is devoted to the depiction of Mengele as the Christian devil and its historical and religious implications. The second part discusses the complex attitude of the Church to the Holocaust and to the Nazi regime, considering both tactical moves of the Church and the theological arguments presented in the play. The third part is devoted to the two saint-like protagonists, each representing a different pattern of behavior. One is a Protestant, who struggles against the Nazi plan to exterminate the Jews, the other a Jesuit priest, who joins the Jews in Auschwitz. It should 2 Some scholars thought the play is Schillerian drama, in which the characters are typical rather than individuals, and this is true for the figures of the devil, the two saints, and the Pope. See for example Cernyak-Spatz, German Holocaust Literature, p. 185.

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be pointed here that the core of the analysis of this book is not the historical arguments. Whether Hochhuth was correct in his historical observations is not the subject of this study; it is the figure of the devil in a Nazi context and the Christian way of confronting him.

Understanding Nazism: History or Religion? From a purely literary perspective The Deputy is a unique work: it combines two genres that are fundamentally different, genres that normally would not be integrated in one work. Western tradition separates the rational, systematic analysis of history and the suggestion of religious explanations to historical events. Each one is derived from a different school of thought, from distinct segments of our spiritual world. The gap between them is so deep, some would consider one rational and the other irrational. But as the atrocities of the Holocaust were uncovered in the fifties, depicted in detail and without concealment, religion and the study of history did not seem so far apart anymore. The scope of evil that was revealed, its industrial nature, and the cruelty that was used to execute it blurred what once was a well defined borderline between historical and religious explanations. Rolf Hochhuth is a salient representative of the collapse of the clear-cut division between the scientific and the religious. In this play he wishes to combine the two, to present both an historical analysis to the Nazi phenomenon and to place it in the context of the Christian belief in the devil.3 Hochhuth’s depiction of historical figures is accurate and established on well-known facts. His portrayal of Doctor Mengele is very close to the real character, and when he deviates from the facts it is clearly stated.4 To support his characterization of Mengele he brings testimonies of Auschwitz prisoners. Mengele is a well-known character, there are studies attempting to shed light on his character. Hochhuth does not conceal Mengele’s identity. On the contrary, he points out that the description in the play is that of the historical figure. In the portrayal of the other characters Hochhuth provides a historical basis for his artistic choices. In the appendix to the play, called “Sidelights on history,”

3 Hochhuth was well aware of the difference between the “theatrical” and the “historical.” In an interview about this play he said: “I am perhaps the first playwright to believe that we do not have the right to treat history according to our fancy. Lessing wrote that the poet is the master of history, but I have always seen myself as it servant” (Taeni, Rolf Hochhuth, p. 31). 4 The Deputy, p. 31



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he discusses the various characters and supports his presentation of them, declaring that As a stage play, the work requires no commentary. But the action does not follow the historical course of events in a step-by-step manner, like a journalist account. Condensation has been necessary in the interest of drama. Consequently, the historical persons mentioned in the play, and those who are still living today, are entitled to know the sources – often obscure ones – have led the author to view a given person or episode in this or that light (p. 287).

The paragraph epitomizes the portrayal of history in the play: it should be reliable, concise, and fit into the artistic pattern of the play. This is true not only for Mengele but also for other characters. Pius XII’s personality and attitude are based on his study of the Church. The characters of Riccardo Fontana, the Jesuit priest, and Kurt Gerstein, the Protestant officer, are inspired by real people. In the appendix Hochhuth explains how he created these characters. But in spite of the historical support, one cannot overlook the characterization of Mengele as the devil, which seems to stand in sharp contrast with the realistic description. How is it possible to combine historical drama with a play with God and a non-allegorical devil? Some critics argue that the play consists of two separate entities: an ontological drama with transcendental forces, in the first and last scenes, and a historical drama, in the second and third scenes.5 Few see the Doctor as an allegorical figure. But most scholars point to the fundamental inconsistency within the play, its attempt to integrate the devil as a realistic figure determining the course of history with a rational analysis of the historical events. In a way, it would be like combining a work of art from the Middle Ages with a modern one; each is founded on a different set of rules, on different premises, both in the world external to art and in the nature of the artistic mimesis.6 But Rolf Hochhuth aimed at this inconsistency. He wished to portray Nazism from two separate angles simultaneously. The play is centered on the figure of the traditional devil of the Judeo-Christian tradition. He is not a metaphor but a concrete power that shapes historical events. Yet side by side with interpretation

5 See Demetz, After the Fire, pp. 25–26; Ward, Rolf Hochhuth, pp. 30–32; Bosmajian, Metaphors of Evil, pp. 156–158. 6 On the medieval interpretation of history see Auerbach, Mimesis: the Representation of Reality in Western Literature, pp. 137–138. Auerbach illuminates the double nature of medieval historical plays. The drama depicts all that had happened so far, and all that would happen in the future. Within this wide range various human behaviors could be found. Bosmajian argues that Hochhuth was influenced by Dante in particular. See Bosmajian, Metaphors of Evil.

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of the Holocaust in transcendental terms the reader finds a traditional analysis of history, based on the structure and character of the Nazi elite, the attitude of the Pope and the Church to the Communist threat, and the various ways in which people tried to struggle against the Nazi regime. As the play ends it is still unclear whether it is an ontological drama or a historical one. Various critics argue that one aspect is more dominant than the other,7 although the two possibilities of interpretation are present. The reader is forced to contemplate and try to decide which one he prefers, or simply to admit that they co-exist.8 The ambivalent attitude is especially prominent when the Final Solution is discussed. The core of the play is the question of personal responsibility. Hochhuth criticizes the Pope for not attempting to stop the Jewish Genocide and hails the two saintly characters for their sacrifice for justice. An introduction of a supernatural being who shapes history is generally seen as a means to decrease human capacity to fight the Final Solution. On the other hand, it seems Hochhuth felt that the scale of atrocities prevents a perception of the Holocaust in normal human terms. His despair is evident at the end of the play, as the devil disappears and is never found again. Also, the characterization of Mengele as the devil reflects a pessimistic view both of the balance of forces between God and the devil, and on the discouraging and even futile struggle with the ruler of darkness. The worldwide response to the play, with both strong protests and expressions of sympathy, indicates that after the Holocaust the blend of historical judgment and complex religious feelings appeared acceptable to the modern reader or spectator. Perhaps that is the reason for the emotional reception of the play. The combination of historical and religious arguments intensified the historical controversies, leading some readers and spectators to consider it as improper, even abominable. The religious foundations of the play aroused strong criticism from ecclesiastic circles, which tried to justify the Pope, both from a historical and religious point of view.9

7 This question is discussed in detail in Literature in Upheaval. The author argues that Hochhuth is essentially true to history, yet only in general lines. This somewhat vague description of events enables him to interlace the devil into the historical account. 8 Susan Sontag claimed that the play “rises and falls” on its truth to history. She thought the play’s main purpose is to tell the story of the Holocaust as it really happened. See Sontag, “Reflections on the Deputy,” p. 120. 9 Karl Jaspers, in his article, “On The Deputy,” maintains that the lack of a single consolidated viewpoint enriches the play and encourages the readers to contemplate the nature of evil. He adds that the fact that Hochhuth depicted a world without divine intervention forces the spectator to grapple with it. Jaspers, “On The Deputy,” pp. 99–102.



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The Modern Devil One would have thought that given the choice, Hitler would have been depicted as the devil. Most people see him as the ultimate embodiment of evil, as the symbol of everything contrasted with good, just, compassionate. But unlike this general notion, Hochhuth chose to portray another man as the devil, Doctor Mengele. The choice is not an allegorical one. In the play he refers to the historical personage universally known, without any attempt to disguise the implications of his choice. Though in the play he is called “the doctor” and not the devil, the characterization of Doctor Mengele is that of a superhuman being. The choice of Mengele may appear strange, raising two separate questions. The first is why did Hochhuth choose one historical figure as the embodiment of the devil; the other is why Mengele. Clearly the choice of a single man is problematic. The Nazi inhumanity was so vast and all-encompassing that it may seem odd to personify it in one man. Choosing one individual as the embodiment of the satanic facilitates the link of the religious concept with the Nazi phenomenon. It would be hard to detect the acts of the devil without singling out one individual as Satan. However, the artistic use of the character of Mengele is problematic in various ways. First, though Hochhuth chose one individual to personify the devil, that of Doctor Mengele, he is indifferent to his personality, his life story, his psychology, but takes interest only in what makes him “worthy” of being called a devil in the literal sense. Also, singling one person perhaps decreased the moral burden of the others – both the Nazi elite and the German people, since all the moral condemnation is aimed at him. Thus the very choice of one person is intriguing. Hochhuth’s attitude towards Hitler, Goebbels and Göring remains somewhat obscure, since it is not fully clear whether they, too, are supernatural beings, or only Mengele. At the beginning of the play he notes that it is not surprising Mengele escaped and was never caught,10 since the devil is eternal and never ceases to exist. His association with the figure of the devil distinguishes him from the other Nazi leaders, leaving the reader somewhat puzzled as to their exact nature. Mengele is characterized as the Judeo-Christian devil, yet the religious nature of the other Nazi leader is not elaborated. It could be argued that depicting Mengele as the devil indicates that the others were either part of Satan’s army or not superhuman at all, since the devil is a single, distinct character. But why Mengele? Why not Hitler? Though he was extremely cruel, Mengele was not part of the Nazi leadership, he did not have an important role in the rise and establishment of Nazism. A possible explanation is that Mengele is a repre10 The Deputy, p. 31.

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sentative figure here, fully expressing the non-human quality of the Holocaust, making the abstract idea of absolute evil concrete through his character.11 But this explanation does not agree with the non-metaphorical nature of the devil in the play. His first description is that he “gave the impression of being a secret stage manager. If he was like the others, he was like them in the way a puppet master resemble his marionettes” (p. 31). This sentence implies that Mengele had a central role in the Nazi regime, a role unknown to men. His influence was not apparent but nevertheless it was there. Another possible explanation is that he was a physician and some of his actions were carried out as “scientific experiments.” Nothing illustrates better the Nazi distortion of moral value as the conducting of these experiments, torturing the victims. The physical manifestation of this distortion is the black robe he is wearing,12 contrasted with the physician’s white robe. The medical profession of the devil can be interpreted in a broader context, as a note on science in general. The doctor who conducts “medical experiments” embodies the rift between scientific and technological advance and moral progress. The Positivistic view saw scientific progress as an indication of the advancement of mankind, since this advancement is an end in itself. But here Hochhuth demonstrates the absurdity of linking moral values with scientific ends. Mengele wishes to broaden his understanding of both the human psych and body, thus he conducts the “experiments.” It should be pointed out that the criticism of Positivism is not limited to Nazism, but is universal. But in the case of the doctor, the contrast between the two realms, science and ethics, becomes so sharp that Hochhuth wishes to add this tone to the figure of the devil. Introducing a non-metaphorical devil into the play leads to a discussion on free will, and the moral obligation of the individual to make a choice in all circumstances. Hochhuth certainly believes that men should never avoid taking a stand, the characters of the two pious men demonstrating this point, but facing a devil in a disguise of a Nazi commander implies the right choice is self-sacrifice. The devil intensifies the consequences of standing up against him and struggling with Nazism.

11 An extensive discussion on non-objective depiction of the Nazi leader is found in Alvin Rosenfeld’s book, Imagining Hitler. Rosenfeld demonstrates how popular literature after World War II portrays the Nazis in occultist, even religious, terms. He shows that their description with a hint of the supernatural was not typical only of popular literature, but could also be found in the works of well-known historians, like Trevor-Roper and others. See Rosenfeld, Imagining Hitler, p. 25 ff. 12 See, for example, The Deputy, pp. 68, 275.



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Facing the Devil Because this ‘doctor’ stands in such sharp contrast not only with his fellows of the SS, but to all human beings, it seemed permissible to me at least to suggest the possibility that, with this character, an ancient figure in the theater and in Christian mystery plays is once more appearing on the stage. Since this uncanny visitant from another world was obviously only playing the part of a human being, I have refrained from any further efforts to plum its human features – for these could contribute nothing to our understanding of so incomprehensible a being or its deeds. Seemingly human, a phenomenon of the doctor is in reality comparable to no human beings, not even Heydrich whom Carl J. Burkhardt describes – styling him larger than life – as a young, evil god of Death. (pp. 32–33)

In these words Hochhuth introduces Mengele into play. His depiction as non-human is not deduced from his acts, but is presupposed. He is differentiated not only from men in general, but also from Nazis well known for their cruelty and ruthlessness. Mengele looks like a human being, but he is not human. As we first meet him, in addition to our general knowledge of whom he is, the author adds a new dimension: he is superhuman, he is Satan. Presenting Mengele as the devil also alludes to traditional belief that the devil stands at the head of a hierarchy of fallen angels. Already in early periods the devil is depicted as the head of an army of demons. Though they serve him as messengers of evil, they are fundamentally different from him. In the play, the contrast between Mengele and Richard Heydrich, “The Butcher of Prague,” serves to point out that as cruel as “the Butcher of Prague” was, he was not Satan himself. The Doctor had a unique quality, his human appearance only a disguise. But since the two of them are compared, and not the Doctor and Hitler for example, the Doctor’s brutal acts are accentuated, and Heydrich’s evil is somewhat blurred. In spite of the cruelty of the doctor, Hochhuth refrains from presenting him as sadistic. He finds no real interest in human beings, aside from Helga, a momentarily and superficial sexual attraction. Mengele is ‘“cool and cheery”13 and he is “no longer interesting in anything or anyone.” He finds no pleasure in the sufferings of his victims. If he were portrayed as sadist it would imply that he is human. But the author clearly states that his acts cannot be understood through psychological reasoning. As Mengele recites a poem refuting the existence of God, the narrator adds: “the self-assurance with which he twists his company, as he alone could dare to do, suggests that he is mystical figure – incomprehensible, not answerable to a moral superior” (p. 47). Not only is he not human but also human beings have no way of controlling him or subjecting him to moral criteria. 13 In Doctor Faustus Thomas Mann associates the devil with coldness.

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The explicit depiction of Mengele as the devil has far reaching implications. In spite of Hochhuth’s admiration for those who struggled with the Nazi regime, introducing a devil into the historical explanation decreases the moral responsibility of the Germans. As difficult as it was to battle with the Nazis, coping with a superhuman power may be harder, almost futile. The history of world religions, especially the monotheistic ones, is abundant with contemplations on how to face the devil. The general assumption is that it is fundamentally different from dealing with a human evil. Introducing a superhuman figure into the play may reduce the scope of human responsibility. Men see the devil as a powerful creature, almost omnipotent, with complete superiority over mankind; indeed, this is how Mengele is portrayed in the play. In the encounter between the two saint-like men and the devil, the doctor prevails. Gerstein and Fontana die, Mengele disappears and is never found. The core of their struggle is not a political one. Mengele is indifferent to the fate of Germany, he is certain that it will lose the war.14 He is also disinterested in Nazi ideology, as he often admits. Like the traditional devil he wants to compete with God, to prove that he is not omnipotent. When the war is over he leaves Germany, “goes to and fro in the earth” like the devil of the Book of Job, even though the two virtuous men sacrifice their lives in the battle with evil. Hochhuth’s depiction of the struggle against absolute evil is fascinating since he presents a variety of human behavior: the Pope and the Catholic Church who choose to ignore evil, a saint-like priest who joins the Jews in the concentration camp, a saint-like SS officer who dedicates his life to sabotage the German plans for genocide, and some individuals who are motivated by pragmatism. The range of possibilities is wide and complex, there is no single way men face evil. Hannah Arendt spoke of the “banality of Evil.”15 In this play neither evil itself nor facing it are banal in any way.

The Motivation of the Devil The image of the devil in works of art is often rich and diversified. Though most descriptions tend to emphasize his ancient features, artists in different times grant him unique, contemporary characteristics. His elusiveness, his temptations, the negation of the sacred are almost always present (and will be discussed here later), but his most intriguing aspect is his motivation. Why does Satan resist God? Why does he object to everything that is good? 14 The Deputy, p. 253. 15 Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, p. 94.



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Hochhuth’s devil has complex, perhaps unique, motivations. As one of the saint-like figures, the Jesuit priest Riccardo Fontana, meets the doctor in Auschwitz, their conversation reveals the doctor’s aim. Riccardo asks Mengele why he murders so many people, to which Mengele replies: First you can watch me for a year or so conducting this, the boldest experiment that man has ever undertaken. Only a theological mind like my own – (he taps Riccardo clerical collar) I too once wore the iron collar for a while – could rise loading himself with such a burden of sacrilege. (p. 247)

He admits he once wore a collar, that he is the fallen angel that used to be part of the divine entity. Now that he heads the powers of darkness, he is conducting an experiment. His self-perception as an innovator is interesting. The nature of the experiment exceeds the limits of what has been done so far, to magnify cruelty to a point never achieved before. An experiment of such a nature is often associated with Faust, not with Mephisto. It was Faust who wanted to obtain hidden knowledge, to understand things unknown to man. But here the devil has a somewhat “Faustian” nature. This also agrees with his relations with a Jewess, whose children he has murdered. When asked about it he answers that what drives him is lust for knowledge, a desire to test the limits of normal human behavior.16 On the other hand he also agrees with the nature of the traditional devil. He wants to try God, to challenge him in an unprecedented way. Also, like Goethe’s Mephistopheles and the devil of Antiquity, the doctor wants Riccardo’s soul. But unlike in the traditional legend, here the devil wants the soul of his victim in his lifetime, not after death. He insists that Riccardo announce that he no longer believes in God. If Riccardo dies a martyr than the doctor has failed; it is comforting to die this way, he argues. Other victims “go up in smoke without this consolation” (p. 243). Surprisingly, Hochhuth’s devil resembles not only Faust but also Job. In the biblical story, Job’s attempt to receive a divine answer is a central theme. Generations of scholars have put forward various explanations to the request to get an answer from God. In the dialogue between Riccardo Fontana and Mengele, the latter explains his acts:

16 The Deputy, p. 238.

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You know, at the bottom all my work’s concerned entirely with this one question. Really, now, I’m doing all I can […] I’ve been sending people to God. Do you think He’s made the slightest acknowledgment? He has not even directed a bolt of lightning against me. (p. 246)

This is more likely to come from Job than from the devil. One would hardly ascribe these words to a transcendental power. In his desperation Job asks God to answer him, expecting an acknowledgement in his suffering and an explanation for his agony. Riccardo asks the doctor “why such cruelty?” to which Mengele replies: Because I wanted an answer! And so I’ve ventured what no man has ever ventured since the beginning of the world. I took a vow to challenge the Old Gent, to provoke him so limitlessly that He would have to give an answer. Even if only the negative answer which can be his sole excuse as Stendhal put it: the he doesn’t exist. (p. 247)

This is, of course, a total distortion of the biblical story. Job is the victim of the devil. He wants God to provide a reason for his misfortunes. Job does not challenge God in the way the devil does. From a believer’s perspective he asks for a reply. Here the devil adopts the framework of the motivation of the victim, but not its essence. He demands a divine answer, not only to obtain knowledge but to witness God’s weakness, or perhaps to prove that he does not exist. The doctor describes the result of his experiment: Well, hear the answer: not a peep came from heaven. (pp. 247–248)

Why did Hochhuth deviate from the traditional motivations of the devil and create a Job-like devil, demanding an answer from God? It may be an illustration that the atrocities of the Holocaust were so extreme that the rivalry between God and the devil were not enough to explain them. Throughout history the combat between the devil and God was a way of justifying evil in man’s mind. However, the evil that is uncovered in the Holocaust was far beyond what man had known so far; even the devil is confused here. The doctor’s desire to obtain an answer may be more complex, since he articulates questions existing in the minds of many after the Holocaust: why did God



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not interfere? Why did He not stop the cruel genocide? These questions have been discussed extensively, both in the Jewish and Christian world. Coping with unprecedented evil without a divine intervention poses an immense challenge for believers. And here it is the devil who articulates these questions, amid his barbarous acts. The questions remain unanswered in the play. The unique perspective here is that Hochhuth allows his devil to pose them, in a Job-like manner. One would have expected a religious person to ask them, as in the biblical story, but here the devil, who generates the enormities, addresses God amid his crimes. Perhaps it is an expression of profound disbelief in divine justice. The devil sees his acts as a sequel to the Book of Job: Job, who was so tragically afflicted, asks God to intervene – and so does the devil. He is part of a more general attempt to understand why God does not stop evil. And just as the biblical story raises doubts as to the nature of divine justice, since the righteous Job was punished, so does Mengele question God. It is implicitly suggested that there never was a divine justice, in the case of Job as well as for Holocaust victims. The reference to the Book of Job could be interpreted from the opposite perspective. The devil, by his very nature, falsifies all that is sacred and sublime. The biblical story illustrates that human beings cannot understand divine justice; it is beyond their comprehension. God’s answer is that the divine is utterly beyond the human grasp. Mengele, true to his nature as the devil, counterfeit the divine words, distorting their contents. So his Job-like utterances and his vicious acts to provoke a divine answer are nothing but a typical devilish way of acting. Riccardo Fontana, the Jesuit priest who joins the Jews in the concentration camp, is inclined to accept this interpretation. Despite his heretical words as he reaches the camp, before his death he feels that there is a divine reason for it all, though beyond his grasp.

The Attributes of the Devil The traditional devil is often handsome and attractive. Perhaps people have felt that the most perilous threat of the devil, his deepest menace, lies in the discrepancy between his nature and his appearance. The human inclination to identify goodness with beauty is often contradicted, but people are most intimidated when beauty masks profound moral flaws. Mengele’s character and appearance are, indeed, contradictory. Hochhuth paid great attention to this discrepancy, which may have seemed to him as the core of the diabolic nature. In his first appearance in the play, he “carried the little swagger stick with which he toyed while making his selections in Auschwitz,” his

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manners are kind and gentle. Hochhuth reveals that Mengele promised children “tasty pudding” when he sent them to the gas chamber. He adds that the prisoners in Auschwitz “refer to this ‘handsome and likeable’ man as the devil.” In contrast to the brutality of the soldiers, he was elegant and friendly. When a daughter did not want to separate from her mother, he reassured them they would meet the next day.17 But the discrepancy is not limited to his manners, but is reflected also in the plot. Carlotta, a converted Jewess, goes out of her mind as she learns her entire family has been exterminated. She cries in despair, acting insanely. The doctor is very gentle with her, takes her outside with his “most persuasive kindness,” treating her “with compelling tenderness,” and then draws a pistol and shoots her.18 His diabolic nature is interlaced with kindness, tenderness and charm. The disparity between the devil’s nature and appearance was used mostly for seduction. His capacity to tempt people to sin is often derived from his attractive appearance. The descriptions of the devil as a tempter were so common that in certain periods any temptation to sin was considered evidence of satanic presence. In the play the doctor sexually seduces Helga, his attractive young secretary. She proclaims her love for her fiancé, but the doctor beguiles her and she betrays her love. He always treats her with disrespect. She regrets their afternoon together: “you’re a devil – how did you make me do it this afternoon – I feel awful … I’ve always been faithful to him …” (p. 37). But the dismissive use of a metaphor here, she calls him “devil,” is transformed later into a profound awareness to his evil nature. She says “Sometimes I’m mad about you, but then – then the hate comes back, then I hate you with all my heart, I really do” (p. 236). Her ambivalent feelings spring from the contrast between his charm and his true nature. Though she is entirely indifferent to the fate of the Jews, she cannot avoid acknowledging his cruelty. But unlike the traditional figure of the devil, Mengele’s motivations are different. In most legends the devil wants to make his victims sin, and he wants to possess their souls after death. Mengele has no interest in Helga’s soul, he derives no satisfaction from her sin. He seduces her for a momentarily satisfaction of his needs, indifferent to anything else. This is a somewhat reduced form of the seduction, since it lacks any metaphysical aspirations. Also, in world literature the devil offers a great variety of temptations. In this play the doctor’s temptation are mainly sexual. It is not a complex temptation, with philosophical or religious implications, but a direct, common physical seduction. As far as the sexual

17 The Deputy, p. 32. 18 The Deputy, p. 282.



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seduction is concerned, though, the doctor’s power is almost unlimited. Helga feels she is enchanted: she is so completely under a spell of the doctor that she overcomes formidable fears and scruples solely in order to come to his bed during the lunch hour. She hates him because she is helpless to resist his lascivious charm – and because she hates all that is evil and exceptionally intelligent. (p. 229)

Is the Devil a Nazi? The depiction of the devil in this play stirred much interest, especially in regards to the doctor’s attitude to Nazi ideology and to Nazism in general. The reappearance of the traditional devil during the Nazi regime marks the Holocaust as a unique event in world history, yet the devil himself is entirely indifferent to racial ideology and anti-Semitism. Not only does the doctor have no particular interest in racial theories, he scorns devoted Nazis and perceives himself as separate from all his colleagues in the SS. When he talks about Hitler, we learn that “he no longer even bothers to despise” him.19 Mengele has no particular hatred of Jews. Unlike the Nazi view, he argues that they are in Auschwitz “by mistake.”20 He is detached from racial doctrines, and he is not anti-Semitic. When the Protestant saintly protagonist comes to Auschwitz and tries to liberate Riccardo Fontana, he argues that the latter came to the death camp by mistake. To this the doctor answers: “By mistake – they’re all sent by mistake. What does that matter?” (p. 276). He derives no satisfaction from the ethnicity of his victims. It may be implied that Nazism as such is not the heart of the play, rather it is only one manifestation, among many, of the ultimate evil. This agrees with the traditional view of the devil, who is indifferent to any ideology. Also, unlike Eichmann and other officers, intoxicated by their role in the Nazi extermination mechanism, Mengele acts alone and decides alone what he should do. He is neither a passive Nazi nor a Nazi against his will; he executes his experiment, independently of any regime. So does he represent the Nazi leadership? The answer is not entirely unequivocal. In general, the author creates a dichotomy between the doctor and the other characters, suggesting that he is essentially different from them. However, when it comes to theoretical discussion about the attitude of Nazi leaders to Nazi ideology, 19 The Deputy, p. 31. 20 The Deputy, p. 240.

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Hochhuth argues that some were as indifferent to racial theories as Mengele. In the appendix he quotes the British historian, Trevor-Roper, arguing that Hitler used, at least to some extent, the racial theory as a means to rule Germany, and that he ridiculed the SS for their fierce belief in it. Himmler, argues Trevor-Roper, saw every iota of these doctrines as absolute truth. An examination of the historical discussion in the appendix reveals that Hochhuth thought Mengele was not the only one who did not accept the Nazi racist theory, but felt it had many benefits. Thus, Mengele is not exceptional in his attitude to Nazism in the play. But Mengele has a unique aspect: he identifies, at least to some degree, with his victims. While sterilizing a Jewish woman who married an Aryan man he reveals that he sterilized himself as well. Ironically he says, “Idealist that I am, I recently sterilized myself. I wanted to see what it was like” (p. 54). In the fifth act the issue of sterilization is brought up again. Helga confesses that she wants to marry him and have his children, to which he answers “Marriage, propagating children – good God! That’s one sin I won’t commit.” He explains to Helga the reason for his sterilization: By the time your daughters are nubile I’ll have seen enough twins here to learn how they’re begotten. And then I’ll prescribe for our blond beasts, our master race, the recipe for twins. (p. 237)

He depicts his contribution to the Aryan race in an ironic tone. He calls the Aryan “beasts,” leaving no doubt that this is not his true motivation, and that he ascribes no importance whatsoever to their self-proclaimed superiority.

Atheist or Believer? Is the devil the adverse of religion, or is his battle against God evidence that he believes in him? This very general question regarding the nature of the traditional devil is embodied here in the character of Doctor Mengele. His attitude towards Christianity includes a view of bourgeois Christians, the institution of the Catholic Church, and a theological perspective on the role of God and the devil in man’s life. For devout Nazis who remain Christian the doctor has nothing but contempt. There is no way, he argues, to be both Christian and Nazi. He sings a short vulgar song, ridiculing Christian symbols, mocking the Christian believers present in the room. He feels disdain for religious belief which is merely social practice.



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As for Catholic institutions, his ambivalent feelings are reflected in his complex relationship with Father Riccardo Fontana, the Jesuit priest who comes to Auschwitz. On the one hand he argues that seeds of brutality and ruthlessness prevail in the spirit of the Catholic Church. Riccardo Fontana should not be abhorred by the death camp for the fanaticism of the Catholic Church created many sufferings in the past: Saint Thomas Aquinas, a mystic, a God-crazed visionary like Heinrich Himmler who also babbles well-meant nonsense, Thomas killed the innocent for heresy just as these morons here kill the Jews … (p. 249)

An analogy is created between the Nazi spirit and the Inquisition, suggesting that essentially they acted in the same way. Mengele tries to force the Jesuit priest to adopt his point of view and become his partner. Although he knows that the priest’s adoption of these views could only be obtained by force and would be the result of violence, he is eager to force his way. Mengele attempts to destroy the Riccardo’s belief in God. He is unwilling to kill him before he denounces God: As long as you can believe, my dear priest, dying is just a joke. (p. 243)

Since Riccardo is a clergyman, and therefore a representative of the Catholic Church, the doctor is eager to force him to articulate heresy. But his struggle against the believers is even more pronounced as he confronts the very heart of the Christian belief – personal Providence, the belief in divine justice – men are punished for their sins and rewarded for their virtues. No one comes to the death camp as a punishment, he argues categorically. It is not a punishment, merely an arbitrary selection of people. But the devil does not settle for a theological argument with Riccardo. He has an all-encompassing plan to refute the existence of God. The death camp is an antithesis to the work of God, the creation of life. It is the temple of death: The truth is, Auschwitz refutes Creator, creation, and the creature. Life as an idea is dead. This may well be the beginning of a great new era, a redemption from suffering. (p. 248)

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He calls Auschwitz “the Golgotha of Absolute Spirit” (p. 279), suggesting an affinity between God’s creation of life and the devil’s creation of death. He also sees the positive aspect of his attempt: a termination of human suffering. In this respect the devil acts like the traditional devil, competing with God, wishing to destroy his creation. In this context of the Holocaust, Mengele is no different from most devils. He acts in a God-like way, declaring: I cremate life I create life– and always I create suffering. (p. 237)

This is his ultimate declaration, his self-image as a devil: cremation of life contrasted with the divine creation of human beings. Here Mengele is portrayed as the archetypal devil. He competes with God using all possible means, he creates a death camp in order to refute the idea of life itself.

The Church Pope Pius XII, the head of the Church during World War II, was at the heart of a fierce and bitter debate regarding his response, or the lack of it, to the Holocaust. Many felt, and still feel so today, that he could have done much more to halt it, and that a public condemnation from the Church could have affected the Nazi execution of the Final Solution. Rolf Hochhuth’s work, and this play in particular, occupies a unique place in bringing to public awareness the question of the moral responsibility of the Church. Only after the play was staged in Germany and around the world did public opinion begin to demand an answer from the Vatican on its silence during the war. The storm the play aroused, the emotional outbreaks it provoked, were the result of it touching upon the very sensitive issue of criticism of the Church, and Pope Pius XII in particular.21 The title of the play, The Deputy, refers to its focal point, the role of the Pope as the deputy of God and its moral implications. The head of the Catholic Church and especially the Pope are presented in a negative light. Their indifference to the historical events, which they are well aware of, could not leave the spectator untouched. And more than that, the author juxtaposes the head of the 21 Golo Mann proclaimed that writing this play was a great achievement. Its importance does not lie in the unflattering description of the Pope and the senior clergy of the Vatican, but it “gave form to this terrible history, something which no historian or novelist before Hochhuth had been able to do.” Golo Mann, “The Real Accomplishment,” pp. 217–219.



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Church with the two Christian saint-like figures. The dialogues between the two and the leadership of the Vatican makes the latter appear even more objectionable. The response of the two saintly characters is authentic and deep, leading them to self-sacrifice themselves. Yet unlike them, the high clergy seems alienated, immersed in practical and political considerations that prevents them from action. The wide impact of the play is a result of Hochhuth’s thorough addressing of this issue. Had he presented a limited picture of the Church, or partial possible justifications for its conduct, many would have felt that his accusations were unfounded. Presenting the Pope in a simplistic light would have decreased some of the resentment against his nonaction. But Hochhuth was engaged in a profound study of the ecumenical view on this matter, and he presents a complex and intriguing picture. In the play one finds a variety of Church officials and their different responses to Nazism. While Riccardo Fontana and Pope Pius XII are juxtaposed, there are some intermediate figures: an abbot hiding “communists, Jews and royalties” in his monastery, endangering himself to save lives (p. 141). Also, Count Fontana, Riccardo’s father and member of an aristocratic Italian family, is alarmed by the Jewish massacres but is unwilling to endanger himself and his family to prevent them. His hesitation springs not only from his wish to defend his family, but also from weighty arguments, both practical and theoretical, about why the Church should refrain from acting against the Nazis.22 The Nuncio in Berlin, a diplomat in the service of the Church, presents a pragmatic point of view. He tries to gloss over the disagreement between the Church and the Nazi regime. He intentionally ignores depictions of the sufferings of the victims, and always puts forward a convincing practical argument why the Church should not act. And of course there is the Cardinal, a “suave, even ruthless diplomat” (p. 106), despite his subtle manners. All these characters lead to Pius XII, portrayed here as cynic and cunning, to the point that the reader must despise him. The various stands articulated by officials are hierarchical: from the simple, practical reasons why the Church should not intervene in historical events to sophisticated theological arguments. Our discussion here will begin with the simple argumentation and present a variety of explanations, advancing from pure pragmatism to intricate doctrinal stands. As for the practical arguments, this study does not aim at evaluating their historical validity. Hochhuth fervently asserted that if the Church had condemned the genocide, Hitler’s government would have given up its plan to exterminate the Jewish people. As interesting and intriguing as these arguments are, they are

22 See, for example, pp. 98, 104, 211, etc.

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not the issue of this study. The practical arguments are presented here without inquiry whether they are true or false. The most plain, straightforward claim is that they could not influence the course of history, and therefore it would be best to keep silent. At various levels of the clergy a belief prevails that the Church would be unable to affect Hitler’s regime and therefore it should coexist with it peacefully. As the Cardinal is faced with evidence of the Nazi atrocities, he answers: Hitler exists, after all – we must live with him, you know. (p. 116)

And a slightly different stand is articulated by the Pope himself. When asked about the response of the Church, he says: In March, We publicly declared that We have nothing, nothing at all, to do with the aims of Great Britain and the United States. Let them first come to an accommodation with Germany. (p. 206)

This is a simple, pragmatic statement. World powers are struggling, Germany on the one hand and the Allies on the other, and the Church should not be part of the struggle or take one side. The Church should remain neutral since its believers are part of both sides. Count Fontana explicitly declares the Church unable to force anything on Hitler: Let’s look at this realistically. I ask you as a member of the Secretariat of State, how can the Pope, without surrendering his policy of neutrality force Hitler not to deport the Jews. (p. 98)

The Pope calls the Church “the shelter of the spirit of neutrality”: the Vatican should avoid becoming a political entity or identifying with one. He then suggests that only if the Vatican would remains neutral could it serve as a mediator between Germany and the Allies. Another practical view is derived from the perception of Communism as a threat to the Church. During the third and fourth decades of the twentieth century Communist views were spreading in Europe, and some feared that international connections between Communists around the globe would pose a concrete threat to the Catholic Church. Count Fontana argues:



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Whatever Hitler may be doing to the Jews, only he has the power to save all Europe from the Russians. (p. 104)

Since the Communist regime in the Soviet Union is hostile to Christian life in Europe, the Church must avoid assisting it in any way, even if it implies an ongoing Holocaust. Only Germany could prevent the spreading of Communist ideas; it would be unreasonable that the Church would stand in Hitler’s way. Another practical argument against an open, explicit condemnation of the Nazi regime is that it would stand in the way of priests who risk their lives to save Jews. It is indeed true that some priests managed to save lives, which they probably could not have done if the Vatican would have come out openly against the Nazi regime. The Pope angrily brings this point, talking about the Nuncio in Pressburg: He managed to arrange that no more Jews would be sent away to Poland. Whoever wants to help must not provoke Hitler. (p. 200)

Hochhuth wishes the readers or spectators to consider this point. The abbot who hides Jews and Communists in his monastery is willing to publish a Nazi communiqué in the Vatican newspaper in exchange for letting one Communist out of prison.23 Though Hochhuth disagrees with this position he presents it in a most appealing light, embodied in the character of the abbot who endangers his life to save Jews and Communists. The play also presents theoretical arguments. In discussions between Riccardo Fontana and various Church officials, a question arises whether the benefit to the Church is more important than saving Jews from genocide. For the Pope and the Cardinal, the Church is the heart of Christian life. An attack on the Vatican is an attack on Christian life and faith. The need to save the Western world from the Communist threat causes the Pope and the Cardinal to stand passive. Since Communism poses a realistic threat to the Church, facing it while ignoring the Holocaust would result in the existence of the Church. It follows, perhaps unavoidably, that Hitler’s acts are pardonable: Hitler alone, dear count, is now defending Europe, and he will fight until he dies because no pardon awaits the murderer. 23 The Deputy, p. 144.

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Nevertheless, the West should grant him pardon as long as he is useful in the East. (p. 206)

The Pope admits Hitler is a murderer and that he is implementing genocide. But his own mission is to defend the Christian West from the Communist peril. Though the Pope may have believed this argument, the historical irony is, of course, that Hitler had no intention of defending Christian life and faith in Europe. But perceiving Hitler as the defender of Christianity can also spring from theological predestination. A belief in a preordained divine plan has sometimes prevented religious people from taking action. This is also true here. An extreme belief in predestination justifies any sacrifice, as cruel as it may be, since it is part of the divine plan. God in his wisdom, incomprehensible to man, may take the lives of many, and man can only abide by the divine wisdom. Count Fontana tells his son: No sacrifice is wasted. Although history may fail to register the sacrifice, God does. How can you, a priest, doubt that? The Pope draws strength from that belief as well. And he can act only when animated by this confidence. And thus he can refuse to blindly grant the promptings of his heart. (p. 104)

This is an extreme belief in predestination that can justify anything. Count Fontana feels the resentment of his son, and perhaps he is also embarrassed by the implications of his argument. He therefore adds: All of this, Riccardo, can only be endured if we never lose our belief that God someday will recompense the victims. (p. 105)

Hochhuth fully develops the belief in predestination. He puts forward words he claims Pius XII had said during the war, though the Church denied it. Yet Hochhuth insists that this is a well-founded historical fact. When asked about the Jewish victims, Pope Pius XII answered: As the flowers in the countryside wait beneath the winter mantle of snow for the warm breeze of spring, so the Jews must wait, praying and trusting that the hour of heavenly salvation will come. (pp. 220–221)



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These sentences created turmoil and generated fierce protests against Hochhuth. But he insisted the Pope Pius XII had said them. In the years right after the Holocaust they seemed extremely vicious, suggesting that the suffering and murder of the Jews are theologically justified. But the question of predestination has other implications as well. It could be asked how the Nazi regime in general fits into the divine plan. This is the very general question of the existence of evil, human or satanic, in a world ruled by God. The Cardinal sees that the discussion on predestination leads to this question, to which he willingly answers: Was not even Cain, who killed his brother, the instrument of God? (p. 148)

The Bible can be interpreted in more than one way. Riccardo Fontana draws the opposite conclusion from the murder of Cain from that of the Pope: God can justify a murder of the Pope. He accepts the view that a murder could be part of a divine plan, so why not murder the Pope? Riccardo believes he deserves to die due to his inaction to stop the Holocaust, and his death would awake the public opinion to the crimes committed by the Nazis. Riccardo finds support in another biblical story: the tale of Sodom, where a few men had the capacity to save the city of Sodom from destruction. He then compares the biblical time and contemporary events, wondering if Nazism could have happened in biblical Sodom had there been a few men who were willing to stand up and publicly condemn it. Another reason provided by Church leaders for their lack of action is the desire to serve as mediators. We have seen before that the Pope believed that if the Church would refrain from action it might serve as a mediator among nations. Since Christ stands between God and man, the Church ascribes great importance to the act of mediation. Thus the Pope’s wish to reconcile the Allies and Germany is not only a matter of politics, but also an essential part of his religious view of the Church’s role in the world. Hochhuth, it should be pointed out, tends to neglect the theological motivation of the Pope and ascribe his efforts to world politics. His view rests on documents indicating that Pius XII did intervene when assets of the Church were endangered by the war. For example, Hochhuth tells us that Pius XII wrote to Roosevelt regarding the bombing of the Vatican, asking to spare it. But more than that, in the historical notes Hochhuth argues: does not Pacelli’s excommunication of active Communists (which his wise and very human successor may well feel to be an unfortunate legacy) prove that Pius XII could, when he wanted to, speak out quite plainly in the political realm? (p. 330)

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Hochhuth had two reasons to object to the Papal neutrality. The first is that the Pope did take measures when the Church’s interests were at stake. And also, the Holocaust was not an ordinary part of a war between two sides that could have reached an agreement to avoid bloodshed. It was genocide, a crime against humanity, an no mediation would have prevented it. Another aspect of the link between the Catholic and the Nazi regime is the Concordat, generally, the treaty of cooperation between the Vatican and sovereign states. In normal circumstances, the Concordat regulates taxes, educational institutions, Catholic ceremonies, the rights and duties of the clergy, Church properties, etc. The first Concordat was signed in the eleventh century and has existed ever since in Europe and throughout the world. But in 1933 the Church signed a Concordat with the German government. It was one of the first treaties signed with the Nazi regime, many arguing that it gave Nazism a moral legitimacy. This Concordat, which came into existence largely as a result of the efforts of Pacelli, who later became Pius XII, placed constraints on political activity of clergymen in Germany, and thus decreased the criticism of the new Nazi regime. Was this agreement between the Vatican and the Nazi regime a sort of a pact with the devil? Some historians believe it was. This study does not engage in the direct historical question, but only with the way in which Hochhuth perceives the Concordat. Both saint-like men, two characters discussed in detail later, strongly object the Concordat of 1933 between the Vatican and the German regime. Gerstein, the Protestant, explicitly asks the Nuncio in Berlin “when, when will you tear up the Concordat?” (p. 26). Riccardo, the Catholic, argues that the former Pope, Pius XI, “would long ago have abrogated the Concordat” (p. 100). But does Hochhuth understand it as a pact with the devil? Normally, this pact implies an immediate benefit to the sinner and a punishment after death. The pact often includes denying the belief in God. But when it comes to the Concordat, only some of the characteristics are applicable. Church officials agree that its aim is to protect the Catholics, and nothing more: The Concordat is intended to protect our fellow Catholics – the Chief will not expose himself to danger for the Jews. (p. 113)

But in a more elaborated discussion, the Cardinal admits that it gave Hitler social acceptability: Hitler looked like a hairdresser – the Concordat made him socially acceptable urbi and orbi. And now you want the Chief to curse him ex cathedra? (p. 119)



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The Cardinal argues that the Concordat enabled the Church to save the Christian world from the Nazi peril. But he admits that it had far reaching consequences, granting Hitler social acceptance. In the historical notes Hochhuth elaborates on the motivation of Pacelli to sign the Concordat with Nazi Germany. He quoted the Pope on this matter, do you not think I don’t know that people have said and written that I never should have concluded the Concordat with the Third Reich? If Hitler so severely persecuted the Catholic Church in spite of the Concordat, consider the Concordat. Do you think his henchman would have not smashed right into the Vatican? (p. 298)

The Pope is portrayed as attempting to keep the treaty to save the Catholic world. But Hochhuth does not leave this argument unanswered. He adds his observation on this matter: for what did it prevent, since the Vatican never threatened its abrogation in order to protect the Church in Poland of German Catholics from the Gestapo? … Who can then claim that the Nazi would have not drawn back if during the war Pius had threatened them with interdict? (p. 298)

The validity of this explicit historical argument will not be discussed here. But as for presenting the Concordat as a pact with the devil, it can be seen in different ways. In the eyes of the two saintly men it is a denial of everything the Church stands for and the true spirit of Christianity. Churchmen, on the other hand, argue that without it, Hitler would have destroyed the Church. And as for the Nazi perspective on this agreement, it certainly does not resemble a pact with the devil, since Nazi leaders gained immediate gratification from the Concordat, which is the acceptance of the European people, and suffer nothing as a result. Hochhuth quotes Hitler on this matter, saying that: This Concordat, whose contents do not interest me at all, nevertheless creates an area of confidence which will be very useful in our uncompromising struggle against international Jewry. (p. 298)

Some historians argue that Hitler wished to avoid an open conflict with the Church during the war since he feared it would arouse hostility among Catholic German soldiers in the German army, but he intended to change his approach after the war. Hochhuth felt that the agreement between the Vatican and the Nazi regime brought the latter immediate benefits. If we consider the Concordat as a pact with the devil, then the devil here, the Nazis, were benefitted by the agreement, and not the Church. In a typical pact, the devil gets his rewards either at a later stage

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or in the afterlife. But the allegation that the Pope and the high clergy denied the basic principles of Christianity, hints that personal motivation created the Concordat and not benefit to the Church, and even posing the question whether it was a pact with the devil – all these portrayed it as dark and insidious, insinuating that it could be seen as a pact, in fact, with the devil.

The Catholic and Protestant Battle against the Nazis The tragic and distorted world described in this play, with concentration camps, genocide and a silent Church, consists not only of the devil but also of saintlike figures: the Jesuit Father Riccardo Fontana and the SS officer Kurt Gerstein. Though each struggles against the Nazis, they do so in very different ways. Each one embodies the free choice of the individual to resist dictatorship and genocide, and various ways in which it could be done. Both see the fight against the Nazi regime as their sole purpose and sacrifice themselves in the battle against evil.

Kurt Gerstein Kurt Gerstein is a German army lieutenant serving in the SS, a saintly figure focusing entirely on achieving practical ends. His continuous exposure to danger and the fateful consequences of his action are all justified by a constant attempt to prevent the extermination of the Jewish people. The literary Kurt Gerstein was inspired by a historical character: he was an Oberstumfuhrer in the SS who acted secretly against the Nazis. After the war he was imprisoned in Paris. The Jewish community in Paris engraved his name on the memorial monument for Nazi victims. After his imprisonment he disappeared and no trace of him was ever found.24 Hochhuth portrays Gerstein’s life in the historical notes to the play. First he was arrested for disseminating leaflets for the Church, and set free. He then joined the SS with the intention of using his military rank to obstruct Nazi plans for extermination of the Jews. In the play Hochhuth added some statements that are not supported by historical facts, but the essence of the literary character is founded on the historical Gerstein. Gerstein’s photograph was taken in 1931. Observing the photo Hochhuth remarks that he seems “to have been a marked man from the beginning” (p. 14). 24 On the historical figure of Kurt Gerstein, see Saul Friedländer, Kurt Gerstein, the Ambiguity of Good.



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Hochhuth feels he was destined to an extraordinary fate. But in the play Gerstein depicts a gradual decision to dedicate his life to the prevention of the Holocaust. Gerstein, more than anything, is a pragmatist, concentrating on the details of a plan to obstruct Nazi plans. He constantly stresses that his actions spring from a realistic approach. He conceals from the Nazis a more effective gas, to prevent acceleration of the death-factory, and he then endangers his life and turns to the Pope, asking him to openly condemn that Holocaust. In his house he hides a Jew, Herr Jacobson, and later he tries to smuggle him out of Germany. Jacobson asks him why he does not flee, to which Gerstein answers: Go into exile just like that? My God, I see men dying in the chambers every hour. As long as there is still the slightest hope that I can save a single one of you I have to endanger myself and face the chance that later on I may seem the spit and image of the murderers. (p. 67)

The hope of saving a single Jew is the heart of his motivations. He wants to shape reality. He does not want to join the victims – he wants to save them. Gerstein maintains that he has concrete, well-defined ends. He also tends to undervalue the general nature of his motivations. When asked by Riccardo Fontana for what is driving him, he answers: Men have never wreaked such havoc as when invoking God – or an idea. (p. 83)

He reminds the reader that absolute faith, either religious or in an idea – may be the cause of sufferings inflicted upon man. Many atrocities occurred due to allegiance of idealists. Gerstein does not oppose the belief in God – being a believer himself – but rather the indifference of the believers to the consequences of their belief, their willingness to justify any means. Gerstein’s view reflects an existentialistic spirit prevailing in post-war Europe. After the war was over and its calamities revealed, the fear of absolute ideas, even if noble and advanced, became a widespread spiritual inclination. Gerstein agrees with this view, arguing that a belief in any idea leads to a total blindness to reality, and perhaps even to extreme manifestations of evil. But blindness to reality, argues Gerstein, could also spring from a different source: from placing too much weight on internal factors and disregarding objective reality. Here Hochhuth is very close to the Thomas Man’s Innerlichkeit. He points to the Protestant spirit:

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We Protestants depend too much upon ourselves. We cannot always bear it. (p. 83)

Gerstein is careful not to adopt a frame of mind that sees objective reality only as a mirror of one’s thoughts and feelings, “upon themselves.” They must limit the tendency to view external events merely as a reflection of an inner experience. In this context he refers to the Protestant tendency towards introspection. In the play Gerstein is arrested twice for spreading “Christian” literature and released. He then decided to joins the SS to continue his struggle from in its ranks. His sole motivation is to change historical circumstances, which he considers essentially immoral. Nevertheless, his profound need to subject all actions to the test of reality is not without internal contradiction. He does not want to rely only on “conscience,” arguing that Hitler, too, relies on his conscience (p. 83). For him, acting for the sake of good is always bound with a need to examine the consequences of one’s actions, whether or not it causes more damage than benefit. Relying on one’s subjective spiritual compass as the only source of action is utterly wrong. But Gerstein, in spite of his constant self-examination, sacrifices his life in the battle against evil. How does he perceive evil? His view of Nazism lacks a supernatural dimension, unlike that of the Catholic father Riccardo Fontana. Though there are religious elements in his view, he intentionally avoids using terms like “devil” or “demon” when describing the Nazis. When Riccardo sarcastically calls Hitler “the chosen,” Gerstein answers: For God’s sake, Father, do not talk this way! Believe me, no legend will attach to that man’s name (very uncertainly) Be on you guards against attributing the qualities of diabolic genius to a man who’s nothing but a master criminal, only because – because his foolish and irresolute contemporaries, cabinet ministers, parliamentarians, generals, priests, surrender all of Europe for a time to such a scoundrel. (pp. 78–79)

Gerstein wishes to see evil in ordinary human terms, not diabolic. Hitler and his followers are nothing but criminals, he argues. Regarding them in supernatural terms magnifies them, presents them as legendary figures. Gerstein’s realistic view of the Nazis facilitates his struggle against them. A lack of demonization allows him to detect minor details, facing evil in practical terms. This pragmatic view has a moral dimension as well. The simple non-



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supernatural observation necessitates action, yet it does not have the problematic quality of confronting evil as a satanic phenomenon. Gerstein’s view places full weight of moral responsibility on human beings, and he himself carries it to the end. More than anything Gerstein resents a lack of action on religious grounds, which perceives the Nazis as the embodiment of the devil. Unlike Riccardo Fontana, who tends to see things in terms of absolute good and evil, Gerstein distinguishes between different levels of evil. He refrains from an extreme categorical division and sees a hierarchy of moral judgment. For him the world is not divided into God and the devil but into various grades of good and evil. In order to judge the Nazis one has to compare them to other men, to other criminals. Only in this light one could determine where Nazism stands in the range between the two moral ends. Gerstein says: And yet – the wildest band of soldiers cannot wreak the outrages in the convent’s dormitory than the atrocities that Hitler’s lawyers, doctors and SS men have been practicing – wearing this uniform – for years against the Jews, the Poles and Russian prisoners. (p. 149)

He sets an interesting criterion to judge evil: how long did the evil action take place? A sin that lasts one night, even if it is a horrible crime of raping nuns, cannot be compared to one lasting years. Since Nazi crimes have been going on “for years,” they stand at the top of the hierarchy of evil. Arguing before the Cardinal, Gerstein compares the Holocaust to the rape of nuns, hoping it would produce the desired emotional effect. He knows how difficult it is to drive men to fight evil and that this struggle may demand a sacrifice, even in term of lives of family members. Examining the response of the German people, he argues that they are not worse than any other European nation, since Germans are unwilling to sacrifice themselves to stop Nazism: Are we to castigate a man who does not want to die for others? (p. 80)

He then elaborates on this matter: in Germany there are those who hide Jews. In countries overrun by the Nazis, especially Poland and Ukraine, people surrendered the Jews and sent them to their deaths. Gerstein avoids any discussion on German culture, or whether it had any part in the evolvement of the Nazi regime. Judging by his words, he thinks it is almost random that Nazism was created in Germany. At most, Gerstein is willing to blame the German people for being convinced too easily by its leaders:

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The Germans bear the greatest guilt. Their leader has conceived the program. As for the people – the other peoples are hardly much better. (p. 81)

These passages provoked many angry reactions.25 Hochhuth seems to direct all arrows of guilt towards German leaders, implying that ordinary Germans took no part in the atrocities, and collaborated only out of fear of punishment.26 This question is still controversial among scholars. However, this unequivocal view of the role of ordinary Germans at the time of Nazi rule has firm opponents, including eminent historians. Gerstein adopts a stand that could be either naïve or elusive. And the fact that this brave hero is the one to articulate it may suggest that Hochhuth manipulates the reader into accepting it. It would be hard to believe that after many years of research of various aspects of the Holocaust, Hochhuth absolves the German people so easily, ascribing all that they had done to fear of punishment. It does agree, however, with the general theme of the play, dealing with Pope Pius XII’s failure to respond to the Nazis without a plain, unequivocal statement about the role of millions of Germans who refrained from any action against the Holocaust. It is possible that Gerstein expresses a view that is not part of a general perception of the author, but is only intended to emphasize his saintly character. In order to create his “angelic” nature Hochhuth made him naïve, forgiving. However, this does not agree with his constant attempts to drive others to struggle against evil. In general, Gerstein’s courage is driven by a realistic, down-to-earth view of the Nazis and their supporters. One should keep in mind that he joins the SS in order to fight evil from within. Thus his naïve view of the Germans as acting out of self-defense, or a desire to protect their families, is hardly convincing. Also, Gerstein’s joining the German army was a result of his belief that “dictatorships can be demolished only from within” (p. 77). Historically it is inaccurate – the Nazi regime collapsed as Germany was conquered – but is also contradicts his perception that ordinary Germans neither took part in the actions of the Nazis nor supported them.27 25 R. Hinton Thomas, in Literature in Upheaval, argues that in the play Hochhuth places the guilt on some German individuals and not on the German nation as a whole. He refrains from a perception of a collective German guilt (see Literature in Upheaval, pp. 98–99). 26 On the part of ordinary Germans in the Holocaust, see Daniel Goldhagen’s Hitler’s Willing Executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust, which deals with this subject. 27 Bosmajian argues that Gerstein is really the very opposite of the Pope. His character was shaped to contrast Pius XII in every aspect. See Bosmajian, Metaphor of Evil, in the chapter devoted to this play.



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The most interesting and intriguing part of Gerstein’s character is his view of religion. Though he is critical of the Catholic Church and its role in historical events, he is motivated by deep religious sentiments. Gerstein’s Christianity is close to Kierkegaard’s teachings. First, there is a close connection between religious faith and moral behavior, which is central to Kierkegaard’s theory. Though it may have various significances, the very idea of God is bound up with a moral position.28 Kierkegaard also speaks of a “subjective thought” (as opposed to “objective thoughts”), an attempt to understand abstract ideas while relating continuously to the real, personal existence of a particular person.29 The deepest meaning of “being human” emerges from the framework of subjective thought. Gerstein is preoccupied with his character as a moral being. He does not contemplate the existence of God, or whether there is a devil that struggles with God, and Hitler is nothing but a “scoundrel” to him, a “criminal,” nothing more. But he often wonders what the implications are of the moral choices people surrounding him make. In his search for true Christianity nothing seems more erroneous to him than adopting a Christian life-style, going to church every Sunday, and nothing more: A Christian in these days cannot survive if he is truly Christian. I don’t mean Sunday Christians– beware the steady churchgoers– I am thinking of the Christians Kierkegaard has in mind: the spies of God. I am a spy in the SS. And spies are executed – I am aware of that. (p. 79)

This is the heart of the Protestant spirit. He openly dissociates himself from the empty habit of going to church on Sunday. The inner content of Christianity is far above a life in accordance with the ordinances of the Church. “Steady churchgoers” is articulated with contempt, as evidence of adopting the superficial form of Christianity, not its true spirit. At the beginning of the play Gerstein is not critical of the Catholic Church. On the contrary, in his despair he turns to the Pope to ask him to explicitly to 28 As Stephan Evens pointed out, “for Kierkegaard, the essential religious question does not concern merely God’s existence, even when God is conceived not merely as a first cause, but as a moral and practical postulate” (Subjectivity and Religious Belief, p. 75). 29 On this aspect of Kierkegaard’s philosophy, see Arbaugh and Arbaugh, Kierkegaard’s Authorship, especially chapter 3 that is devoted to Kierkegaard’s view of religion.

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condemn the Nazi regime. But as he realizes the Pius XII has no intention of intervening in the course of history, he become almost hostile to the Vatican and its high clergy. To Riccardo he says: I have come to a terribly despairing of hope, as far as the Church is concerned … As for myself, I am a member of the confessing church. (p. 74)

Gerstein’s deep sense of moral duty drives him to openly dissociate himself from the Catholic Church, and emphasize that he belongs to a different church, a moral one. The detachment from the Vatican is especially apparent in his view of predestination. His active state of mind drives him to avoid any acceptance of segments of history as manifestations of a divine plan. His dialogue with the Cardinal illustrates their contrasting views. The Cardinal, it should be noted, adopts an extreme approach to predestination: he claims that anything that happens is part of a preordained divine plan, even Hitler. God uses Hitler as a tool, says the Cardinal, to which Gerstein quickly replies that “God would not be God if He made use of Hitler.” The Cardinal adds that Cain was certainly part of the divine plan. Murder, as such, could be part of predestination. But there is one thing the Cardinal is sure of, God never intended mankind to be annihilated: Was not Cain, who killed his brother, the instrument of God? … Cain had his mission in the world, as Noah did. What can we know of the terrible detours of the Lord! But one thing we know, don’t we – surely God has no wish to let the West, Christian civilization, perish, you know!

To this Gerstein answers: Why, your Eminence, should not God send us a new Deluge? Only Stalin’s tanks can liberate Auschwitz, Treblinka, Majdanek … (pp. 147–151)

The Cardinal sees everything as part of a divine plan, which includes, he is sure, the continuing existence of mankind. Gerstein’s answer appears to accept the Cardinal’s view when in fact he is illustrating its absurdity. If a murder is part of a divine plan, so is a deluge. Should we, then, accept an attempt to annihilate



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mankind and save one man? Surely the Cardinal would not agree. The Christian faith is based on a premise that certain things endure in all situations, whatever the circumstances. But this assertion is incompatible with the belief in absolute predestination. How can the Cardinal be sure that God wishes to preserve the Christian West? Gerstein’s suggestion that Stalin’s tanks would liberate the concentration camps reveals his disappointment in the Vatican’s morality. Stalin, who the Holy See sees as threat to Christianity, would eventually act in a more moral manner than the Church. Let us ignore the general historical perception of Stalin’s regime; Gerstein’s words are a sad and bitter evidence of his frustration and despair. Did the historical Gerstein perceive himself as a pious man? Probably not. He would most likely describe himself as a “spy of God.” But Hochhuth tried to paint him in saint-like colors. Perhaps he answered his hidden desire to be portrayed as a young, brave and pure hearted German.

Riccardo Fontana Two historical characters inspired the creation of the literary figure of Riccardo Fontana. Their life stories were interlaced into one, complete character. Hochhuth used the history of Bernard Lichtenberg of Berlin and the Polish Father Kolbe to create this moving and heroic figure of the Jesuit priest. Lichtenberg was a German priest from Berlin who prayed that the Jews would be saved. He asked to share their fate and was sent to Dachau. He died on his way there, apparently a natural death.30 Father Kolbe was a Polish monk of the Franciscan order. Until the break of the war he was a missionary in Japan. He battled against the Nazis and was therefore sent to Auschwitz. In the historical notes Hochhuth describes his heroic death: he volunteered to die of hunger in the place of another prisoner, who was married and a father. In 1948 the Church began preliminary proceedings for the beautification of Father Kolbe, the first step towards his sanctification. At the beginning of the play Riccardo resists Nazism passively. He objects to any actual effort to actively stop the Holocaust, but feels that the Pope must publicly denounce it. When he learns that the Holy See has no intention of doing so, he chooses to identify with the victims, placing a yellow star on his priestly cloak. Finally he decides to join the Jews in the concentration camp. The last act is devoted to the dialogue between Riccardo and the doctor. Moments before his death he abandons his passivity and attempts to kill the doctor with a revolver.

30 The Deputy, p. 14.

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In the face of extreme evil Riccardo raises many theological arguments that Hochhuth felt should be articulated in a play dealing with the Holocaust. Though he is a priest, the reality of the concentration camp makes him doubt the existence of God. At the beginning of the play Riccardo is a young, ambitious clergyman, wishing to advance in the hierarchy of the church. Meeting the Papal Nuncio in Berlin, the Nuncio says: How young you are! Twenty-seven and Minutante already. You will go far, young friend. (p. 16)

His father, the Count, a legal advisor of the Holy See and man of influence in the Vatican, accuses him of being too ambitious, reminding him that Lucifer fell due to his ambition. Riccardo answers: (smiling sadly): Not ambition but disappointment will make me an antagonist, Father. (p. 97)

Ambition is the root of reprehensible behavior, as was seen in the Middle Ages. It is not portrayed as individualism, as a personal desire to live up to moral standards, but rather as a limited personal desire to be part of the high clergy.31 But Riccardo Fontana is anything but ambitious in this way; he is willing to sacrifice not only his career but also his life for the sake of justice. The words and actions of Riccardo provoke the question of belief in God in the face of radical evil. At first his faith is pure and simple, with no religious doubt. Gerstein, whom he meets at the Vatican, tells him about the Jewish genocide, confessing that his Christian belief is somewhat shaken. To this Riccardo answers, “you don’t want to give up God, not now” (p. 84). But gradually the young priest accepts that the Holocaust is indeed taking place, hearing about the extermination of thousands of Jews in concentration camps. For the believer that he is, extreme evil raises an acute question of the existence of God. He is forced to ask the simple, straightforward question of why God allows such things to happen. The priest’s first response, an almost instinctive one, is to perceive the Holocaust as a divine way to try the believer: Let us admit at last: these flames are also our trial by fire!

31 In Medieval thought pride and ambition, called superbia, were considered major sins, and often the root of all evil. Morton Bloomfield discusses Medieval principle in his book, The Seven Deadly Sins.



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Who will, in times to come, respect us still as moral arbiters if, in this time, we fail so miserably? (p. 98)

From this simplistic perspective the Holocaust does not raise the question of the existence of God. But as he tries to linger to this view, he is aware, time and again, that the Pope will not denounce Nazism. If the Holocaust is a trial, the believer must stand the test, prove his true moral fiber and struggle against evil. Only when he is fully convinced that the Holy See will not publicly protest against the Holocaust, the idea of joining the Jews in the concentration camp is born. Riccardo juxtaposes two forces acting in Europe: the persecutors and the persecuted. He ignores political, national, social and military issues; to him there are only two streams, evil and good. This polarized view creates an urge to defend the Papacy, or, rather, the idea of the Papacy, so it will not be identified with the persecutors: The concept of the Papacy must be preserved pure for all eternity, even if temporarily it is embodied by an Alexander VI. (p. 157)

His desire to save the Papacy from sin creates an idea: he will murder the Pope, the world will accuse the Nazis, and this will arouse opposition against them. Riccardo knows it is a sin, but he believes it can be justified before God. After hesitation he deserts this idea but decides to wear a yellow star on his cloak. In his despair he says to the Pope: I shall wear this until Your Holiness proclaims before the world a curse upon the man who slaughters Europe’s Jews like cattle. (pp. 217–218)

The Pope is startled, the intentions of the young priest are absurd. He tries to force him to change his mind, reminding him that he is sworn to obedience. To this Riccardo answers: But our faith, Your Eminence, rests upon brotherly love – remember the deportees before you judge me. (p. 218)

His profound disappointment in the Church drives him to seek support in the foundations of Christianity. His criticism of the Pope is not accompanied by a general

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disavowal of Christianity, but compels him to look into the Christian Dogma. The image of God he now believes is not judging man for being part of a certain group, but is encouraging a general concern about the fate of human beings. Riccardo decides to join the Jews in the death camps. But as he gets to Auschwitz his attitude to the Christian faith undergoes a radical change. The question of how God judges people does not seem relevant anymore; now he is coping with profound doubts whether God actually exists. The doctor, surprised to find a Jesuit priest among the Jews, takes pleasure in a discussion with the tormented young man. At first he rejects the doctor’s argument that God does not exist relatively easily: Your hideous face composed of lust and filth and gibberish sweeps all doubt away – all. Since the devil exists, God also exists. Otherwise you would have won a long time ago. (p. 253)

The simple logical deduction, almost childish, is very sad. Riccardo clings to a belief in a struggle between good and evil. The very existence of the devil and his struggle against an invisible force proves that God exists. In a debate on these issues the devil’s existence is deduced from manifestations of evil. But Riccardo makes a contrary assertion: from the existence of the devil one can deduce that God exists. This inversion is probably a result of the circumstances: there is no need to prove the devil’s existence in a concentration camp. The spiritual and psychological motivation is to find proof the anything that is good still exists. But the uncanny doctor is determined to destroy the belief of the young man. He sends him to work in the crematorium, clearing away incinerated bodies. After a week Riccardo’s belief is deeply shaken. To Gerstein, who comes to rescue him, he confesses: And with every human body I burn a portion of my faith burns also. God burns […] If I knew that He looks on – (with revulsion) I would have to – hate Him. (p. 270)

Riccardo continues and says that even if he had been convinced that God existed, he would not have been a believer anymore. A God that sees such atrocities as the death camp and does nothing to stop it is unworthy of belief. The simple logic is gone. The emotional reaction of the young priest leaves no room for theological contemplation. The horrors around him are so shocking that



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he loses the conviction that God exists. He expresses some hope that God does not exist, since it would be easier for him to live in a godless world than to admit that his God allows Auschwitz to happen. Still, when a moment of choice comes, Riccardo does not escape. Gerstein can save him, but he feels he cannot leave. First he says that he is representing the Church,32 and then he continues: Goodbye, Gerstein. Don’t let my father know where I am. Tell him my life has been fulfilled. You know the truth. (p. 274)

In what way was his life fulfilled? Before his death Riccardo believes again in a struggle between good and evil. The possibility of a choice is reawakened. His way back to Christianity is connected with his choice to take action. His sense of a mission is linked to a belief in struggling against the devil. As the doctor appears and discovers the plan to escape, Riccardo tries to seize his revolver and kill him. An SS man guarding the doctor shoots Ricardo before he is able to fire. Before his death he says “In hora mortis meae voca me” (“in the hour of death, call me”). Riccardo returns to his belief before his death, not only in sharing the fate of the victims, but he turns to active and violent opposition to the forces of evil.33 Riccardo’s belief is regained when he turns to activism and abandons the path of sharing the victims’ destiny. It is a spiritual process: from faith to heresy, and then back to faith as part of an active attempt to conquer evil. A personal attempt to defeat evil awakens his Christian faith. In the beginning of the play he is willing to lay down his life in order to share the fate of the victims. At the end of it, he lays down his life in an individual struggle against evil. This spiritual process raises the question of predestination. An extreme belief in predestination generates passivity, leaving everything to supernatural forces. A more moderate approach perceives human action as part of the divine plan. Already at the beginning of the play Riccardo is aware of the dangers inherent in an utter reliance on predestination. The idea that all is preordained and unchangeable discharges man from his moral responsibilities. Yet this is the core of his criticism of the Church, its lack of action in the face of evil. As he first denounces the clergy he says: 32 The Deputy, p. 271. 33 Margaret Mead discusses the implications of this last cry, before Riccardo’s death. In her view he is depicted here more as a Christian martyr than as a tragic hero. She calls this cry “an affirmation of faith”; facing the crematorium he clings to a belief in God, typical of martyrs, and not of literary protagonists. See Mead, Rolf Hochhuth, p. 29 ff.

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They still cling to the hope that everything is preordained; the great pyres ever reared, however, are made out to be the whims of a dictator who is soon to pass. (p. 98)

Riccardo ridicules the radical approach of the Church, that every single historical event is predetermined. Facing such an extreme evil, he feels that this approach is outdated and irrelevant. At this point he does not completely renounce the passive stand generated by acute predestination, but only suggests that it should not apply to any particular event in history. As Riccardo considers murdering the Pope, he describes his plan as part of a preordained plan. He makes a comparison between himself and Judas Iscariot, arguing that his crime was part of a divine plan of Christ’s death and resurrection: Could Judas have refused to play his role? He knew he would be damned for eternity. His sacrifice was than the Lord’s. (p. 163)

As Riccardo plans this extreme and dangerous action he is supported by the idea of predestination. To plan a murder of the Pope is too heavy to bear, so the young priest tries to find encouragement in religious principle he so roundly condemns. Comparing himself with Judas Iscariot shows how serious are his intentions. And just as the death of Christ was preordained, so may be the death of the Pope; as Christ’s murder brought his Resurrection, so the murder of the Pope may bring salvation to many. Riccardo points to the sacrifice of the killer – doomed forever to be condemned and despised, but acting in a way that benefits mankind. But why does Riccardo ask Gerstein to tell his father that his “life has been fulfilled”? Perhaps he means that his life reached fulfillment in the sense that it was predetermined, and that he was destined to be a self-sacrificing saint. Or maybe he is hinting that one cannot return from the concentration camps to normal life; if so, he must fulfill his destiny and die. The sentence remains somewhat enigmatic, and Hochhuth does not elaborate more on its purport. It should be noted that according to Catholic Dogma, there is a chain of representation, from God to any lowly priest. The Pope is the representative of God on earth, the clergymen represent the Church. Thus, from a theological point of view, Riccardo’s acts represent the Church in Auschwitz. As a Jesuit priest, Riccardo sees himself as a link in a chain leading from God to man. This concept of representation is connected with the manner in which evil is opposed. It raises the question whether the representation of one man carries theological weight beyond the practical implications of his acts. If the Pope does



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not act, what religious meaning has the action of a priest? Would the action of one man be atonement of the entire Church? Hochhuth struggles with these questions. Riccardo wonders: … the silence of the Pope in favor of the murderers imposes a guilt upon the Church for which it must atone. And since the Pope, although only a man, can actually represent God on earth, I … a poor priest … if need be can also represent the Pope – there where the Pope ought to be standing today. (p. 156)

He acknowledges the chain of representation – God, the Pope and the clergy – but this chain can exist even where there is a substantial gap between the Pope and the clergy. If the Pope does not act against the Nazis, Riccardo can represent him. There is a certain reciprocity between them; the priest can represent the Pope in Auschwitz, and the Pope also represents the priest in what he does. Facing a divine judgment, the Church as a whole will be more worthy than its leader, Pius XII. At this point Riccardo accuses him openly, saying that “the Pope forgets to speak out in the name of Christ” (p. 158), suggesting that he fails to represent God. Riccardo sees his actions in the concentration camp in terms of a defense of “the concept of the Papacy,”34 elaborating on the divine judgment of the Church: God shall not destroy His Church only because a Pope shrinks from His summons. (p. 220)

It follows that although he believes the Pope betrayed the path to Christ, the relationship God-Pope-Church continues to exist. He brings up the biblical story of Sodom adding an almost “quantitative” aspect to the question of representation: If God once promised Abraham that he would not destroy Sodom if only ten righteous souls lived there – do you think, Reverend Father, that God might still forgive the Church if even a few of her servants – like Lichtenberg – stand by the persecuted? (pp. 155–156)

34 In German, “die Idee des Papsttum.” The German “idee” means “concept” or “principle” rather than “idea.” Riccardo attempts to defend the Christian principle of the Papacy.

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The question of representation can be seen in a wider, non-theological context: would Germany be forgiven if a handful of people struggle against Nazism? The question remains unanswered in the play. Hochhuth is content to portray the brave young priest, a saintly figure, who sacrifices his life both to fight evil and to save the Church from future condemnation. But the question, the contemplation of a young Jesuit priest who believes all that is happening in Germany will be subject to future judgment, of man and God, is embedded in the thought of the readers and spectators of the play.35

35 Walter Kaufman discussed the play in his book, Tragedy and Philosophy. He notes the tragic end of the play and argues that Riccardo is trying to be a Christian in the deepest sense of the word. Kaufman thinks the play is a “Christian Tragedy.” See Kaufman, Tragedy and Philosophy, p. 387.

Chapter Six The Holocaust and the Future

The Holocaust and the Future

Geoffrey Hartman, in his book The Fateful Question of Culture, discusses the theoretical problem of defining a specific culture. He questions what marks the beginning and the end of an era, and how the chronological limits are determined. Although uncertainty regarding the division between the termination of one époque and the onset of another is not unusual, some historical events have unique significance in mapping world history. Looking back on the twentieth century, he argues, future historians would always describe modern history in relation to the Holocaust. Any event would be remembered either as unfolding before it or occurring in the time that followed it: In matters of historical change we often give priority to a reference drawn from revolutions, wars, disasters: from that kind of eventful history. In rare cases, such as Freud or German Culture infatuation with classical Greece (What E. M. Butler called “the tyranny of Greece over Germany’’), we include a crucial system of thought that has widely influenced terms of discourse and sensibility […] We declare one epoch over, that another one had begun, and that the calendar itself should undergo a revision, at least in our internal reckoning. Thus 1997 could be dated as 52 After Auschwitz, or 55 After the Coordination of the Final Solution at the Wannsee Conference. Let me consider further what is involved is proposing that the Holocaust’s impact is strong enough to have created, in effect, a before and after.1

Modern history, he argues, would eventually be divided into two distinctive segments: one preceding the Holocaust, and one following it. The deep spiritual abyss created by the concentration camps and the industrialized mass murder generated a new historical division, separating the modern age into two eras, and the Holocaust would be the dividing line between them. No doubt the influence of Nazism and the Holocaust on Western thought is so profound that it may be a dividing line between two eras. Hartman assumes that the implications of such an event may be the termination of some historical processes and the beginning of others. This catastrophic event was the culmination of some destructive streams, but it may also be a turning point, a shift of ideas and acts into new directions. This line of thought may also be applied to the literary works discussed in this book. The historical interpretations of the past put forward by the four writers may also suggest an insight into the future. The nature of their observations and explanations on Nazism suggest a broader approach to both culture and religion.

1 Hartman, The Fateful Question of Culture, p. 99.

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Since Klaus Mann published Mephisto in 1936, before the outbreak of World War II and the Holocaust, it could be argued that his notion of the future catastrophe proved right. Turning “devil” into a human attribute, adopting his qualities and his lack of moral inhibition indeed created “a river of blood and tears flows through the streets of all its cities.”2 Readers are often surprised to learn that this novel was written before the Holocaust, and not after it. Yet Klaus Mann’s prediction of the upcoming events is even more insightful than this general assertion, as his protagonist, the actor Hendrik Höfgen, is himself preparing for the future, for the possibility that the Nazi regime might fall. He confesses the two attempts he makes to save his anti-Nazi activist friend are insurance, in case the regime would collapse and he would have to justify his intimacy with the Nazi elite. After saving his friend he contemplates: “Would this whole adventure in which he was so deeply involved last forever? Might there not eventually be a day of upheaval and great wrath?”3 To him, the involvement with the Nazi regime was an “adventure,” a temporary sequence of events, the fear of a “great wrath” probably referring to the eschatological depiction of God’s wrath in chapter 16 in Revelation. Thus Klaus Mann’s protagonist, a German whose ruthless ambition and introspective mood make him drift into the Nazi vortex, is aware of the provisional nature of Nazism, or of the possibility that it would terminate in the near future. He does not fall for Nazi images of timeless victories but rather prepares a plausible pretext for a possible future judgment. Gustav Gründgens, the inspiration for the character of Hendrik Höfgen, returned to German after the war. In spite of his wide collaboration with the Nazis he once again became a prominent member of the German theater. In 1960 he played the role of Mephisto in a German film. A historical analysis which predicts both unprecedented violence and a quick return to a normal life cycle foresees no fundamental alteration of German culture after the Nazi regime parishes. And, indeed, Klaus Mann’s reports from post-war Germany, his experiences as an American journalist, were sad and bitter; he saw the German culture he knew prevailing after the war. Lasker-Schüler’s play epitomized the notion of a complete collapse of pre-war Germany. The admixture of the human and the divine, of Faust and Mephisto, of Nazi leaders and religious images, is a depiction of a cultural breakdown. In her play the catastrophic events unfolding in Germany are directly related to Goethe’s Faust and Mephisto; the first is partly diabolic, the other partly human. She sees nothing but chaos, a disintegration of moral values manifested in every segment of German society, not only among Nazi leaders. The Nazis are perhaps more 2 Mann, Mephisto, p. 155. 3 Mephisto, p. 191.



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brutal and vulgar than Faust, but he has no moral advantage over them. He supports Germany regardless of whatever crimes it may have committed, yearning to fulfill again his artistic abilities. The Nazis falling into the burning lava is a note of optimism. Lasker-Schüler has no doubt that the vicious regime will not endure. Juxtaposed with ancient Judaism, Nazism is a temporary phenomenon, although what will follow it is completely unknown. The lack of opposition within German society does not rule out the possibility that brutal Fascism would resurface again in the future. Nazi leaders and soldiers are devastated, not their ideas. Surprisingly, the only figure to articulate a moral stand is the devil, Mephisto. At the end of the play, at the Postlude, the Poet is in the afterlife, situated between Faust and Mephisto. The Postlude is very short, about a page long, a segment of the play that is outside its the general framework, taking place in Hell and in Jerusalem. After her death Lasker-Schüler attempts to articulate the moral of her play in these lines: The play is done – I can no more … [But a voice is heard from Earth star nearby – asking: “Do you believe in God?” Curtain falls] ELSE LASKER-SCHÜLER [singing softly behind the curtain]: I’m so happy, I’m so happy: God is here! (pp. 278–279)

The conclusion is a joyous acknowledgment of the existence of God. The affirmation of a divine presence is an anchor rather than an expression of a purely religious belief. The Poet makes a sigh of relief that this essential part of the pre-war world has not perished. A belief in a monotheistic God is one of the foundations of Western thought and ethics, and so are the set of values that Judeo-Christian traditions generated. Yet only after her death does she find that God exists. Writing the play during World War II in Jerusalem, this affirmation uncovers a yearning for the spirit and values of pre-war Germany, a longing for the Judeo-Christian culture that the Nazi regime tried ruthlessly to annihilate. Unlike Else Lasker-Schüler, Thomas Mann concludes his address with a somewhat optimistic prediction of Germany’s future. He formulates his expectations of the nature of post-war Germany and Europe. But the very last sentences of the lecture reveal a more forgiving note. After a hope for a better Germany, the lecture ends with surprising sentences: In the seclusiveness of the German there was always so much longing for companionship; indeed at the bottom of the very loneliness that made him wicked lay always the wish to love, the wish to be loved. In the end the German misfortune is only the paradigm of the

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tragedy of human life. And the grace that Germany so sorely needs, my friends, all of us need. (p. 66)

The simple, almost simplistic, conclusion of the address is unexpected, especially since it follows an intricate analysis of German culture. After an examination of the subtle and complex shades of German heritage, of Luther and Goethe, the concluding sentence appears almost banal. He may have felt that a presentation of German culture to an American audience must end with a humane depiction of the German. In spite of the tragedies Germans created, an address on “Germany and the Germans” would not be complete without a depiction of a simple, comprehensible human motive, which would stand beyond a complex historical analysis. Suffering loneliness, the need to be loved, they are clear to anyone, and Mann even states that the misfortune of Germany in a paradigm for general human needs. It could be argued, though, that in this last sentence Thomas Mann betrayed the all-encompassing moral judgment of Nazism and the Holocaust. More than a decade later, Hochhuth’s formation of the devil is not inspired by Goethe’s Mephisto, but by Biblical and Medieval sources. He revives Satan from the ancient context from which he first emerged, granting him the attributes of the traditional Judeo-Christian image of the devil. His historic interpretation attempts to integrate a religious understanding of the Holocaust with a more traditional analysis of historical facts. The play presents the possibility that the Holocaust was, indeed, the doing of the supernatural devil. It would be safe to assume that the play was not directed at a religious audience. The nature of the argumentation and the interlacing of religious and a rationalistic historical interpretation suggests that Hochhuth was attempting to convince his secular contemporaries that a supernatural, absolute evil was revealed in the Holocaust. The devil is conducting the cruelest experiment ever in human beings in order to provoke a divine response – but God does not answer and does not stop the genocide. The accusations directed at the Catholic Church are compelling when seen against this background. The Pope is not accused only in a general moral context, but mainly as the Deputy of God on earth. His unique place should have made him protest in any possible way to stop the genocide in the concentration camps. His silence, argues Hochhuth, is the divine silence. The question of evil, then, is how does it prevail in a world in which God exists and acts. Some of the fierce reactions to the play were a result of the very articulation of such a question, and from a lack of an appropriate answer. The presence of the devil makes Hochhuth’s accusations against the Church more intriguing. They are not limited to the historic argument: if the Holy See would have protested against Nazism it could have prevented, even if partially,



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the Holocaust. In a play with an active devil, a lack of a divine response has religious implications. Why does God permit the devil to act as he did? Why does he allow the vicious “experiments” on human beings without coming to their aid? The image of the devil makes these questions concrete and tangible, and the silence of the Deputy shameful and unforgivable. The perception of the Holocaust within the spiritual framework of evil and divine providence diminishes the place of German culture, which has only a minor role in Hochhuth’s play. He discusses Nazism as a universal phenomenon, and describes the human response it evokes. At most, the Germans are to blame for following immoral leaders. But Hochhuth’s view of this question is not fully elaborated in the play. If a supernatural power created Nazism, it follows that it could have happened elsewhere as well. But as the Nazi regime was formed a vortex of evil and cruelty was created from which it was almost impossible to escape. Any attempt to resist this regime was life threatening. The play concludes as the two saintly protagonists are dead, and Mengele, the devil, escapes and is never found. Some of Hochhuth’s critics argue that he tends to diminish the German responsibility for the Holocaust. Introducing a supernatural element into the historical analysis scales down the acts of man. But Hochhuth does not ignore the moral judgment – in a world with supernatural forces there is room for personal choice. The fundamental question the play raises is the role of personal responsibility in a world with both God and the devil. However, the effect of cultural heritage and common national values is decreased in this work. Ascribing such importance to the devil in a historical analysis emphasizes its general, universal aspect. The play gives no explicit reference to Hochhuth’s view of the future. He refers neither to possible developments in Germany nor to the effect of the war on the Western world. Since Hochhuth wrote the play more than a decade after the war was over he could have referred to its wide political and spiritual impact, but he does not exceed the historical boundaries of Auschwitz. Yet introducing religious roots of the Holocaust implies that it could be repeated in the future. The struggle of man with ultimate evil is both ancient and perpetual. From this perspective the glimpse into the future is not optimistic. Mengele’s assertion that the concentration camp is the most daring “experiment” the devil has ever conducted creates a hierarchy of evil within his acts. The Holocaust, then, is the most radical manifestation of evil in world history. This brings to light the magnitude of cruelty revealed in Auschwitz, but it does not rule out the possibility that ultimate evil will erupt again in the future. A portrayal of brutal cruelty and savageness as a materialization of devilish acts necessarily implies that it is not unique, and it could recur again.

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In spite of the various ways in which the devil and devilishness are presented in the works discussed in this book, all four writers chose to link Nazism with the figure of Satan and his attributes. Even though they were all written in the twentieth century, a time of the most secularization of the Western world, they all turned to the religious motif of the devil. The ultimate evil revealed at this time, as the mechanism of genocide was active and efficient, evoked ancient beliefs in a power that is the embodiment of absolute evil. The primordial image of a character that is evil itself remains embedded in the human mind even in times in which it seems to become a pure metaphor. But facing historical phenomena that are almost inexplicable, Klaus Mann, Elsa Lasker-Schüler, Thomas Mann and Rolf Hochhuth turned to this religious motif that was interpreted in so many ways in the past. Thus, four new links in the chain of interpretations to the devil were created. It seemed as if this character is no longer a part of the modern spirit, but apparently he exists, even if tacitly, in the minds of many. Each of four writers interprets him in a different manner, yet they all felt that he inspires a unique view of contemporary history.

Bibliography Primary Sources Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, von. Faust: eine Tragodie. Berlin: T. Knaur, 1927. Hochhuth, Rolf. Der Stellvertreter: Schauspiel. Reinbeck bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1963. Lasker-Schüler, Else. Ich und Ich: ‎ Verse und Prosa aus dem Nachlass. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2002. Mann, Klaus. Mephisto: Roman einer Karriere. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1980. Mann, Thomas. Doktor Faustus ; die Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. Frankfurt: S. Fischer, 1981.

Primary Sources – English Translation Augustine, City of God. Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, 1958. Dante Alighieri. The Inferno. New York: New American Library, 1954. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, Von. Faust (Trans. Bayard Taylor). Teddington: Echo Library, 2006. Hochhuth, Rolf. The Deputy (Trans. Richard and Clara Winston). Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1997. Lasker-Schüler, Else. I and I (Trans. Jane Curtis). In Three Plays, Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2005. Mann, Klaus. Mephisto (Trans. Robin Smyth). Reprint. New York: Penguin Books, 1995. Mann, Thomas. Doctor Faustus: the life of the German composer Adrian Leverkuhn as told by a friend (Trans. Lowe-Porter). London: Penguin Books in association with M. Secker & Warburg, 1968 Mann, Thomas. Germany and the Germans. In Thomas Mann’s Addresses, Delivered at the Library of Congress 1942–1949. Washington: Library of Congress, 1963. Plato. The Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Interpretation Arbaugh, George E., and George B. Arbaugh. Kierkegaard’s Authorship, London: Allen and Unwin, 1968. Arendt, Hannah. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. Auerbach, Eric. Mimesis: the Representation of Reality in Western Literature. New York: Doubleday, 1953. Bainton, Ronald Herbert. Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1990. Bates, Paul. Faust: Sources, Works, Criticism. New York: Harcourt Brace and World, 1969. Bauschinger, Sigrid. Else Lasker-Schüler: Biographie. Göttingen: Verlag Wallstein, 2004. Bernstein, Alan E. The Formation of Hell. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993. Bianquis, Genvieve. Faust à Traves Quatre Siécles. Paris: Aubier, 1955.

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Index Index Athenagoras of Athens 11 Index Index Augustine 1, 15, 16, 23 Basil of Caesarea 21 Clement of Alexandria 18 Evagrius 18, 19 Father Kolbe 153 Faust, Johan 12, 13, 22, 23 Gerstein, Kurt – in The Deputy 125, 130, 144, 146–153 Gide, André 61 Goebbels, Joseph – in Mephisto 26, 31, 41, 56, 58 – in I and I 84, 81, 92, 93, 94, 95 – in Germany and the Germans 99 – in The Deputy 127 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 6, 7, 164 – in Mephisto 27, 28, 53, 59, 65, 66 – in I and I 76, 82, 83, 85, 88, 89, 93, 94, 95 – in Germany and the Germans 101, 104, 108, 109, 113, 114, 115, 117, 119 Goethe’s Faust 3, 5, 6, 7, 23, 24, 162, 163 – in Mephisto 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 39, 54, 58, 59, 62, 64, 65, 66, 68 – in I and I 78–84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94 – in Germany and the Germans 104–109, 114 – in The Deputy 131 Hermann and Dorothea 93, 94 Göring, Hermann – in Mephisto 26, 28, 30, 31, 38, 39, 40, 43, 44, 47, 50, 51, 55, 56, 58, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 69, 70 – in I and I 92, 93 – in Germany and the Germans 99 – in The Deputy 127

Gründgens, Gustav 25, 26, 27, 31, 162 Hartman, Geoffrey 161 Hitler, Adolf 5 – in Mephisto 26, 30, 31, 37, 56, 57, 58, 59, 69 – in I and I 86, 87, 88, 89, 92, 94, 96 – in Germany and the Germans 99, 117 – in The Deputy 127, 128, 129, 135, 136, 139, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152 Hochhuth, Rolf 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 71, 97, 110, 121–160, 146, 165, 166 Innocent VIII 21 Kierkegaard, Soren 106, 151 Lasker-Schüler, Else 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 71–96, 110, 162, 163, 166 Lichtenberg, Bernard 153 Luther, Martin 5, 14, 15, 99, 100–104, 105, 107, 108, 111, 113, 117, 164 Mann, Klaus 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 25–70, 80, 83, 84, 89, 94, 97, 107, 110, 121, 162, 166 Mann, Thomas 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 23, 24, 25, 26, 62, 63, 66, 67, 68, 69, 80, 82, 92, 96, 97–120, 129, 163, 164, 166 Mengele, Josef 5, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 165 Nietzsche, Friedrich 61, 64, 114 Pius XII 7, 121, 122, 123, 125, 138, 139, 142, 143, 144, 150, 152, 159 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 33, 34 Tertullian 12 Theophilus of Adana 21 Thomas Aquinas 14, 137