Freud and the Émigré: Austrian Émigrés, Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain, 1930s–1970s [1st ed.] 9783030517861, 9783030517878

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Freud and the Émigré Austrian Émigrés, Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain, 1930s–1970s

Edited by Elana Shapira · Daniela Finzi

Freud and the Émigré

Elana Shapira · Daniela Finzi Editors

Freud and the Émigré Austrian Émigrés, Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain, 1930s–1970s

Editors Elana Shapira University of Applied Arts Vienna Vienna, Austria

Daniela Finzi Sigmund Freud Museum Vienna, Austria

ISBN 978-3-030-51786-1 ISBN 978-3-030-51787-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover image: Detail of Marie-Louise von Motesiczky, The Travellers, 1940. University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art. Purchased with the support of the Marie-Louise v on Motesiczky Charitable Trust and the Edwin B. Green Acquisition Fund © Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust (2020) This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgments

The book Freud and the Émigré is the outcome of a shared and inspiring journey of the co-editors starting with the International Symposium “Freud and the Émigré. Austrian Émigrés and Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain from the 1930s through the 1970s” that took place at the Sigmund Freud Museum Vienna, November 8–9, 2018. We are grateful to the Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung Vienna for hosting the symposium and for supporting this book project. We are indebted to the authors who contributed to this anthology. We thank historian and philosopher Friedrich Stadler from the Wiener Kreis Institute at the University of Vienna for his contribution to the symposium. Elana Shapira is indebted to the Austrian Science Fund for supporting her research leading to the symposium and to this book in the frame of the research project “Visionary Vienna: Design and Society 1918-1934” (FWF, Nr. 619) at the Design Institute at the University of Applied Arts Vienna.

Elana Shapira Daniela Finzi v

Contents

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Introduction: Austrian Émigrés and Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain Elana Shapira

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The Promised Land: Freud’s Dream of England Liliane Weissberg

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Ernst L. Freud, Domestic Architect: Zuhause in Berlin, at Home in London Volker M. Welter

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Intellectual Hero, Most Beloved Master: Stefan Zweig and Sigmund Freud in British Exile Werner Michler

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Émigrés, Exiles and Strangers: Berthold Viertel and 1930s Cinema in Britain Laura Marcus

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“A Sea Ringed with Visions”—Oskar Kokoschka’s Reception of Sigmund Freud’s Theories in His London Years Régine Bonnefoit

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CONTENTS

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Anna Freud Shaping Child Education and Promoting “Democratic Citizenship” in Britain Michal Shapira

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Whose/Which “Freud”? Social Context and Discourse Analysis of the “Controversial Discussions” Mitchell G. Ash

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War Work and Integrated Analysis: Ernst Kris and E.H. Gombrich in Exile Louis Rose

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Marie Jahoda Deconstructing Freud Elana Shapira

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Hilde Spiel’s Freud: Jews, Exile, and a Viennese Legacy Lisa Silverman

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Bibliography

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Name Index

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Subject and Place Index

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Editors and Contributors

About the Editors Elana Shapira is cultural and design historian and project leader of the Austrian Science Fund research project “Visionary Vienna: Design and Society 1918–1934” (2017–2021); She is senior postdoctoral fellow and lecturer in Design History and Theory at the University of Applied Arts Vienna. Shapira co-organized the International Symposium Freud and the Émigré (2018). Her research focus is on modern intellectual and material cultures and her publications include the book Style and Seduction. Jewish Patrons, Architecture, and Design in Fin de Siècle Vienna (2016). She edited Design Dialogue: Jews, Culture and Viennese Modernism (2018), co-edited Émigré Cultures in Design and Architecture (2017). Her forthcoming edited anthology is Designing Transformation: Jews and Cultural Identity in Central European Modernism (2021). Elana Shapira is the author of the introduction and Chapter 10 in this anthology. Daniela Finzi is literature and cultural historian, and Scientific Director and Board Member of the Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung since 2016. Previously she worked as a researcher at the Sigmund Freud Museum since 2009. Finzi studied German Philology and Theatre Studies in Salzburg, Vienna, Paris, and Berlin and completed the interdisciplinary Ph.D. program “Cultures of Difference. Transformation in Central

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Europe.” Since March 2010 she is working as a lecturer at the University of Vienna. Finzi is a board member of the cultural studies association aka—Arbeitskreis Kulturanalyse since 2014 and member of the editorial board of aka/Texte, which are published by Turia + Kant.

Contributors Mitchell G. Ash is Professor Emeritus of Modern History at the University of Vienna, Austria, and a member of the Berlin-Brandenburg Academy of Sciences and Humanities as well as the European Academy of Sciences and Arts. He received his Ph.D. at Harvard University. He is author or editor of 16 books and more than 160 articles and chapters focusing on the relations of science, society, and culture in historical context, including the forced migration of psychologists and psychoanalysts during the Nazi era. Régine Bonnefoit is Professor of Art history and Museology at the University of Neuchâtel. She received her Ph.D. at University of Heidelberg and her Post-Doctorate at the University of Passau. She worked as research assistant at the “Département des Arts graphiques du Musée du Louvre” (1992–1994) and researched at the Institute of Art History in Florence (1995–1998). Awarded the Wolfgang Ratjen Prize in 1998 for “outstanding research in the field of graphic arts.” Trainee at Berlin Museums (2000–2001). University assistant at the Institute of Art History at the University of Lausanne (2001–2006). Curator at the Oskar Kokoschka Foundation in Vevey (2006–2016). Previous Bonnefoit also held a professorship at the Swiss National Science Foundation. Curator and co-curator of numerous exhibitions. Laura Marcus is Goldsmiths’ Professor of English Literature and Professorial Fellow of New College at the University of Oxford. She has published widely on various aspects of nineteenth- and twentieth-century literature and culture, including early cinema and the history of psychoanalysis. Her publications include Auto/biographical Discourses: Theory, Criticism, Practice (1994/1998); Virginia Woolf: Writers and Their Work (1997/2004), The Tenth Muse: Writing about Cinema in the Modernist Period (2007), Dreams of Modernity: Psychoanalysis, Literature, Cinema (2014) and Autobiography: A Very Short Introduction (2018).

EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS

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Werner Michler is Professor of Modern German Literature at the University of Salzburg since 2013. From 2017 to 2020 he was president of the Austrian Society for German Studies (ÖGG). Michler’s research focus is on history and theory of literary genres, German and Austrian Literature eighteenth–twentieth century, literature and science, history and theory of translation, literary education. Among his publications are Darwinismus und Literatur. Naturwissenschaftliche und literarische Intelligenz in Österreich, 1859–1914 (Darwinism and Literature. Scientific and Literary Intelligence in Austria, 1859–1914, 1999); Kulturen der Gattung. Poetik im Kontext, 1750–1950. (Cultures of genre. Poetics in context, 1750–1950, 2015); he is co-editor of the Salzburg edition of Stefan Zweig’s narrative prose and co-editor of vol. 1, Sternstunden der Menschheit (Great Moments of Humanity). Louis Rose is Professor of Modern European History at Otterbein University and Executive Director of the Sigmund Freud Archives. His most recent book is Psychology, Art, and Antifascism: Ernst Kris, E. H. Gombrich, and the Politics of Caricature (Yale, 2016), for which a Chinese translation is now in preparation. His previous books are The Survival of Images: Art Historians, Psychoanalysts, and the Ancients (Wayne State, 2001) and The Freudian Calling: Early Viennese Psychoanalysis and the Pursuit of Cultural Science (Wayne State, 1998), which received the 1999 Austrian Cultural Institute Prize for Best Book in Austrian Studies. From 2011 to 2018, he was Editor of the interdisciplinary psychoanalytic journal American Imago. In 2017, he was awarded Honorary Membership in the American Psychoanalytic Association. Michal Shapira is Senior Lecturer of History at Tel Aviv University. She previously taught at Columbia University, Barnard College and at Amherst College. Her publications deal with the history of psychoanalysis and the legacies of Second World War in Britain and beyond. She focuses on total war, gender, and the development of expert culture in the twentieth century. Her book The War Inside: Psychoanalysis, Total War, and the Making of the Democratic Self in Postwar Britain(Cambridge University Press, 2013) was shortlisted for the Royal Historical Society Whitfield Prize and for the Gradiva Book Award, National Association for the Advancement of Psychoanalysis. Lisa Silverman is Associate Professor of History and Jewish Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. She is author of Becoming

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Austrians: Jews and Culture Between the World Wars (Oxford, 2012) and co-author with Daniel H. Magilow of Holocaust Representations in History: An Introduction (Bloomsbury, 2015/2019). Co-edited volumes include Austrian Studies 24: Jews, Jewish Difference and Austrian Culture: Literary and Historical Perspectives (2016), Interwar Vienna: Culture Between Tradition and Modernity (Camden House, 2009), and Making Place: Space and Embodiment in the City (Indiana, 2014). Liliane Weissberg is Christopher H. Brown Distinguished Professor in Arts and Science at the University of Pennsylvania. She is the author of numerous books and essays on German-Jewish philosophy and cultural history. Among her recent book publications are: Münzen, Hände, Noten, Finger: Berliner Hofjuden und die Erfindung einer deutschen Musikkultur (Coins, hands, notes, fingers: Berlin court Jews and the invention of a German music culture 2018); Nachträglich, grundlegend: Der Kommentar als Denkform in der jüdischen Moderne von Hermann Cohen bis Jacques Derrida (with Andreas Kilcher; Subsequently, fundamental: the commentary as a form of thought in Jewish modernism from Hermann Cohen to Jacques Derrida 2018). Volker M. Welter is Professor of the History of Architecture at the University of California at Santa Barbara. He is the author of Ernst L. Freud, Architect: The Case of the Modern Bourgeois Home (Oxford, 2012) and Ernst L. Freud und das Landhaus Frank: Ein Wohnhaus der Moderne in Berlin (Berlin, 2014). His most recent publication is Tremaine Houses: One Family’s Patronage of Domestic Architecture in Midcentury America (Los Angeles, 2019).

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2

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Fig. 3.2

Fig. 3.3

Fig. 4.1

Sigmund Freud’s study at 20 Maresfield Gardens © Freud Museum London Marie-Louise von Motesiczky, The Travellers, 1940 (University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art. Purchased with the support of the Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust and the Edwin B. Green Acquisition Fund © Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust [2020]) Ernst L. Freud. Design sketch for a consulting couch and psychoanalyst’s chair placed between two bookshelves, possible for 20 Maresfield Gardens, London, not dated (Photograph: RIBA Collections) Ernst L. Freud, at the desk of his study inside the living room-cum-office of his London home, 1935 (Photograph: RIBA Collections) Ernst L. Freud. Chairs, bookshelves and fireplace in the office inside the family apartment, Regentenstraße 23, Berlin, as published in Die Pyramide, August 1928 (Berlin: Sieben Stäbe) (Photograph: Canadian Centre for Architecture) Stefan Zweig, Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds (Fragment I). Manuscript Reed Library, State University of New York, Fredonia—Stefan Zweig Collection, SZ-AP2/W-H206, p. 1

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LIST OF FIGURES

Fig. 4.2

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Fig. 6.1

Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3

Fig. 6.4

Fig. 7.1 Fig. 7.2 Fig. 10.1

Fig. 11.1

Stefan Zweig, Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds (Fragment II). Manuscript Literaturarchiv Salzburg, University of Salzburg—Stefan Zweig Collection, SZ-AAP/W33‚ p. 4 Peter Witt, Lothar Mendes and Berthold Viertel talk about their latest films, in: Picturegoer Weekly, April 7, 1934, p. 14 Peter Witt, Lothar Mendes and Berthold Viertel talk about their latest films, in: Picturegoer Weekly, April 7, 1934, p. 15 Oskar Kokoschka, Self -Portrait as a Degenerate Artist, 1937, Private collection, permanent loan to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh Oskar Kokoschka, A sea ringed with visions, London: Thames and Hudson, 1962 Oskar Kokoschka, Hades and Persephone, left wing of the Prometheus Triptych, 1950, The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London Oskar Kokoschka, Prometheus, right wing of the Prometheus triptych, 1950, The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London Anna Freud, c. 1940 © Freud Museum London Hampstead War Nurseries, London 1940 © Freud Museum London Marie Jahoda, Photoseries, 1947/48; © Archiv für die Geschichte der Soziologie in Österreich, Universität Graz, Nachlass Marie Jahoda Anna Freud, the Austrian Envoy Heinrich Gleissner and Paula Fichtl. On the occasion of Paula Fichtl being awarded the Medal of Honor for Services to the Republic of Austria on June 20, 1980 (© Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung Vienna)

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Austrian Émigrés and Exiles and the Legacy of Psychoanalysis in Britain Elana Shapira

Prologue: “For Me Emigration Is Out of the Question”1 In a memorandum of Sigmund Freud written in November 1918, at the end of the First World War, the father of psychoanalysis reconsidered his sense of belonging to Austria: “Austria-Hungary is no more. I do not want to live anywhere else. For me emigration is out of the question. I shall live on with the torso and imagine that it is the whole.”2 This allusion to the segmented body is an apt metaphor for how Austrian émigrés and exiles who arrived in Britain during the rise of Fascism in Austria and after the annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany in March 1938 perhaps saw themselves within a diaspora.3 Furthermore, it is possible that exiles referred to Freud’s writings as part of the remaining “torso” of their Austrian identity, seeing his contributions as a conduit for imagining the “whole” of a Viennese/Austrian identification that had been imperiled. As early as 1934, a year after the rise of Germany’s Nazi totalitarian regime that was followed by the systematic persecution of Jewish citizens

E. Shapira (B) University of Applied Arts Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_1

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and regime opponents, and around the time the Fascist conservative party was strengthening its totalitarian rule in Austria, Freud noted in a letter to German author Arnold Zweig that he was aware he might need to leave Vienna.4 More than a year later, in November 1935, gravely aware of the mounting German Nazi threat against Jews, Freud still had not come to terms with the emigration option. Yet in a letter to the dentist and patron of Jewish Moravian culture, Siegfried Fehl, he noted that in his family history the experience of moving from one place to another in Austro-Hungary repeated itself at least twice.5 Although thousands of Jewish refugees from Galicia and Bukovina had arrived in Vienna and received an unfavorable reception during and at the end of the First World War, and although Freud would have witnessed the rise of the National-Socialist party both in Germany and to a certain extent also in Austria since the end of the 1920s, he avoided theorizing the experience of emigration and its effects on the human psyche. This despite that the consideration of leaving Austria was always there for Freud, although as a rather romantic option. In a letter from August 1882, at the beginning of his career, he wrote to his fiancée Martha, “I am aching for independence, so as to follow my wishes. The thought of England surges up before me, with its sober industriousness, its generous devotion to the public will, […].” He concludes: “Must we stay here, Martha? If possible let us seek a home where human worth is more respected.”6 There was a close cultural affinity between intellectual Viennese Jews and the British culture and Freud’s romantic longing to find a home in Britain could be said to have developed in parallel to the broader cultural production of Vienna’s avant-garde and its Jewish perspective in the early 1900s.7 During this same period, however, while the psychoanalytic movement was taking off in Vienna, it is difficult to ascertain how Freud was registering “cultural belonging” in his city. There is some evidence that Freud was attentive to the possibility that he could be forced to leave at any minute in the face of persecution even while he resisted the term “emigrant.” His wife Martha Freud documents that Freud’s awareness of the threat of persecution and confiscation of property had influenced his choice not to possess land in Austria: We Jews, we Jews, should have no possesion! [Sigmund] was therefore never going to buy land in his homeland, although he was recommended to, often. He refused with the words: A Jew has no possession, a Jew shall always carry packed suitcases.8

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The possibility of “relocation(s)” became integral to Freud’s European identification, however, he framed his family’s migration narrative(s) and the threat of one day being forced to leave Austria within a biblical construct, where the Jew was “always” to be displaced in Europe. In fact, even as he demurred from engaging the idea of “emigration,” Freud referred to his experiences of European cities as different diaspora in plural. Freud’s (Western) Jewish self-identification within the context of Europe is a critical part of his writings.9 One of his well-known texts is an analysis of the statue of Moses by the Italian Renaissance sculptor Michelangelo (1914) wherein his identification with Moses forms part of the critical approach. He also imbued Jewish diasporic history with nostalgia. Above the treatment couch in his office, Freud kept a print of a nineteenth-century watercolor drawing by Ernst Körner of the Abu Simbel Temple in Egypt; he would make sure to bring it with him after his forced emigration to London in June 1938. Egypt was integral to the diaspora narrative, and he would return to its role in Jewish history in an attempt to confront antisemitism and contend with forced emigration in the years from 1934 to 1938. Nostalgia played a significant part in Freud’s setting up his London office as a site of multiple converging tendencies within the life and experiences of the exile. Freud recreated his famous former studio after emigrating to London in June, 1938, with the help of his son, the architect Ernst Freud, and his daughter, Anna Freud. For Freud the office conveyed nostalgia while reasserting a Viennese European intellectual life. It can be associated with Freud’s confrontation of the “anxious projection” that emerged in the face of forced emigration. For Austrian émigrés his studio may have offered something to hold onto from their past lives, serving as a material antidote for other Viennese émigrés’ disorientation particularly. Indeed, the house in Maresfield Gardens 20 north London, purchased soon after the Freud family’s arrival, was in a neighborhood associated with the psychoanalytic scene (Fig. 1.1).10 Freud turned his former studio into an emblem and “display” of a cultural life that had faced extinction. Freud is a unique example of an immigrant who was able to reconstruct a semblance of a former cultural, intellectual, and historical richness in his new cultural context. We can apply this exilic expression, his imagined continuation of a “Viennese life” in London, to how other émigrés adapted to change. Furthermore, the contention here is that psychoanalysis itself as a mode

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Fig. 1.1 Sigmund Freud’s study at 20 Maresfield Gardens © Freud Museum London

of expression, particularly as attached to Freud and his application of it, was a way for Viennese émigrés to reclaim their identity and voice. The impact of Austrian émigrés’ and exiles’ science and artworks on the larger public through radio broadcasting, through teaching, as well as through participation in exhibitions has been acknowledged in recent years both in Britain and Austria.11 The anthology Freud and the Émigré develops different aspects introduced thirty years ago in a groundbreaking anthology. In the book, Freud in Exile (1988), German studies scholars Edward Timms and Naomi Segal addressed critical aspects in the historical development of psychoanalysis in Vienna; they also considered the cultural differences between German and British cultures in the translation of Freud’s writings and the possibilities of revisiting psychoanalytic theory through the lens of forced emigration.12 The chapters in the anthology Freud in Exile examined various psychoanalysts’ careers after their emigration, their overcoming of language obstacles, or the hindrances, and actual trauma they faced.13 The book explored “the diverse ways in which a system of ideas, transplanted from its original Austrian setting into the

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English-speaking cultures of Britain and the United States, has [had] been adapted to new environments.”14 Timms and Segal refer to the exile experience and the promotion of psychoanalysis as a global phenomenon and point to a question posed by British-Czech philosopher and social anthropologist Ernest Gellner: “How was this astonishing conquest of our thoughts and language accomplished?”15 According to Gellner, psychoanalysis does “justice to what we know of our inner lives, the power of dark drives and the semantic complexity. This is why psychoanalysis has conquered the language and thought of the Western World.”16 The current anthology aims to open the discussion about how émigrés claimed Freud and Freudian lessons, particularly, as part of their creative practice while in exile. It focuses on how displaced Austrians contributed to cultural renewal and scientific discourses in Britain and the United States as well as in Austria, for those émigrés who returned. Questions raised in Timms’ and Segal’s anthology regarding the relation between psychoanalysis’s Viennese background and its Jewish identification(s) as well as their interest in émigrés’ enactment of psychoanalysis for the purposes of transformation, and their study of the cultural differences between Austrians and Britons, are critically discussed in this current anthology. However, the contributions in the current anthology look at how psychoanalysis was used to benefit the émigrés themselves by offering them a way to again find their public voice; their reclamation of psychoanalytic language and psychoanalytic lessons ran parallel to their progress with their cultural productions. In 2002, social and cultural historian Daniel Snowman reviewing the cultural impact of refugees from Nazism on Britain suggested that: If psychoanalysis came to flourish in exile in London, it was not only because figures like Freud and Ernest Jones (and, since the 1920s, Melanie Klein) lived there and provided a magnet. The subject matter itself was especially well-adapted to exile. […] It is premised on a theory of loss, a form of therapy designed to help people survive in a new world where they are bereft of their primary emotional influences – exiled forever, as it were, from the half-remembered Eden of infancy. As such psychoanalysis is in some ways almost a paradigm of the refugee experience, of the emotional odyssey of the émigré, and was clasped and disseminated by members of the émigré community in Britain, America and elsewhere.17

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Freud and the Émigré offers different perspectives both on Timms’ and Segal’s identification that Freud’s 1938 arrival in London was a token of the growing prestige of psychoanalysis and on Snowman’s suggestion that psychoanalysis offered émigrés a therapeutic model, echoing their emotional odyssey and granting them tools to rework their “loss.” The discussions in this book go beyond consideration of psychoanalysis as a cultural-historical phenomenon and practice to insist on tracing continuity between the “author” or “practitioner” and her/his “work.”18 Psychoanalysis is framed as a tool for recovering an authorial voice in order to contribute to the development of shared humanized knowledge. By “humanized knowledge,” it is suggested that the tone of exchange was one centered on self-reflection and social responsibility, and which illuminated the processes of perception and relating, and reworked strategies of inclusion and empowerment of self and “Others.”19 Gathering, theorizing, and sharing such knowledge aimed to understand and learn from the complexity of the human experience. Reconsidering émigrés’ and exiles’ cultural productions, it is also relevant to refer to the Bulgarian-French feminist philosopher Julia Kristeva’s perspective that psychoanalysis is a language through which we can begin to acknowledge the strangeness within ourselves, enabling us to live with one another through respect and love (or understanding) of the strangers in our midst, including ourselves.20 In our considerations of the ideological motivations that helped the book’s protagonists succeed in Britain (or in the United States via Britain), the question is what role Freud and the individualistic lessons of psychoanalysis played in how they came to terms with the experience of emigration. A couple of questions arise as we consider the impact Freud’s work and presence had on the émigré community in London. What role did Freud’s family, followers, and associates play in keeping his heritage a valuable asset for Austrian émigrés? What was it about Freud—as opposed to other prominent exiles—that granted Austrian émigrés in Britain the possibility to reclaim Viennese heritage as part of their cultural heritage and, furthermore, to rework psychoanalytic lessons as part of their creative authorship in a completely new land? Addressing these questions, this anthology presents insights into several émigré actors and their relationship with psychoanalysis as a methodology for reflecting, expressing, or processing the exilic experience. Among those discussed are two members of Freud’s family, his daughter, the educator, and psychoanalyst Anna Freud (also his right hand in his late career) and his son, architect Ernst

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Freud, who helped preserve the continuation and renewal of their father’s legacy in Britain. Anna Freud did so by taking a prominent role in the Psychoanalytic Society and developing her own psychoanalytic theories, while Ernst Freud recreated the family’s “Viennese home” in the new Londoner address in a manner that helped secure this cultural heritage. Both helped preserve the position of Freud as the “father of psychoanalysis” and furthermore as a Viennese celebrity. Other protagonists discussed in this volume, such as authors Stefan Zweig and Hilde Spiel and social psychologist Marie Jahoda, referred to these representations of Freud in their works and their processing of Viennese heritage.21 The anthology also claims that psychoanalysis as a theory not only promoted individual self-analysis but allowed individuals to reconfigure their subjectivity in relation to cultural production. Stefan Zweig, the author and film producer Berthold Viertel, and the artist Oskar Kokoschka came to terms with persecution and dislocation(s) and reclaimed creative authorship through their use of psychoanalysis. Moreover, the hermeneutic character of psychoanalysis, which treats the relation between individual and society and subjectivity and culture, spurred the development of critical psychoanalytic and sociological theories. In the case of Anna Freud this took the form of the relation between childhood education and promotion of democratic citizenship, while in the case of art historian and psychoanalyst, Ernst Kris, his theories combatted fascist propaganda and critically integrated analysis of society. Furthermore, in the case of Marie Jahoda, she offered social theories on prejudice and used psychoanalytic theories to understand the phenomenon of antisemitism. Through these examples and others, it is suggested that Freud and his lessons served émigrés and exiled authors, artists, sociologists, and psychoanalysts in multiple manners. For these cultural producers psychoanalysis was a “humanizing” language and mode of expression, and as such it can be understood as a methodology by which they processed experiences of exile.

“We Do Not Stand Here Empty Handed”22 Austrian émigrés and refugees arrived in England in primarily three waves: in 1933, after the rise of National Socialism in Germany; after 1934, subsequent to the founding of the Austro-Fascist dictatorship; and in 1938, after Nazi Germany’s annexation of Austria. Most of these exiles were identified as “racial and economic refugees” rather than political

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refugees, which undermined their claims for asylum. These categorizations essentially narrowed the context of immigration and the perceived contributions of immigrants. According to the research of historian and exile studies scholar Siglinde Bolbecher and German studies scholar Anthony Grenville, almost 31,000 Austrian émigrés and exiles arrived in Britain. The vast majority of 85– 90% were Jews or of Jewish origin and 10–15% were gentiles identified as political and intellectual émigrés and exiles. Many Jews identified themselves also as intellectuals and political dissidents, only with more critical claims.23 Most of the émigrés were middle class; a disproportionate number came from Vienna and had long assimilated into life in the old imperial capital. However, a majority of them arrived in exile stripped not only of their civil rights but of their possessions. The painting, “The Travellers,” by Marie-Louise von Motesiczky (1940) (Fig. 1.2) documents

Fig. 1.2 Marie-Louise von Motesiczky, The Travellers, 1940 (University of Iowa Stanley Museum of Art. Purchased with the support of the Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust and the Edwin B. Green Acquisition Fund © Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust [2020])

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the immigrant experience. It was inspired by her personal experience and depicts her close ones, yet the refugees portrayed could represent many who were stripped of their possessions and faced existential dread, having little with which to reclaim their professional and personal authorship in the new British environment.24 The exiles who found themselves in London attempted to reproduce their previous lives with café society, regular music concerts, and intellectual discussion. However, as this book discusses, the question of how to bring a past creative Viennese and European-Jewish cultural context into the context of exile after the trauma and destruction of the mid-century was a fraught one. Already a few months after he settled in London, Freud was invited to head the Austrian Center, one of two important émigré institutions in London (the second was the Free Austria Movement).25 The Austrian Center was inaugurated on March 15 and 16, 1939, a year after the Anschluss. It was founded as a charitable non-profit organization under the Honorary Presidency of Sigmund Freud.26 Given the fact that it was founded to offer welfare for refugees and advice in their dealing with authorities, the choice of Freud seems very apt. It later became a social and cultural organization with branches in several parts of Britain.27 Freud came to personify the aims of the committee that ran it, giving Austrians a means for fostering their culture and sense of community, and of collectively preserving their Austrian cultural inheritance and tradition. The organization further aimed to serve as a bridge between the Austrians and the English, with Britain identified as their host country and provided an alternative view of the “economic refugee” as a figure who came prepared to contribute and enrich life in their new country.28 Several of this book’s protagonists were directly connected or presented their works at the Center. Hilde Spiel’s literary work was presented in the Laterndl theater in north London in June, 1939.29 Artist Kokoschka was invited to take part in a debate in 1942, about the purpose of the Laterndl theater, an exile haven, and “Whether it should simply seek to preserve the best traditions of Austrian theater, or should pursue expressly political objectives.”30 The youth organization, Young Austria (Austria Center Paddington branch) also published its own periodical which promoted the work of contemporary writers, and asked Stefan Zweig to write a letter of support which was published in December 1939, shortly before he received his British naturalization.31 Thus in addition to the development of a psychoanalytic language that was understood throughout an expanding Viennese cultural network, this

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book argues that émigré networks were significant for the dissemination of Freudian lessons.

A Humanizing Method: How Viennese Psychoanalysis Produced a Sympathetic Language of Inclusion, Reclaimed Identity, and Inter-Cultural Engagement The hypothesis at the forefront of Freud and the Émigré is that psychoanalysis became a methodology that allowed exiled protagonists to produce a vision of modernity that promoted humanized relations between the individual and society and could guarantee their social inclusion within British society. Freud was elicited in different ways and became embedded into a public discourse on the émigré experience even though he had chosen to disassociate himself from that experience in his personal reckoning. Psychoanalysis, as a method of interpretation used to decipher human actions and personal, social, and cultural expression and which involved a critical self-reflection that communicated a humanized knowledge, made it the quintessential language of the émigré and exiled experience. It originated and developed in a concrete, historical Viennese turn-of-the-century culture. In her essay “Jewish Memoirs,” historian Eleonora Lappin refers to the romantic construction of the interwar experiences of those robbed by the Nazis of their Viennese identification and those who emigrated to countries where people had little knowledge about Vienna. For many, the construction of a “Viennese” identification became more relevant than a Jewish one.32 Most of those who wrote biographies in their exiled lands came from acculturated and secular households in interwar Vienna and the narratives they wrote did not include Jewish identification. They constructed their Viennese Austrian identity for a general non-Jewish public and therefore the Jewish content became partly irrelevant.33 Lappin further refers to the compulsion of exiles to write about their Viennese childhood and youth, and also of the lives of relatives who died in the Holocaust, as part of a mourning process.34 In turn, this anthology puts an emphasis on the influence that Freud’s lessons and the example of his exiled experience had on exiles and frames psychoanalysis as a mode through which Jews and gentiles were able to share a humanized

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communication. It is further argued that the émigrés positioned themselves in relation to Freud’s fame, his lessons, and evocation of shared experiences. How much did Freud and his writings construct the émigrés’ “Austrian identity” in Britain and other countries of exile? This question has to take into account the difficulties and hostility Jews encountered in the process of “becoming” Austrian in the first place, during the new republic after the First World War.35 Jewish citizens belonging to Vienna had already been undermined in the period before the war, under the mayoralty of Karl Lueger, but the feeling of rejection was sharpened in the post-First World War period with the enforced construction of “Austrianism.” And although Freud and psychoanalysis were increasingly instrumentalized as part of this construction and integrated as part of Austrian education, medicine, its courts and popular culture, including in advice columns and humorists’ anecdotes in newspapers, psychoanalysis was overshadowed by the rise of antisemitism during the 1920s and 1930s.36 These contradictory developments were part of the historical background that led to the language of psychoanalysis becoming the language of émigrés that would help Jews and gentiles alike develop strategies to counter the deprivation of home. Vienna was considered as the “home” of psychoanalysis. The city played a critical role in the formation of psychoanalysis also as a “stronghold of memory,” embedded with Freud’s notion of the unconscious.37 In her catalogue, “Parallel Actions. Freud and the Writers of Young Vienna,” German studies scholar and exhibition curator Daniela Finzi describes how Freud and the authors of Jung Wien, including Arthur Schnitzler, Felix Salten, and Hugo von Hofmannsthal, reacted similarity to political and social circumstance, to the rise of antisemitism, and to the cultural limitations of conservative religious and political Catholic codes of conduct in the Austro-Hungarian monarchy.38 They arranged themselves similarly, informally, as intellectual circles; in the early 1890s Jung Wien gathered around the gentile author and later co-editor of the cultural journal Die Zeit, Hermann Bahr; a decade later, Freud rallied a group of doctors of medicine around himself, who came to be identified as the Wednesday Psychological Society, starting in 1902. They continued their weekly gatherings to form an institutional circle, the “Vienna Psychoanalytic Society,” starting in 1908, which included intellectuals from different disciplines.39 Freud and the young writers shared similar interests. He followed their publications and plays and their works

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were discussed in the Wednesday evening gatherings. Meanwhile, Freud’s systematic handling of critical themes and perhaps his authorial claim as a therapist made his works a constant reference for these other cultural actors and also something against which their creative processes could be opposed: Their studies of human sexuality, unconscious phenomena or Greek myths constitute “parallel actions” rather than reciprocity. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that the writers of Young Vienna were familiar with Sigmund Freud’s ideas and his main writings such as the Studies on Hysteria (1895), The Interpretation of Dreams (1900) and Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905).40

In the context of their city, Vienna, and of universal themes they tackled through intellectual engagement, it can be argued that figures like Freud, Schnitzler, and Zweig were part of a construction of “cultural utopia” erected in a “Viennese laboratory,”41 rooted in a uniquely modernist vision cultivated by the city itself. It was the city that had led to a new awareness of the complex human condition and her/his relation to the past in a manner that could constitute new (personal and shared) realities. In considering Austrian émigrés’ construction of a new VienneseBritish “cultural bearing” in Britain it is impossible to separate Freud from the psychological engagements that were seen as integral to a Viennese modernist heritage. Viennese transmedia practices, following Freud’s scientific lead, exemplified psychological negotiations in literature, theater, and art, and would serve Austrian émigrés and exiles in Britain. Referring to the impact of psychology on the history of art and nodding to his mentor Ernst Kris (who was also a curator of applied arts at the Museum of Fine Arts in the 1930s), Ernst Gombrich had noted “Thus we all absorbed psychology from our alma mater with our mother’s milk.”42 Freud’s psychoanalytic language emerged with Vienna’s modernism, shaped by the German language within a discourse that also adored the German author Goethe and saw itself as contributing to the construction of a German high culture, yet nevertheless shared by Jews and gentiles through “family resemblance.”43 The Viennese German language was integral to psychoanalysis. Its powerful lexicon enabled Freud to conceive theories of humanized “social knowledge” and furthermore the “talking cure.”44

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Each of the chapters in this anthology addresses different aspects of reworking Freud in terms of a shared Viennese memory and psychoanalytic language that positioned many of these cultural producers and academics in exile. The Israeli psychoanalyst Eran Rolnik refers to the fact that “Freud frequently employed the verb translate to indicate the process of objective interpretation of unconscious material.”45 What is here suggested, however, is that Freud’s “translation” in the sense of involving interpretation can also to an extent be applied to collective experience. Rolnik refers to the German philosopher of aesthetics, H. G. Gadamer (1960), who spoke of a “fusion of horizons” between the reader and a text; here we propose that those who read Freud shared with him— beyond language—a historically affected consciousness, embedded as they had been within a particular Viennese/Austrian/Central European history and culture that shaped them. Their shared, collective heritage permitted them to access his analytical model and therapeutic messages in a creative manner. At the same time their work granted Freud’s theories as well as his position as a Viennese celebrity new relevance.46 As noted above, it was important for Austrian émigrés and exiles to show that they had not arrived in Britain empty-handed. The preservation of certain meanings of psychoanalytic language that had been developed in Vienna—that had resulted from concrete Viennese conditions yet that could be applied to Britain or any other society—was valuable to émigrés’ ability to cope with trauma and cultural change. Within this, the cultural engine of the émigré networks and their positioning in relation to each other preserved, promoted, and renewed psychoanalysis as an active humanist language.

Émigré Narratives, Networks, and Cultural Productions The anthology Freud and the Émigré presents and examines a transported group of mostly Austrian intellectuals, of multiple generations, during the period from the 1930s to the 1970s. The relationships that existed and that were developed between the émigrés described in this book are also important to consider and details of collaborations will come through in the different chapters. These protagonists made varying decisions regarding when to leave Austria and pursued different avenues to express their Austrian cultural heritage. The intricate Central European

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and cross-generational networks among them further supported their reclamation of professional and creative authorship. Belonging to the generation of the 1880s, psychoanalyst Melanie Klein was the first émigré to arrive in London, invited by Ernest Jones and the British Psycho-Analytical society in the mid-1920s. Klein established a reputation for herself as a theorist of child psychology and a therapist.47 The writer and film director Berthold Viertel, part of the Viennese intellectual network of cultural critic and editor Karl Kraus, arrived after having concluded a contract in Hollywood then returned to Germany only to flee to Britain soon after Hitler’s rise. Through the mediation of émigré filmmaker colleague Alexander Korda he received a contract with the Gaumont British film company.48 Of the same generation as Viertel and Klein, Stefan Zweig fled Salzburg after the rise of the Nazis in Germany in 1933, sensing the rising threat of Nazi politics in Austria (yet he returned to Austria for a short time). After the Austro-Fascist rule swept Austria in February, 1934, he finalized his decision to emigrate.49 Both Zweig and Viertel would choose to relate to British culture through the production of artistic biographies of famous historical British figures.50 In 1933, architect Ernst Freud, a decade younger than the three, arrived after having made a name for himself in Berlin as a specialist in designing clinics for psychoanalysts. The younger generation, those born in the first decade of the 1900s, included art historian Gombrich, art historian and psychoanalyst Kris, the author Hilde Spiel, and the social psychologist Marie Jahoda. Gombrich, Spiel, and Jahoda arrived during the Austro-Fascist period in 1936 and 1937. Gombrich was aware that with the rise of antisemitism, his chances of finding a job in Vienna, and specifically at the University of Vienna, were none. Kris helped him find a job in London. During the war he worked for BBC World Service monitoring German broadcasts. Later he continued working for the Warburg Institute, and published his international bestselling book, The Story of Art , in 1950.51 In this book he presented an analysis of the psychological insights in Oskar Kokoschka’s painting “Children Playing” from 1909.52 Gombrich and Kris’s fruitful collaborations before and after emigration included the essay, “The Principles of Caricature” in the British Journal of Medical Psychology (1938).53 Ernst Kris had waited until the last minute after the Anschluss to leave Austria even though he had written about the possibility of forced emigration, noting the rise of antisemitism already in the mid-1930s. He arrived

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in London, then continued to Canada to be a BBC analyst of Nazi Propaganda, and finally settled in New York. Kris later accepted a professorship at the New School for Social Research in New York. Marie Jahoda arrived in London after being tried and sentenced for underground socialist activities. She was released after international intervention and arrived in London in September 1937.54 After the war, moving to New York for few years, Jahoda joined the research project on Totalitarian Communication, which Kris had begun to work for already in 1941. Hilde Spiel and her husband, German author and historian Peter de Mendelssohn, emigrated as a result of antisemitism two years before the Anschluss. Spiel later noted that her final decision was prompted by the murder of her admired professor of philosophy, the German gentile Moritz Schlick, who had helped found the famous Wiener Kreis (Vienna Circle), which included many Jewish intellectuals.55 Spiel and Jahoda shared several biographical experiences. Spiel studied at the progressive girls’ school and Jahoda spent a summer at a youth camp of Eugenie Schwarzwald, and both identified Schwarzwald’s school as a Viennese cultural center. Both Spiel and Jahoda had come to know of Freud and his theories as university students.56 Spiel further worked for a short time at the Viennese Research Center for Economic Psychology, which Jahoda headed in the mid-30s. Freud and family, including his daughter Anna Freud, arrived in England in June 1938. Freud died in London a year and few months later after seeing his last major work, Moses and Monotheism, published.57 With the support of several organizations Anna Freud established the Hampstead War Nurseries to provide childcare. Her experience in the nurseries helped her develop a successful career as a child analyst in Britain.58 Oskar Kokoschka, of the same generation as Viertel and Zweig, arrived in London after years of exile in Prague. He arrived in London in October 1938. There, gentile Austrian émigré and patron Count Antoine Seilern and art historians including as noted above Gombrich, and gentile Czech Joseph P. Hodin, continued to promote his work. Hodin emigrated to London in 1944. He dedicated a chapter in his book The Dilemma of Being Modern to “The Cultural Psychology of Sigmund Freud” in 1956, suggesting that Freud’s scientific work offered an inductive method aimed to relate our emotional lives to cultural phenomena.59 The question arises, how was psychoanalysis received in Britain in a manner that allowed these Viennese networks to rework Freudian lessons as part of their cultural production? Each country, Britain, the United States, Germany, and France in the early twentieth century encountered

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and construed the ideas of Freud and his early associates in different ways, “their perceived meaning and significance being affected by these countries’ respective, cultural, psychiatric, and Psychological traditions, as well as local psychological conditions.”60 In Britain, specifically after the First World War, there were attempts to keep psychoanalytic theories exclusively Freudian but in the popular culture there was a tendency to include within the psychoanalytic knowledge theories introduced by Carl Jung, Alfred Adler, Melanie Klein, and others among his early followers.61 Historian Sally Alexander notes that British practitioners seemed to have stereotyped psychoanalysis as a Jewish knowledge, and deemed the role of the émigré in shaping its character during the interwar period as critical.62 In the thirties when psychoanalysts were forced to emigrate from continental Europe, bringing their friendships, families, and rivalries with them, they considered psychoanalysis their “home.”63 In 1935 Freud became an honorary member of the British Royal Society of Medicine and before he arrived as a forced émigré in 1938 he had enjoyed positive reception in the British media. It was partly the recognition Freud received as a scientist and intellectual in Britain that encouraged émigrés to reclaim through his lessons a certain cultural authorship which helped them position themselves as voices of authority, promoting empowerment of the individual in society while confronting the threat of discrimination.

Austrian Loss and British Gain: Psychoanalysis and British Cultural Renewal This anthology elaborates on how experiences of forced emigration and exile heightened men and women’s identification as “marginal” and made them ideal carriers of a newly constructed, dual cultural identification as émigrés and as Britons/Americans. The protagonists discussed here all made names for themselves already before their arrival in Britain, including Anna Freud, Ernst Kris, Marie Jahoda, and Hilde Spiel in Austria, Oskar Kokoschka in Austria and Germany, Ernst Freud in Germany, Berthold Viertel in Germany and the United States, and Stefan Zweig as an internationally recognized bestseller author. However, their work in the context of Austrian émigré networks in Britain, and later a few of them also in the United States, had a lasting impact. This is regarded here as beyond their individual personal, social, and cultural “survival” and can be considered as continuous public work, offering novel and critical models of émigré and exile adaptation(s) and public engagements

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and furthermore still very much relevant to today’s discourse regarding émigrés and cultural transfers.64 Their “Austrian heritage” was integral to the construction of an imagined “Viennese community” (à la Benedict Anderson) which was represented through the promotion of a humanized knowledge and progressive social engagement modulated through the language of psychoanalysis. Renowned Austrian émigrés discussed in this book, who engaged in public roles in British academic, therapeutic-pedagogic, and artistic cultures, contributed to the cultural transformation of British society.65 These Austrian intellectuals of different professions reclaimed their Viennese heritage, specifically as constituted by Freudian lessons regarding questions of self and “Other,” individual and society, strategies of inclusions, and European and European-Jewish identifications. They defined new perspectives within the public discourses in Britain in order to communicate a humanized knowledge. Freudian lessons were turned into a practice and approach which helped the protagonists in this book rework their experience of exile, specifically their “loss of home,” and transform this loss into cultural and professional authorship in Britain. A letter from Anna Freud to the psychoanalyst August Aichhorn, a colleague who remained in Austria during Nazi rule, documents a reversed process wherein the traumatic “loss of home” resulted in finding new psychological understanding: I would […] like to tell you what leaving Vienna has meant to me and how strange it is to carry a past within oneself which can no longer be built upon. With this experience, I have come to a new understanding of the process involved in repression and infantile amnesia.66

Psychoanalysts Leon Grinberg and Rebecca Grinberg argued in the introduction to their book, Psychoanalytic Perspectives on Migration and Exile (1989), that psychoanalysis has avoided theorizing migration. Their theoretical approach addresses the model of migration in terms of scope, such as near and far destinations, temporary and permanent periods, voluntary and involuntary motivations. They suggest that a psychoanalytic approach should further consider the factors that may have influenced the nature of migration and the process of adaptation to migration such as personality, biographical circumstances, and external historical circumstances.67 For them it is important to offer perspective on migration based on qualities of the attachments between the newcomer and the receptor group. They

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suggest these attachments are affected by the social relations the individual had before emigration and by the social relations of the community that receives the émigré.68 In the anthology Freud and the Émigré we argue that the manner in which the protagonists achieved a higher impact, and contributed to the broadening of British cultural language, is in how they constructed a psychologically effective language and activated their émigré networks.69 At first sight it seems that the British audience and receptive public, for example, psychoanalyst Ernest Jones and art historian Herbert Read in Britain, or Social Scientist Robert S. Lynd in the United States, further discussed in this volume, came from a shared social class and professional and intellectual networks, and spoke with a similar critically aware and psychologized language.70 Sociologist Jennifer Platt raises the question of how the realities of Britain changed or strengthened the ideas Austrian émigrés brought with them to their new land.71 This is measured through the networks and institutions they worked in as well as their experiences in Britain, in the United States, and later back in Austria. In accordance with given research, the émigrés were aware that the manner of producing new knowledge involved participating in public debates and at times evoking cultural conflicts.72 The question arises, however, what possibilities did Austrian émigrés have in contributing to the renewal of British culture without giving up their intellectual integrity? Platt raised the question of the reception of the émigrés in Britain in relation to their identification as Jews, specifically considering that antisemitism was widespread in interwar British society. Historian Lara Trubowitz identified civil antisemitism as the manner in which antisemitism appears as “style” of speech and writing, (aesthetically) packaged with certain degree of subtlety in public discourses.73 Art historian Lucy Wasensteiner repeats the historical argument that there was a strong expectation among the British public that the émigrés were to “blend in” and avoid “bringing discrimination among [upon] themselves.”74 It is therefore here suggested that Freudian lessons could only be reclaimed to offer émigrés certain methodological as well as practical tools to combat antisemitism or patterns of exclusion while closely cooperating mainly, but not exclusively, with other émigrés and exiles and only with the help of public and academic support. As far as Freud’s own handling of antisemitism before and after the First World War, and the question of his publishing any related theory, it becomes apparent that doing so would have both undermined Freud’s (and other figures such as

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Jahoda’s) professional authority in relation to the larger Christian society in the interwar period. Furthermore, it would have weakened Freud’s charisma among other Jewish professionals, who aimed to take part in the project of Viennese cultural production.75 Regardless of Sigmund Freud’s lack of explicit engagement with antisemitism, however, this anthology relates the idea of psychoanalysis as accessible common knowledge to political engagement against totalitarianism. The professional careers of the psychoanalysts Anna Freud and Ernst Kris demonstrate new scientific methods in order to confront new threatening realities; during and after the Second World War, Anna Freud’s therapeutic work was related to the service of educating democratic citizenship and Kris’s work was related to the analysis of fascist propaganda in defense of democracy against totalitarianism.76 The aim to secure social integration and to promote politics of inclusion was integral to the beginning of psychoanalysis. The cultural historian Johannes Feichtinger has identified the birth of psychoanalysis as the project of “marginal men,” referring to the definition of the American sociologist Robert E. Park. Park referred to Jews who left the Ghetto and were permitted to participate in the cultural life of the countries where they lived as “cultural hybrids” a man living and sharing intimately in the cultural life and traditions of two distinct peoples; never quite willing to break, even if he were permitted to do so, with his past and his traditions, and not quite accepted because of racial prejudice, in the new society in which he now sought to find a place.77

At the same time Feichtinger examines the Jewish scholarship that flourished in Vienna at the university and mostly in privately sponsored research institutes as the product of “marginal men.” For Feichtinger, Ernst Kris, who formulated a new approach to art history, is a striking example. Kris “transformed trade cycle research in Vienna and influenced progress in nuclear research significantly.”78 Kris continued his direction of interdisciplinary inquiry and adapted the psychoanalytic methods to confront new challenges in the threat of totalitarian rule and war propaganda while preserving a close dialogue with fellow émigré Gombrich even after his move to the United States. Feichtinger points out how, before emigrating, Ernst Kris encountered acculturated Jews in Vienna intellectual circles who avoided dealing with antisemitism. The reason for

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this was their wish to avoid a racial discourse forced on them from the outside. They preferred to “minimalize the significance” and overlook the danger.79 In turn, for Anna Freud it was critical to educate the ego in the service of reality, not necessarily to tame it for the service of analysis but in an attempt to win back the unconscious for the project of democracy.80 In her essay on Hannah Arendt’s and Anna Freud’s treatment of the phenomenon of “inner emigration,” modern literature scholar Lyndsey Stonebridge describes how both Arendt and Freud realized that reality must be confronted in order to eventually defy totalitarianism. Stonebridge quotes a letter of Anna Freud’s where she documents how she used her traumatic experience of leaving Vienna and carrying the past within her in order to better understand the subject of her analysis.81 Anna Freud wrote her groundbreaking book about the ego’s defenses during the time the Viennese Psycho-Analytical Society became a “refugee placement agency” in the mid-1930s.82 Anna Freud and Ernst Kris’s engagements in service of defending democracy in Britain and the United States are discussed in detail in this anthology. The chapters in the current anthology offer a broad assessment and illuminate émigré interventions that reworked Freudian lessons in different artistic practices, academic teachings, and psychoanalytic praxis. They trace the way psychoanalysis was mobilized both personally and culturally, outside and inside the clinic, by academics, sociologists, artists, and creative intellectuals, thus contributing to the fields of German literature, cultural studies, sociology, art history, and history of psychoanalysis.83

Freud and the Émigré An Herrn Dr. Federn als Gruß unter Exilanten, Freud, London 1939.84 (To Dr. Federn as a greeting among exiles, Freud, London 1939)

Despite the intricate networks, the protagonists in these chapters experienced their emigration in Britain differently. There were those who chose to settle in Britain, (Ernst Freud, Klein, Anna Freud, Jahoda, Gombrich) and those who remained for only a few years (Zweig, Spiel, Viertel, Kokoschka); there were also those who continued onto and worked for a few years in the United States (Jahoda, before returning to settle in Britain and Viertel, before returning to Vienna), and those who continued onto and chose to settle in Switzerland (Kokoschka) and the United States

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(Kris); and then there were those who returned to Vienna after the war, such as Spiel and Viertel. Even while these protagonists had different degrees of engagement with their sites of exile, Freud’s presence as a fellow exile influenced their experiences. In Chapter 2, Liliane Weissberg examines Sigmund Freud’s reflections on notions of belonging through how he wove his relations, including his family’s relations to Austro-Hungary, Austria, and Britain as past, present, and future “homes;” this also includes reference to his imagined intellectual network with Goethe and Shakespeare, and the historical relationship to Moses as the father of monotheism, examined in his late theory, narratives that may have supported his decision to relocate the center of psychoanalysis from Vienna to London. In Chapter 3, Volker M. Welter considers how reflections on the concept of “home” were developed in material, concrete ways by Freud’s son, architect Ernst Freud. The younger Freud constructed homes with adjunct clinics for psychoanalysts in Berlin in the 1920s and 1930s and, after his own forced emigration to Britain, he redesigned his father’s studio as well as the home-clinics of leading émigré psychoanalysts in London in the 1930s and 1940s. Answering the question of how psychoanalysis became a quintessential émigré language, authors in this anthology explore further the relevance of Viennese cultural networks to the creation of new émigré languages that reclaimed psychoanalysis to reassert creative autonomy. In the translation of psychoanalytic terms from German to English, original meanings were mostly retained. This preservation of meanings developed in Vienna and applied elsewhere was valuable to émigrés’ ability to cope with cultural change. This is of further interest considering that Freud, as discussed above, did not directly address the subject of emigration nor the influence of emigration on the psyche. León and Rebeca Grinberg refer in their above mentioned book on psychoanalysis and migration to linguist and philosopher Noam Chomsky’s argument that language allows one to organize the world: It offers a tool for thinking, for achieving awareness and reflection, and grants the spirit and understanding of a certain autonomy against uncontrolled experience.85 In Chapter 4, Werner Michler analyzes the speech Zweig gave at Freud’s funeral in September 1939, also in relation to Zweig’s reworked Freudian lessons after his emigration in his writings and through his reconstruction of a Viennese cultural aura in his renowned The World of Yesterday. In Chapter 5, Laura Marcus examines how Berthold Viertel referenced

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psychoanalysis in his films in Britain in the 1930s in an attempt to construct a shared, humanized language between himself as émigré and the British public as his audience. In his own construction of language, Viertel specifically explored notions of the Other as a subject integral to the promotion of culture of inclusion. Similar to Zweig and Viertel, the artist Oskar Kokoschka was influenced by debates regarding Freudian theory in Vienna. The scandal accompanying Freud’s theory on children’s sexuality at the beginning of the century may have prompted Kokoschka’s psychological inquiries in his early Expressionist works.86 In Chapter 6, Régine Bonnefoit explores how Kokoschka referenced Freud’s theories on culture and civilization and furthermore integrated psychological language and Freudian thought in his paintings in Britain. Bonnefoit further discusses Hodin’s book Oskar Kokoschka. Eine Psychographie (OK. A Psychography) featuring émigré psychologists’ analyses of the artist and his works. The reception of Freud and the promotion of his ideas in Britain included debates about totalizing nationalist and chauvinistic theories and concepts and, at the same time, challenged participants (mostly psychoanalysts) in the debates to rework Freudian theory to accommodate a society marked by persecution, emigration, and war. Three chapters in this anthology address the political tasks of psychoanalysis in exile wherein we can see psychoanalysis as methodology, as humanistic experience, and as politico-cultural discourse intertwined. In Chapter 7, Michal Shapira offers two accounts of how Anna Freud addressed urgent issues of anxiety and mental health in the Hampstead War Nurseries in London and in the Bulldogs Bank project in West Sussex. During the war Freud addressed in her work critical matters such as the effects of war on children and further the separation of children from their parents. After the war Freud and her colleagues worked to secure the integration of Jewish child survivors who were treated in her clinic. Anna Freud developed her theories on child’s education and psychoanalysis into a new, progressive concept of promoting democratic citizenship in Britain. In Chapter 8, Mitchell G. Ash offers a critical review of the “Controversial Discussions” held at the British Psycho-Analytical Society (BPS) during the 1940s between Anna Freud and Melanie Klein and sheds new light on the politics involved in employing Sigmund Freud’s legacy in exile. It was both ideological and existential challenge to confront fascist threats during the Second World War and it is here discussed through its reference to the work of psychoanalyst Ernst Kris. In Chapter 9, Louis Rose examines the

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works of Kris and Gombrich during the Second World War and their application of integrated research to the analysis of totalitarian propaganda. In the frame of this work Kris came to appreciate the American social scientist Robert S. Lynd, who combined psychology and history, and provided an example of how to integrate scholarly research with war work. The last two chapters in the book address the question of what it was about Freud that granted Austrian émigrés in England the possibility to reclaim through him their Viennese cultural heritage and rework psychoanalytic lessons as part of their creative authorship in a completely new land. Elana Shapira’s Chapter 10, explores how Jahoda reworked the experiences of antisemitism in Vienna in her book Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology in the 1970s that aimed to preserve Freud’s legacy. The discussion further examines Jahoda’s essays on the impact of émigré psychoanalysts on American psychology. One of the well-known writer Hilde Spiel’s memorable postwar texts is a historical book that recaptured Vienna’s Golden Age. In Chapter 11, Lisa Silverman sheds new light on how Spiel’s experience in exile influenced her reclamation of authorship as a Viennese cultural producer and, furthermore, how relevant Freud, as a Viennese celebrity, was to her recognizing and retrieving a bygone Viennese heritage. The chapters in this book offer novel approaches in addressing the subject of Freud and the émigré by reconstructing the manners in which Freudian lessons were processed and applied by Austrian émigrés in Britain from the 1930s through the 1970s.

Notes 1. Quote from Sigmund Freud’s reply to Austrian author and theater director Ernst Lothar, who visited him at the end of the First World War to ask “How can one live without the land for which one lived for?” In the conversation that followed Freud refers to a memorandum he wrote on November 11 that he cites in front of Lothar, see: Ernst Lothar, Das Wunder des Überlebens. Erinnerungen und Ergebnisse (Vienna: Paul Zsolnay Verlag, 1960), p. 41. 2. Ibid., English translation in William M. Johnston, The Austrian Mind: An Intellectual and Social History, 1848–1938 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), p. 239. Another reference to the conversation between Lothar and Freud is quoted in Laura Marcus’s Chapter 5 on Berthold Viertel and Freud in this anthology.

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3. In March 1934 it was important for Anna Freud to explain to Ernest Jones, President of the International Psychoanalytic Society at this time, that she saw historical events leading to “a new kind of diaspora,” to which she added: “you surely know what the word means: the spreading of the Jews over the world after the destruction of the temple of Jerusalem” (Riccardo Steiner, “It Is a New Kind of Diaspora…,” in: The International Review of Psychoanalysis, 16, 1989, pp. 35–72, here, p. 44). I am grateful to Daniela Finzi for this reference and for her insightful contributions to the introduction. 4. Sigmund Freud (Vienna) to Arnold Zweig (Haifa) on February 25, 1934, in: The Letters of Sigmund Freud & Arnold Zweig, edited by Ernst L. Freud, translated by Professor and Mrs. W. D. Robson-Scott (London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis, 1970), p. 65. 5. Sigmund Freud wrote to Siegfried Fehl on November 12, 1935 of his family’s history: “I hope it is not unknown to you that I have always held faithfully to our people and never pretended to be anything but what I am: a Jew from Moravia whose parents come from Austrian Galicia.” Sigmund Freud Archives B2 Library of Congress, quoted in Peter Gay, Freud: A Life of Our Time, New York: Anchor Books, 1988, p. 597. Fehl, a Moravian from Nikolsburg who emigrated to Vienna in 1906, headed the efforts to found a Jewish museum in Nikolsburg. Freud donated 23 objects related to his accomplishments as the founder of psychoanalysis (Michael Miller, “A ‘City and Mother in Israel’ and Its Place of Memory: The Jewish Cemetery in Nikolsburg (Mikulov), Moravia,” in: Jewish Studies at the Central European University VIII 2011–2016, edited by Carsten Wilke, András Kovács, and Michael L. Miller [Hungary: Central European University, 2017], pp. 185–195, here p. 191). 6. English translation of Freud’s letter to his fiancée Martha, dated August 16, 1882, in Jacques Le Rider, Modernity and Crises of Identity, Culture and Society in Fin-de-Siècle Vienna (New York: Continuum, 1993), p. 224. 7. See Liliane Weissberg’s enlightening analysis of Freud’s relationship to England, British culture, and German culture in Chapter 2 in this volume. For more on the contemporaneous Viennese avant-garde movement, see Ludwig Hevesi, “Sind die Engländer Juden?,” in: idem, Die fünfte Dimension, Humore der Zeit, des Lebens, der Kunst (Vienna: Carl Konegen, 1906). For further discussion, see the chapter on Adolf Loos, in Elana Shapira, Style and Seduction. Jewish Patrons, Architecture, and Design in Fin de Siècle Vienna (Waltham: Brandeis University Press, 2016).

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8. Martha told this to her niece, Lilly. See Lilly Freud-Marlé, Mein Onkel Sigmund Freud, Erinnerungen an eine große Familie, Hrsg. Christfried Tögel, Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 2006, pp. 59–85, here p. 77. My translation. 9. European identification was integral to the strategy adopted by Viennese Jews who confronted antisemitism—as defense mechanism and as a claim to authority as cultural producers. Freud claimed this authorship as European time and again in his writings, In his first groundbreaking book The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), which would become foundational for psychoanalysis, it is further related to the threat of persecution of Jews: Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (New York: Avon Books, 1965), pp. 477–478. Author and editor Karl Kraus expressed his identification as a European Jew in connection with the rise of antisemitism in Vienna. For further discussion, see: Elana Shapira, “Die kulturellen Netzwerke der Wiener Moderne: Loos, Hoffmann und ihre Klienten,” in: Exh. Cat. Wagner, Hoffmann, Loos und das Möbeldesign der Wiener Moderne. K¨unstler, Auftraggeber, Produzenten, edited by Eva B. Ottillinger, Hofmobiliendepot Möbel Museum Wien, 2018, pp. 123–133. 10. The house was bought in July, 1938. Freud notes once in his diary that he read in the newspapers that he owned a house (1.8.1938) and in a letter to Anna Freud that his barber told him that he had bought a house (3.8.1938), but he had not seen it yet (Sigmund Freud Tagebuch 1929–1939 - Kürzeste Chronik, edited by Michael Molnar, Freud Museum London, translated to German by Christfried Tögel, London: Freud Museum Publications, 1992, p. 437). Freud was officially registered as the owner in early September 1938, and less than two weeks later he moved to the renovated house (ibid., p. 443). The place was chosen at Ernst Freud’s recommendation, specifically because the neighborhood was already closely connected with psychoanalysis (ibid., p. 441). The first émigré psychoanalyst who moved there was Melanie Klein. I thank Daniela Finzi for this reference. Volker M. Welter’s Chapter 3 in this book discusses the reconstruction of Sigmund Freud’s studio by Ernst Freud in London. 11. Publications on this subject include Siglinde Bolbecher, Konstantin Kaiser, Donal McLaughlin, and J. M. Ritchie (eds.), Literatur und Kultur des Exils in Grossbritannien, Hrsg. Im Auftrag der Theodor Kramer Gesellschaft (Vienna: Verlag für Gesellschaftskritik, 1995); Edward Timms, Jon Hughes (eds.), Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation, Refugees from National Socialism in the English-Speaking World (Wien, New York: Springer, 2003); Anthony Grenvile (ed.), Refugees from the Third Reich in Britain. The Yearbook of the Research Center

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12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21.

for German and Austrian Exile Studies, Institute of Germanic Studies (University of London, Amsterdam and New York, Rodopi, 2002); Andrew Chandler, Katarzyna Stoklosa, and Jutta Vinzent (eds.), Exile and Patronage: Cross-Cultural Negotiations Beyond the Third Reich (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2006); and Charmian Brinson, Richard Dove, and Jennifer Taylor (eds.), ‘Immortal Austria’? Austrians in Exile in Britain (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007); and Charmian Brinson (ed.), German-Speaking exiles in the Performing Arts in Britain After 1933 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2013). Edward Timms and Naomi Segal (eds.), Freud in Exile: Psychoanalysis and Its Vicissitudes (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988). Martin Stanton, “Wilhelm Stekel: A Refugee Analyst and His English Reception,” in: Freud in Exile, 1988, pp. 163–174. Edward Timms and Naomi Segal, “Introduction: The Dynamics of Exile,” in: Freud in Exile: Psychoanalysis and Its Vicissitudes, 1988, pp. 1–14, here p. 8. Timms and Segal, “Introduction: The Dynamics of Exile,” in: Freud in Exile–1988, p. 1. Ernest Gellner, “Psychoanalysis as a Social Institution; An Anthropological Perspective,” in: Freud in Exile. Psychoanalysis and Its Vicissitudes, edited by Edward Timms and Naomi Segal (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988), pp. 223–229, here p. 226. Daniel Snowman, The Hitler Émigrés: The Cultural Impact on Britain of Refugees from Nazism (London: Chatto & Windus, 2002), p. 322. We encounter an example for this cultural practice in Bonnefoit’s critical discussion in Chapter 6 on the reception of Oskar Kokoschka in Britain. Bonnefoit further addresses the relevance of Sigmund Freud’s publication Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood to the intellectual discourse at the time. The concept of humanized knowledge discussed here further develops the following observation by social psychologist Marie Jahoda: “In the twentieth century Freud’s genius has given new impetus to the study of culture and personality. Social anthropologists and political scientists have been stimulated to regard their respective subjects not as above and beyond the individual personality but actually as inextricably interwoven with it (Marie Jahoda, “Introduction,” in: Studies in the Scope and Method of ‘The Authoritarian Personality’ Continuities in Social Research, edited by Richard Christie and Marie Jahoda [Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1954], pp. 11–23, here p. 18). Julia Kristeva, “Strangers to Ourselves,” in: Kristeva, The Portable Kristeva, pp. 264–294, here pp. 282–285, see also pp. 277–279. See Werner Michler’s Chapter 4 on Stefan Zweig, Lisa Silverman’s Chapter 11 on Hilde Spiel and Elana Shapira’s Chapter 10 on Marie Jahoda in this anthology. Jahoda expressed her high esteem of Anna Freud in a biographical entry on her, noting that “While she [Anna

1

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

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Freud] remained Freud’s most loyal representative, she went beyond his work in method and theory” (Marie Jahoda, “Anna Freud,” in: Dictionary of National Biography 1981–1985, edited by Robert B. B. Blake and Christina S. Nicholls [Oxford: Oxford University Press], pp. 152–153 here p. 152). Quote from the declaration of aims of the newly founded Austrian Centre in Britain, cited in: Charmian Brinson, “‘A Very Ambitious Plan’. The Early Days of The Austrian Centre,” in: Out of Austria: The Austrian Centre in London in World War II , edited by Marietta Berman, Charmian Brinson, Richard Dove, Anthony Grenville, and Jennifer Taylor (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2008), p. 9. Siglinde Bolbecher, “Exilbedingungen und Exilkultur in Großbritannien Ein Einführung,” in: Literatur und Kultur des Exils in Großbritannien, Zwischenwelt 4. Published by Theodor Kramer Gesellschaft, edited by on Siglinde Blobecher, Konstantin Kaiser, Donal McLaughlin, and J. M Ritchie, Vienna, 1995, pp. 17–27, here p. 18. Motesiczky first fled with her mother to Amsterdam and then continued to Britain. She painted this painting after her arrival in Britain (Ines Schlenker, Marie-Louise von Motesiczky 1906–1996, Catalogue Raisonné of the Paintings, Hudson Hills Press, 2009, pp. 145–146). We are grateful to Frances Carey, chair of the Marie-Louise von Motesiczky Charitable Trust, for her support of this book project. Shortly before Freud was pressed by prominent Austrian cultural producers, such as authors Alfred Polgar, Franz Werfel and Berthe(sic) Zuckerkandl-Szeps, to become a member of the “Zentralvereinigung österreichischer Emigranten” (Central Association of Austrian Émigrés, founded in Paris in early summer 1938). For further reference to Freud and the Central Organization of Austrian Emigrants, see: Nouvelles d’Autriche, Österreichische Nachrichten, Zentralvereinigung österreichischer Emigranten, Issue 1, March 1939; further details about the committee in: Nouvelles d’Autriche, Österreichische Nachrichten, Ein Aufruf an die Oesterreicher in aller Welt, Die Zentralvereinigung öst Emigranten, Sigmund Freud, Alfred Polgar, Franz Werfel, Bertha Zuckerkandl, Issue 6, July/August, 1939. Report on Freud’s death in: Freies Österreich, La Libre Autriche, 1, no. 1, May 1940: “Aber eines muss hier betont werden: Sigmund Freud war ein Oesterreicher; er hat sich auch im Exil immer zu Oesterreich bekannt und mit ihm ist ein grosser Sohn unserer Heimat vielleicht einer ihrer grössten dahingegangen” (ibid, p. 26). Brinson, “‘A Very Ambitious Plan’: The Early Days of The Austrian Centre,” 2008, pp. 6–22, here p. 9. After Freud’s death the former Austrian Ambassador to Britain, Sir Georg Franckenstein, became the honorary president.

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27. Richard Dove, “Introduction,” in: Out of Austria. The Austrian Centre in London in World War II , 2008, pp. 1–5, here p. 1. 28. Brinson, “‘A Very Ambitious Plan’,” 2008, p. 9. 29. Ibid., p. 12. Silverman’s Chapter 11 in this anthology addresses Spiel’s processing of her experience in British exile as well as her coming to terms with Freud’s legacy as part of Viennese cultural heritage. 30. Dove, “Kulturpolitik in Exile,” in: Out of Austria. The Austrian Centre in London in World War II , edited by Marietta Berman, Charmian Brinson, Richard Dove, Anthony Grenville, and Jennifer Taylor (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2008), pp. 53–58, here pp. 54–55. The debate took place in the weekly Zeitspiegel. Régine Bonnefoit’s Chapter 6 in this anthology addresses the subject of Kokoschka’s reception in British exile in light of the reclamation of Freud’s theories in art history and his handling of Freudian themes. 31. Jennifer Taylor, “The Press of the Austrian Centre,” in: Out of Austria. The Austrian Centre in London in World War II , edited by Marietta Berman, Charmian Brinson, Richard Dove, Anthony Grenville, and Jennifer Taylor (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2008), p. 77. The name of the periodical changed from Österreichische Jugend to Junges Österreich since July 1939, so the letter was published in the periodical with the Junges Österreich title. His death was reported in Young Austria, early March, 1942. Werner Michler’s Chapter 4 in this anthology addresses Zweig’s reworking of psychoanalytic ideas in exile. 32. Eleonore Lappin, “Jüdische Lebenserinnerungen. Rekonstruktionen von jüdischer Kindheit und Jugend im Wien der Zwischenkriegszeit,” in: Wien und die jüdische Erfahrung 1900–1938, Akkulturation – Antisemitismus – Zionismus, edited by Frank Stern and Barbara Eichinger (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2009), pp. 17–38, here p. 20. 33. Ibid., Referring to interviews with Central European Jewish refugees in Britain Marion Berghahn and Angela Davis pointed out that there was also renewed interest in asserting Jewish identity, see: Marion Berghahn, Continental Britons: German–Jewish Refugees from Nazi Germany (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007); Angela Davis, “Belonging and ‘Unbelonging’: Jewish Refugee and Survivor Women in 1950s Britain,” in: Women’s History Review, 26, no. 1, 2017, pp. 130–146. In our anthology, Chapter 2 on Sigmund Freud, Chapter 10 on Marie Jahoda, and Chapter 11 on Hilde Spiel address the subject of coming to terms with Jewish identification in exile. 34. Lappin, 2009, p. 23. For an enlightening discussion on the different ways in which émigrés chose to reclaim their image of Vienna in exile, see: Ursula Prutsch, “Inszenierungen aus der Ferne: Bilder und Vorstellungen von Wien in der Emigration,” in: Imaging Vienna. Innensichten, Außensichten, Stadterzählungen, edited by Monika Sommer, Marcus Gräser, and Ursula Prutsch (Vienna: Verlag Turia + Kant, 2006,) pp. 87–104.

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35. See Lisa Silverman’s introduction to her book, Becoming Austrians. 2012, pp. 3–27, here p. 24. 36. In May 1924 on the occasion of his 68th birthday, Freud received from the socialist mayor the status of “Honorary citizen of the city of Vienna.” Regarding the integration of Freud’s lessons and psychoanalysis in different forums in the city, see: Elisabeth Ann Danto, “‘Diese Vitale Stärke.’ Sigmund Freud und die Psychoanalytiker des Roten Wien,” in: Exh. Cat. Das Rote Wien 1919–1934. Ideen, Debatten, Praxis, edited by Werner Michael Schwarz, Georg Spitaler, and Elke Wikidal, Wien Museum (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2019), pp. 84–89, here pp. 85–86. 37. Johnston, The Austrian Mind, 1972, pp. 239–243; Peter Galison, “Blacked-Out Spaces: Freud, Censorship and the Re-Territorialization of Mind,” in: The British Society for the History of Science, 45, no. 2, June 2012, pp. 235–266. 38. See also: Sander L. Gilman, “Constructing the Image of the Appropriate Therapist: The Struggle of Psychiatry with Psychoanalysis,” in: Freud in Exile: Psychoanalysis and Its Vicissitudes, edited by Edward Timms and Naomi Segal (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1988), pp. 15–36. 39. Daniela Finzi, Parallel Actions: Freuds and the Writers of Young Vienna, Vienna: Sigmund Freud GmbH, 2018, p. 39. Finzi refers to the discussion in: Pamela Cooper-White: Old and Dirty Gods: Religion, Antisemitism, and the Origins of Psychoanalysis. London, 2018. 40. Finzi, Parallel Actions, 2018, p. 40. 41. Birgit Peter, “Imago und Vergessen. Wien bilder und ihre unsichtbaren Urheber,” in: Wien und die jüdische Erfahrung 1900–1938, Akkulturation – Antisemitismus – Zionismus, edited by Frank Stern and Barbara Eichinger (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2009), pp. 439–462, here p. 444. 42. Ernst Gombrich, “Kunstwissenschaft und Psychologie vor fünfzig Jahre,” in: Wien und die Entwicklung der Kunsthistorischen Methode, edited by Hermann Fillitz and Martina Pippal (Vienna: Böhlau, 1984), pp. 99– 104, here pp. 100–101. Gombrich notes that his interest in caricature and physiognomy was inspired by Karl Bühler’s lectures at the University of Vienna. 43. “Family resemblance” refers here to Ludwig Wittgenstein’s philosophy of a “complex network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing,” rather than one common feature between things (Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigation, Malden, MA and Oxford: Blackwell Publishing [1953], 2001, p. 67; quoted in Hans Sluga, “Family Resemblance,” in: Grazer Philosophische Studien, 71, 2006, pp. 1–21, here p. 1). See further

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44.

45.

46.

47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

Jeanne Riou, “Aesthetic Imagination as Network? Approaches to Thought and Death in Rilke and Richard Beer-Hofmann,” in: Networking Across Borders and Frontiers, edited by Jürgen Barkhoff and Helmut Eberhart, Frankfurt am Main Peter Lang, 2009, pp. 235–248. Riou argument concerns Christian and Jewish authors who used visual metaphors to secure the construction of a social network at the turn of the last century. See also Finzi, Parallel Actions, 2018, p. 41. Reference to: Sigmund: Freud, First Lecture. Introduction, in: Idem.: Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis . London: 1971, p. 17. Eran J. Rolnik, “Before Babel: Reflections on Reading and Translating Freud,” in: The Psychoanalytic Quarterly, LXXXIV, no. 2, 2015, p. 312 (accessed 18.11.2018 https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/a676/c55 ba3bee098d6121c1c39aaa3b8a4f77d93.pdf. I thank Daniela Finzi for this reference. I am rephrasing here a passage by Rolnik reworking the role of the translator of Freud’s writing as a process of “fusion of horizons” (ibid., p. 314). Rolnik refers in this passage to the theory presented in H. G. Gadamer, Truth and Method (London and New York: Continuum Publishing (1960) 2006). Mitchell G. Ash’s Chapter 8 addresses the reception of Melanie Klein’s child’s therapy in London. Laura Marcus discusses in Chapter 5 in this anthology Viertel’s films in Britain also in relation to his European and American cultural networks. For Zweig’s increasing disillusionment with the experience of immigration, see: Tatiana Liani, “‘Zum Emigranten habe Ich kein Talent’. Stefan Zweig’s Exile in London,” in: “Immortal Austria?” Austrians in Exile in Britain, edited by Charmian Brinson, Richard Dove, Jennifer Taylor, Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007, pp. 33–47. Liani quotes Zweig’s war diary: “I am so imprisoned in a language which I cannot use” (Stefan Zweig, Tagebücher [Frankfurt: Fischer, 1984], p. 418. Quoted, in: Liani, 2007, p. 42). Zweig wrote a biography of Queen of Scotland, Marie Stuart (1542– 1587), which became a bestseller and Viertel made a film on the biography of the controversial colonialist politician Cecil Rhodes (1853–1902) which was poorly received. Years later Gombrich suggested that his most well-known book, The Story of Art , expressed both his exilic strategy of mourning, and further an intellectual survival strategy: “Though the book [Story of Art] was written in England and in English, the context is still that of the Vienna of my youth.” Ernst Gombrich, “Old Masters and Other Household Gods,” in: idem, The Essential Gombrich, London: Phaidon Press Limited, 1996, p. 37. Snowman describes in detail the critical role of Béla Horovitz, the émigré publisher of Phaidon Press, in encouraging Gombrich to publish

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52. 53.

54.

55.

56.

57.

58.

59. 60.

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The Story of Art (Snowman, The Hitler Émigrés, 2002, pp. 198–203, here p. 199). E. H. Gombrich, The Story of Art (London: Phaidon, 1950), pp. 427– 428. E. H. Gombrich and Ernst Kris, “The Principles of Caricature,” in: British Journal of Medical Psychology, 17, 1938, pp. 319–342. Louis Rose’s Chapter 9 in this anthology addresses the professional collaboration between Kris and Gombrich after their emigration. Jahoda was arrested in November 1936, subsequently interrogated and sentenced to three months imprisonment in July after a partial confession. She was released after the intervention of French President Leon Blum and the head of the Sociology Institute at the University of London, Alexander Farquharson. Schlick was murdered at the University of Vienna and his murderer had expressed right wing and antisemitic motivations. For further discussion of Schlick’s murder trial, see: Silverman, Becoming Austrians: Jews and Culture Between the World Wars, 2012, pp. 60–65. Jahoda was invited by national economist Otto Neurath, a member of the Wiener Kreis, to participate in a seminar translating Freud’s “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego” (Massenpsychologie und Ich-Analyse, 1921) into a positivist language. See: Marie Jahoda, “Aus den Anfängen der Sozialwissenschaftlichen Forschung in Österreich,” in: Das geistige Leben Wiens in der Zwischenkriegszeit - RingVorlesung 19. Mai - 20. Juni 1980 im Internationalen Kulturzentrum Wien, edited by P. Heintel, N. Leser, G. Stourzh, and A. Wandruszka (Vienna: Österreichischer Bundesverlag, 1981), pp. 216–222, here p. 217. Both Zweig and Freud handled the subject of their Jewish identifications differently after the rise of National Socialism in Germany, confronting first the threat and then the reality of forced emigration in their last books, as discussed in detail in the second and fourth chapters in this volume. The reception of émigré psychoanalysts in Britain and the conflict between Anna Freud and Melanie Klein regarding their different perspectives on children’s therapy, which escalated in Britain in the years 1943 and 1944, are discussed in Mitchell G. Ash’s Chapter 8 in this anthology. For detailed discussion of Anna Freud’s work in Hampstead War Nurseries, see Michal Shapira’s Chapter 7. J. P. Hodin, The Dilemma of Being Modern. Essays on Art and Literature (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1956), p. 197. Graham Richards, “Britain on the Couch: The Popularization of Psychoanalysis in Britain 1918–1940,” in Science in Context 13, no. 2, 2000, pp. 183–230, here p. 184. There is a detailed examination of the reception of psychoanalysis in the United States in: Nathan G. Hale, Jr., The Rise and Crisis of Psychoanalysis in the United States. Freud and the Americans

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61. 62.

63. 64. 65.

66.

67.

68. 69.

70.

71.

1917–1985 (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). Hale offers an interesting discussion of the influence of several Central European psychoanalysts on the formation of “American Ego Psychology,” perceived as an attempt to make psychoanalysis “scientific,” mentioning the Austrians Heinz Hartmann and Robert Waelder and the Hungarian David Rappaport (ibid., pp. 231–244). The influence of émigré psychoanalysts in the United States is further discussed in Rose’s Chapter 9 on Ernst Kris and in Elana Shapira’s Chapter 10 on Marie Jahoda in this anthology. Richards, 2000, p. 185. Sally Alexander, “Psychoanalysis and History, Psychoanalysis in Britain in the Early Twentieth Century: An Introductory Note,” in: History Workshop Journal Issue 45, 1998, pp. 135–143, here p. 141. Ibid., p. 141. Alexander refers to Elisabeth Young-Bruehl, Anna Freud (London: Macmillan, 1988), p. 455. The question of survival is addressed in Laura Marcus’s analysis of Viertel’s film “The Stranger” in Chapter 5 in this anthology. I reformulate here a central argument presented by Jennifer Platt regarding the definition of intellectual émigrés in her essay, “Some Issues in Intellectual Method and Approach,” in: Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation, Refugees from National Socialism in the EnglishSpeaking World, edited by Edward Timms (Jon Hughes, Vienna and New York: Springer, 2003), pp. 7–21, here pp. 8–9. Quoted in: Lyndsey Stonebridge, “On Inner Emigration: On the Run with Hannah Arendt and Anna Freud,” in: Psychoanalysis in the Age of Totalitarianism, edited by Matt Ffytche and Daniel Pick (London and New York: Routledge, 2016), pp. 42–54, here p. 42. Leon Grinberg and Rebeca Grinberg, Psychoanalytic Perspectives on Migration and Exile (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 1. Ibid., p. 2. I refer here to Platt’s question regarding whether the impact of the émigrés was the result of their individual achievements or achievements as part of a larger group (ibid., p. 9). For further discussion on the reliance of the émigrés on existing intellectual networks in Britain, see: Friedrich Stadler, “The Wiener Kreis in Great Britain: Emigration and Interaction in the Philosophy of Science,” in: Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation, Refugees from National Socialism in the English-Speaking World, edited by Edward Timms, Jon Hughes (Vienna and New York: Springer, 2003), pp. 155– 179, here pp. 162–171. Platt, 2003, p. 12.

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72. Ibid., p. 13 Platt refers to the theory of Randall Collins that intellectual history is a process of conflict (Randall Collins, “Toward a Theory of Intellectual Change: The Social Causes of Philosophies,” in: Science, Technology and Human Values, 14, no. 2, 1989, pp. 107–140). For further discussion about the participation of Central European émigrés and exiles in public debates concerning modernism’s social agendas, see: Elana Shapira and Alison J. Clarke, “Introduction – Émigré Cultures and New Design Dimensions,” in: Émigré Cultures in Design and Architecture, edited by Alison J. Clarke and Elana Shapira (New York and London: Bloomsbury Publishing House, 2017), pp. 1–26. 73. Lara Trubowitz, Civil Antisemitism, Modernism, and British Culture, 1902–1939, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012, pp. 1–23, here pp. 1, 6–7. Trubowitz further notes that “when it comes to permutations of civil anitsemitism and encounters with traditions of civility, individual allegiances with a ‘right-’ or ‘left-wing’ tend to have only minor consequences; instead of divergences we find crucial continuities, and these continuities are reaffirmed no matter how cordial and/ or unsympathetic the writers’ actual relations with Jews seem to be” (ibid., p. 22). 74. Lucy Wasensteiner, “A British Statement Against Nazi Policy? The organization of Twentieth Century German Art,” in: London 1938: Defending ‘degenerate’ art: Mit Kandinsky, Liebermann und Nolde gegen Hitler, Exh. Cat, edited by Lucy Wasensteiner and Martin Faass, Lierbermann Villa am Wannsee, The Wiener Library, 2018, pp. 58–65, here p. 64. Reference to Jodi Burkett, “Antisemitism and Racism in Britain. Assessing the Reaction to the Legacy of Kristallnacht,” in: Violence, Memory and History: Western Perceptions of Kristallnacht edited by Colin McCullough and Nathan Wilson, New York, 2015, pp. 16–33. 75. Freud’s book Moses and Monotheism was written after a decade of Freud evading addressing the challenge of explaining antisemitism, documented in his correspondence with the German author Arnold Zweig (see letters of Sigmund Freud to Arnold Zweig on June 2, 1927 and on December 2, 1927, in: The Letters of Sigmund Freud & Arnold Zweig, edited by Ernst L. Freud, translated by Professor and Mrs. W. D. Robson-Scott [London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis, 1970], pp. 2, 3). 76. Michal Shapira’s Chapter 7 and Rose’s Chapter 9 examine this subject in detail in this anthology. 77. Robert E. Park, “Human Migration and the Marginal Man,” in: The American Journal of Sociology 33, no. 6, May, 1928, pp. 881–893, here p. 892. 78. Johannes Feichtinger, “The Significance of Austrian Émigré Art Historians for English Art Scholarship,” in: Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation, Refugees from National Socialism in the English-Speaking World, edited by Edward Timms, Jon Hughes, Vienna, New York:

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79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84.

85.

86.

Springer, 2003, pp. 51–69, here p. 59. The reference is to Robert E. Park, “Introduction,” in: Everett V. Stonequist, The Marginal Man: A Study in Personality and Culture of Conflict (New York: Russel & Russel (originally published 1937) 1961). Feichtinger, “The Significance of Austrian Émigré Art Historians for English Art Scholarship,” 2003, p. 58. Stonebridge, “On Inner Emigration: On the Run with Hannah Arendt and Anna Freud,” 2016, p. 50. Anna Freud to August Aichhorn 1946, quoted above, cited in Stonebridge, p. 42. Referred to in Stonebridge’s discussion, p. 49. We thank the peer reviewers of this book for their insightful observations and critical remarks contributing to the discussions in this anthology. Freud’s dedication on the first edition in German of Der Mann Moses und die Monotheistische Religion, London, 1939 (Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung Vienna). I thank Daniela Finzi for pointing this dedication out to me. León Grinberg and Rebecca Grinberg, Psychoanalyse der Migration und des Exils, 1989, translated from Spanish Flavio C. Ribas (Stuttganrt: ClettCotta, 1990), p. 124. Elana Shapira, “An Early Expressionist Masterpiece: Oskar Kokoschka’s Children Playing from 1909,” in: Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 64, no. 2001, pp. 501–536, here pp. 511–513.

CHAPTER 2

The Promised Land: Freud’s Dream of England Liliane Weissberg

On July 16, 1939, one year after his emigration to England, Sigmund Freud, the new resident of a house in Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead, wrote a letter to the well-known author H.G. Wells. In doing so, Freud used a language that was suited to his English correspondent, but also appropriate for his new residence in London. “Indeed, you cannot have known that since I first came over to England as a boy of eighteen years, it became an intense wish phantasy of mine to settle in this country and become an Englishman,” Freud wrote, and added: “Two of my halfbrothers had done so fifteen years before.”1 Freud did not only offer details of his biography and family history; he also analyzed himself. Accordingly, he suffered from an “intense wish phantasy” that characterized his relationship with the country he had been forced to flee to from the Nazis in 1938, but which he had wanted to come to much earlier already; not for a visit, but in order to become an Englishman.

L. Weissberg (B) University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_2

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Where was this England located in Freud’s imagination? This chapter explores possible answers to this question, and probes the notions of Empire and nationhood, emigration and exile, home territory and foreign land.

The Specter of Nationhood The Sigmund Freud Archives in Washington contain a copy of a letter from Jakob Freud, dated June 28, 1892, and addressed to his grandchildren Margarete and Lili, daughters of Maria Freud. “My very dear girls,” Jakob Freud writes, I was in Baden with your aunt Anna, she sends you a 1000 greetings and kisses. The little boy Eduard is the most charming boy and so sweet … Ditta and Lutzie have asked me to give him a nickname, which I did, and I called him Fellow [Kerl] the 4th of Austria, because together with Sigi’s three sons, we now have four beautiful boys in Austria … My choice of name was approved unanimously and I took it on me to tell all our relatives; I will announce it to the uncles in England, to you and to Aunt Martha in Reichenau.2

The two recipients of this letter were expecting a sibling themselves at that time, but it turned out to be another sister, Martha, nicknamed Tom. Brothers or Kerle would arrive later.3 Much is remarkable about Jakob Freud’s letter. There was the aristocratic seeming title for the almost one–year-old Eduard Bernays and his grandfather’s pride in the male line. But what was “Austria” supposed to mean in this context? The letter was written during the period of the Habsburg reign and the Moravian Freiberg or Pˇríbor, the birthplace of Anna Bernays, Maria Freud, and Sigmund Freud, as well as the Galician Tysmenitz or Tysmenytsya, from where the letter writer came, were imperial territory. Jakob Freud had moved from Galicia to Klogsdorf or Klokoˇcov in 1848 and then on to nearby Freiberg, a town he had already visited with his father Schlomo Freud as a wool merchant.4 Jews were granted the right of residence there at that time. The economic conditions in Freiberg were good, and the trade routes to Hungary were favorable. After the death of his first wife and a short second marriage, Jacob Freud married Amalia Nathanson, also from Galicia. While his older sons Emanuel and Philipp were still born in Tysmanitz, his younger children

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were born in Freiberg. “[I] am: a Jew from Moravia, my parents came from Austrian Galicia,” Sigmund Freud wrote in November 1935.5 In addition to German as the official language, the population in Tysmanitz spoke Polish or Ukrainian, in Freiberg mainly Czech. Jakob Freud, like his wife, adhered to Yiddish. Was he an Austrian? Certainly, he showed a different kind of patriotism when he officially recorded his birthday as April 1, in honor of the Prussian Chancellor Otto von Bismarck. Jakob Freud was probably born December 18.6 When the economic situation for the wool trade deteriorated, and Jakob Freud had to give up his business, the paths of the family members diverged. Philipp and Emanuel, who had already a wife and children, left Freiberg for England. Manchester was the center of the textile trade at that time, although the main focus there was on cotton, not wool. Jakob, Amalia, and their younger children left for Leipzig. The Saxon town boasted large trade fairs, and was a hub between East and West. But in 1860, they moved again, from Leipzig to Vienna’s Leopoldstadt. Located just outside the inner city, it had become the immigration hub for Jews from the Eastern Crown Lands who longed to move to the Empire’s capital that was just about to reinvent itself with new urban projects like the Ringstrasse. Sigmund Freud grew up in the Leopoldstadt or 2nd District, only to move to the more bourgeois 9th District later on; Berggasse 19 was located there. While still in Leopoldstadt, he changed his personal data— not his birthday like his father once had, but his first name. In Freiberg, he was named Sigismund; in Vienna, he became Sigmund. Was Sigmund now a “Fellow of Austria”? Freud rejected the Jewish religion, and he did not know much Hebrew, either, a language that his father had mastered still to some extent. He did not want to speak Yiddish, the language that he heard at home. In grammar school, he studied Greek and Latin, taught himself Spanish and Italian, and studied English and French as well. When Freud was offered a fellowship to study abroad in 1885, he went to Paris to work at JeanMartin Charcot’s neurological clinic, the Salpêtrière, and translated some of Charcot’s work into German. The Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph was well disposed toward his Jewish population, for they were actually Habsburg subjects par excellence. Their language skills, business relationships, and family ties made them transnational. Habsburg was a multi-ethnic state, and its Jews gave evidence of a people united in diversity.

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Freud, just like his father, and like many Habsburg Jews of his day, looked to Germany, however, and to the Protestant North as the cultural center of the Enlightenment. Freud claimed German as his linguistic homeland, and he admired Goethe’s works. He owned the 143-volume Goethe edition, the Sophienausgabe, and quoted eagerly from his poems and plays.7 “My language is German. My culture, [and] my education are German. Intellectually, I consider myself a German,” Freud remarked in an interview in 1926, but added immediately: “until I noticed the increase in antisemitic prejudice in Germany and German Austria. Since that time I have preferred to call myself a Jew.”8 But by 1926, the Habsburg Empire did no longer exist. Martin Heidegger would write later about borders and boundaries: “A space is something that has been made room for, something that is cleared and free, namely within a boundary, Greek peras. A boundary is not that at which something stops but, as the Greeks recognized, the boundary is that from which something begins its presencing.”9 But where did Freud’s being begin? Boundaries would switch and Freud’s geo-political territories change repeatedly. He did not have to leave any place for that; in 1918, Habsburg Vienna simply left him.10 After the defeat of WWI, the last Austrian emperor—named Karl, if not Kerl —had to renounce his position as head of state. Otto Bauer, the leading representative of the Social Democratic Workers’ Party of Austria, but also the brother of Freud’s patient “Dora,” spoke out in favor of annexing German Austria (Deutschösterreich) to Germany, to promote the establishment of a Social Democracy.11 Instead, an Austrian Republic came into existence that supported the ideology of a nation state; its citizens were now imagining themselves as one people only. Years earlier, politicians such as Vienna’s mayor Karl Lueger had outlined a concept of nationhood in which the Jews would have no place; they were the racial and cultural Others. By providing a negative image, Jews helped to define the new Austrians. The imaginary homogeneity of Austria’s population could only be achieved through their exclusion. Ultimately, however, Austria had to do not only without its Jews, but also without its own state. On March 11, 1938, after Hitler’s ultimatum, Freud noted in Latin in his diary “Finis Austriae.”12 Two days later, he remarked briefly: “Hitler in Vienna.”13 In March 1938, every Austrian was suddenly a resident of the German Ostmark; a name reminiscent of the Holy Roman Empire, not the Habsburg one. From

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that moment on, “Austria” continued only to exist as a designation for organizations formed abroad.14 And Freud had to change his passport again. Edmund Engelman, who was commissioned by the psychoanalyst August Aichhorn to photograph Freud’s apartment and practice rooms before they were given up, also produced the new passport photographs, thus documenting not only the old Viennese rooms, but also Freud’s new German face.15 The Habsburg subject, who became an Austrian citizen, would finally become a resident of the German Reich before leaving Vienna in June 1938. He thus joined his sister-in-law Minna Bernays, who hailed from Hamburg-Wandsbek, and had never given up her German citizenship. Both lost it again in the same year.16 The Kerle and their families had also lost their citizenship by 1938. At the time when Freud left Vienna, his sons Martin and Ernst were in England already. But his son Oliver was the first to obtain a new passport, he had moved to France in 1933, and assumed French citizenship in 1938.17

Hospitality Freud’s exile was therefore preceded by another “Heimkehr,” or return home; Austria returned “home to the Reich” before Freud was to leave the Reich. But did Freud really go into exile? Bertolt Brecht once distinguished between exile and emigration.18 According to Brecht, exiles are expelled from their country of residence, and hope for a political change to be able to return. An exile therefore leaves a country without belonging to another; in his new country, he sees himself as a guest only. An emigrant, on the other hand, can leave the country in which he lives voluntarily, and does not regard his new residence as a temporary one. An exile lives in an in-between; an emigrant wants to adopt a new identity. But in reality, the distinction between exiles and emigrants was not always that clear. And was Freud not already an emigrant before he left Vienna for London? After 1918, his birthplace Freiberg was located outside Austria. Freud spent most of his life in Vienna, and for a long time, he hoped to be able to end it there. Before Hitler’s annexation of Austria, he saw the dominant Catholic Church and “our brave and in its way decent government” as the possible protectors of the country’s Jews.19 Perhaps it was easier to live with the old Viennese antisemitism than with the new

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one that had defined neighboring Germany since 1933? His son Ernst, who lived with his family in Berlin and worked as an architect, left Berlin shortly after Hitler took power, and went to London that year.20 Freud himself tried to stay in Vienna for as long as possible. In 1934, he wrote to Arnold Zweig after reporting on his own difficult situation in Vienna: “You are quite right in your expectation that we intend to stick it out here resignedly. For where should I go in my state of dependence and physical helplessness? And everywhere abroad is so inhospitable. Only if there really were a satrap of Hitler’s ruling in Vienna I would no doubt have to go, no matter where.”21 But the lack of hospitality of foreign countries and not just the political situation in Vienna made it more and more difficult for Jews to leave. It was difficult to find a sponsor abroad for a visa; taxes and fees had to be paid, papers filed, and an entry permit had to be obtained as well. Vienna’s psychoanalysts found themselves in a relatively good situation. Through contacts with international psychoanalytical organizations and especially with the help of some American analysts who had been trained in Vienna during the interwar years, most of the Viennese psychoanalysts, who were predominantly of Jewish origin, were able to find foreign sponsors. Visiting American doctors and patients had predetermined the later emigration paths of Viennese therapists. Already after Hitler’s assumption of power in Germany in 1933, but especially after his annexation of Austria in March 1938, until the so-called Kristallnacht pogrom in November 1938, a total of over 130,000 people, mainly Jews, would leave what had once been Austria.22 The largest number of Viennese Jews emigrated to England, most of the Jewish analysts however moved to the United States. Almost all of the approximately 150 members of the Vienna Psychoanalytical Association followed the explicit recommendation of its board and emigrated; their exodus, however, had already begun before the annexation of Austria.23 Freud left Vienna on June 4, 1938, barely three months after the Anschluss. By August, exit conditions had been restricted, and after the November Pogrom of that year, it was almost impossible to leave the country. If Freud had waited only a few weeks longer, his plan to leave Vienna would probably have failed. Freud, who shaped and promoted psychoanalysis with his discovery, was one of the last psychoanalysts to leave the city. He closed the door.24 At the time of Freud’s departure, Vienna was not yet completely free of Jews, but actually free of

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analysts.25 Aichhorn, who was not Jewish, remained behind, and the Viennese Psychoanalytical Society was dissolved in 1938. Freud was able to leave the country thanks to a group of friends, acquaintances, and family members. Many were prominent. William Bullitt, the American ambassador in France, a former patient of Freud’s, and collaborator in a study on Woodrow Wilson,26 supported Freud, as did the American Secretary of State Cordell Hull and the American Consul General in Vienna; even President Franklin Roosevelt was regularly informed about Freud’s situation in Vienna. When Freud chose London as his new place of residence, his friend and former student, the psychoanalyst Marie Bonaparte was able to assist him and use her diplomatic connections in Paris. Bonaparte, a French aristocrat and a Princess of Greece and Denmark, was helped organize the travel, and paid the special government tax, the Reichsfluchtsteuer, to make his leave possible. A French visa, the journey by train to and from Paris, the short stay there, the journey by ferry to Dover, and the train trip to London had to be arranged. Ernest Jones, Freud’s former pupil and director of the London Psychoanalytic Association, asked members of the British parliament for help. Like Bonaparte, Jones visited Vienna during the weeks preceding Freud’s departure to assess the situation. In Vienna, Freud’s daughter Anna took charge, and made the arrangements for the move. Freud’s son Martin began to liquidate the publishing house of the Psychoanalytic Society. As he was already in London, Ernst arranged for a house to rent and later helped with the purchase and renovation of Freud’s later and last residence. And even in Vienna, Freud had expected and unexpected support. A representative of the Kunsthistorisches Museum made an appraisal of Freud’s collection of antiquities that was deliberately low, so that it could be released for export, and the National Socialist Anton Sauerwald, who was seconded to supervise Freud’s departure, decided to overlook many obstacles, including his foreign accounts. Months later, Sauerwald would present himself to Freud in London; the reason for his trip to England and his visit remain unclear.27 On June 4, 1938, Freud wrote the last letter from Vienna to Arnold Zweig in Palestine, in slightly imperfect English: “Leaving today for 39, Elsworthy Road, London N. W. 3. Affect, greetings Freud.”28 Ultimately, Freud did not leave Vienna alone, but insisted on the departure of his immediate family and employees, a number of people the American diplomats had initially considered impossible and too expensive.29 Freud was traveling accompanied by an employee of the American embassy, with his

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daughter Anna, his wife Martha and housekeeper Paula Fichtl as well as the maid Mitzi. His sister-in-law Minna Bernays, his son Martin, Martin’s wife Esti and their two children, his daughter Mathilde and her husband Robert Hollitscher, and Freud’s grandson Ernst Halberstadt had left earlier already. The family doctor Max Schur, whose departure was delayed due to appendicitis, was replaced at short notice by the pediatrician Josephine Stross, but Schur’s wife Helen and two small children were also allowed to leave. Freud’s dog accompanied his master, but had to be quarantined in England for several weeks. Since Freud’s group was traveling under diplomatic protection, they arrived in England without further controls. “This England—you will soon see for yourself-is in spite of everything that strikes one as foreign, peculiar, and difficult, and of this there is quite enough—a blessed, a happy country inhabited by well-meaning, hospitable people,” Freud wrote to his younger brother Alexander a few weeks after his arrival, using the term hospitality.30 Jacques Derrida defined two types of hospitality, the conditional hospitality and true hospitality, which imposes no conditions.31 The latter corresponds to a “welcome culture,” or Willkommenskultur, to use a term coined in Germany in 2015 only as a response to the refugee crisis. But this welcome culture hardly existed then, as it hardly exists now. England saw itself as the center of its own British Empire, and had its own immigration regulations aimed at restricting the influx of refugees. The host country decided who could be a guest, and Freud was a privileged guest. He thus shared the fate of other Jewish refugees, and at the same time, he did not quite share their fate.32 He was greeted by journalists, photographers, and curious spectators at the Parisian Gare de l’Est, and showered with gifts of flowers, congratulatory telegrams, and letters immediately upon his arrival in London. Some were merely addressed to “Dr. Freud, London,” but arrived nevertheless. He received a steady stream of visitors.33 Representatives of the Royal Society, who had already elected Freud as a corresponding member, rushed to present the award to him in person.34 Right after his arrival, Freud wrote to Max Eitingon in Jerusalem: “The emotional climate of these days is hard to grasp, almost indescribable … We have become popular in London overnight.”35 And he confessed to his brother: “for the first time and late in life I have experienced what it is to be famous.”36 Freud left his four sisters behind in Vienna; he hoped that their advanced age, and his modest provision for them, could protect them. All were eventually deported to concentration camps.37

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The Liberation While Freud was not really familiar with the country that he reached in June 1938, it was not entirely strange to him, either. Freud’s eldest brother Emanuel had been active in the cotton business in Manchester, his brother Philipp was a jeweler and merchant there. In 1938, neither of them was alive. Philipp, the younger, had died as early as 1911; Emanuel in 1914. Freud had English nephews and nieces, most of whom remained unmarried and childless. Emanuel’s son Solomon, known as Sam, would become Freud’s main contact with the English branch of his family. Sam visited Freud in London after his arrival there.38 Until their death, however, Freud’s contact with his brothers had been relatively intense. Both Emanuel and Philip visited the Vienna family. Freud’s older brothers supported Jakob Freud financially, and sent gifts to his Austrian relatives as well. The English family was also sent packages with goods that satisfied more than necessities. Freud liked to dress in suits of English tweed or Shetland fabric, which he received from his nephew Sam.39 Three years after his son Ernst had moved to London, Freud wrote to his fifteen-year-old son Gabriel: “I like to hear that you have become an Englishman. Strange that at about your age I also wanted to become an Englishman and study in Manchester.”40 Freud himself made his first trip abroad as a 19-year-old graduate from Gymnasium and went to his brothers in Manchester. Freud wrote to his friend Eduard Silberstein: As for England itself, I need not observe such niceties and can say straight out that I would sooner live there than here, rain, fog, drunkenness, and conservatism notwithstanding. Many peculiarities of the English character and country that other Continentals might find intolerable agree very well with my own makeup. Who knows, dear friend, but that after I have completed my studies a favorable wind might not blow me across to England for practical work.41

But Freud did not return to England until 1908, and at that time, he was an established physician already. He spent four days with Emanuel in the seaside resort of St. Anne, travelled to Manchester, where he could also see Philipp, and for the first time to London, where he was to stay in a hotel in the very same Manchester Street. “London was simply splendid,” Jones later reported in his biography of Freud,

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and he was full of praise for the people and everything he saw; even the architecture of Oxford Street met with his approval (!). He bought an English pipe and the cigars were wonderful. There was a long description of Hyde Park with the accuracy and fulness of a Baedeker; what struck him most about it was the ‘fairy-like beauty’ of the children. The City was of course visited, but what meant most to him was the collection of antiquities, particularly the Egyptian ones, in the British Museum. He did not go to any theatre, because the evenings were given up to reading in preparation for the next day’s visit to the museums.42

These visits left such a positive impression on Freud that he wanted to pass it on to his youngest daughter. Anna, too, left for England at the age of eighteen, after finishing school. She traveled in 1914 accompanied by Freud’s former patient Loe Kann, and also met Jones in London. Having completed a teaching degree, she wanted to visit a girls’ school in St. Leonards-on-Sea Anna. Actually, Anna also planned to visit her relatives in Manchester, but the date chosen for the trip was ill-fated. On July 28, 1914, war was declared, leading to what would become WWI, and Anna Freud returned to Vienna earlier than planned, accompanied by the Austrian ambassador.43 In a letter to Marie Bonaparte dated October 4, 1938, Freud did not mention any family relationships and visits for his decision to settle in England, but referred to the language problem. “Everything here is rather strange, difficult, and often bewildering, but all the same it is the only country we can live in, France being impossible on account of the language.”44 This reasoning is not entirely convincing. Freud spoke English very hesitantly and had spent a semester in Paris as a student. As a young man he had translated scientific literature into German, and in older age, he translated Bonaparte’s story of her dog Topsy. In Palestine, Max Eitingon and Arnold Zweig assured him, life was difficult for immigrants who did not speak Hebrew, but the psychoanalysts who had established the Palestinian Psychoanalytic Society there in 1934 stuck to the German language.45 And English was also spoken in the United States. Freud had traveled to America in 1909 at the invitation of Clark University, and had developed a dislike for the country whose culture he understood to be a superficial one. Even after the influx of Viennese analysts, he had low expectations for the development of psychoanalysis there.

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Freud considered the English psychoanalytical association, established by Jones and which was preparing for its 25th anniversary, to be particularly important.46 While the majority of Viennese analysts had chosen a different destination, for Freud, the future of psychoanalysis was particularly promising in London. Only one problem remained. By 1938, Freud’s daughter Anna had already settled into her own career as an analyst. Her disputes with Melanie Klein, who had moved from Vienna to London already in 1926 at Jones’ invitation, were well known.47 For Freud, living in England may have been a long-cherished wish, but shortly after his arrival in London, reality set in as well. This was not only due to the divergent psychoanalytic concepts of British analysts such as Klein, whose work focused, interestingly enough, on “phantasy wishes.”48 There were the big and small problems of daily life. Freud’s letters soon included the conjunctive form: “This could be a wonderful fulfilment of a wish dream if …”49 His sister-in-law Minna was ill and had to go to hospital and a nursing home. Freud himself had renewed jaw operations and was suffering. The house was wonderful, but the heating did not work properly, and why were English windows this draughty?50 “The feeling of triumph on being liberated is too strongly mixed with sorrow,” Freud wrote now, for in spite of everything I still greatly loved the prison from which I have been released. The enchantment of the new surroundings (which make one want to shout “Heil Hitler!”) is blended with discontent caused by little peculiarities of the strange environment; the happy anticipations of a new life are dampened by the question: how long will a fatigued heart be able to accomplish any work?—Under the impact of the illness on the floor above me (I haven’t been allowed to see her [Minna] yet) the pain in the heart turns into an unmistakable depression.51

Here, in the midst of all the ambivalence, between gratitude and depression, a word comes up that Freud would use soon again and again for his new experience. It is neither “exile,” nor “emigration,” but “liberation.” Freud’s use of the term “liberation” goes back further than any response to Hitler’s annexation of Austria. “Liberation” was closely connected to the concept of freedom and thus, with the idea of England from the very outset. For the tweed suit or the admiration for the English gentleman were only symptoms of a political freedom for which England itself stood in Freud’s eyes. The Habsburg Empire incorporated

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its colonies into its borders, but by 1918, Vienna was a head without a body. The British Empire, on the other hand, was an expansive empire that dominated other countries but maintained political power, it was, moreover, a country of liberal parliamentarism. For Freud, this political freedom was accompanied by moral strength. The botanist Arthur Tansley, once a student of Freud’s in Vienna, reported the following anecdote: I remember once, when we were talking of the reputations in the world of different nations and of their attitudes to one another, I remarked on the common Continental condemnation of English ‘hypocrisy’ and wondered if it had not some justification. Freud looked at me in surprise. ‘But surely,’ he said, ‘you cannot doubt that England is rightly held to be morally preeminent.’ I felt that this was real praise of my country, for he was the last man in the world to pretend, out of politeness, what he did not believe, and he used the word moral in no narrow sense.52

Many Viennese Jews shared Freud’s admiration for England. Journalist Theodor Herzl described the Anglomania of Viennese citizens in his feuilletons. He referred to Viennese Jews who dreamed of cricket,53 and did not understand how Vienna could install a mayor like Lueger, while the British would appoint Benjamin Disraeli as prime minister. None of those who were still Jewish, or had already converted to Christianity, could compete with Disraeli’s self-confidence, either—or, as Hannah Arendt suggested, his dramatic self-fashioning as a Jew.54 Of course, Herzl himself was a great admirer of the English lifestyle, and he also hoped that England in particular would enable him to establish a Jewish state in the British Mandate of Palestine. Freud was no Zionist, but he comforted Arnold Zweig, who had reported about the difficult life in Palestine, in 1937 thus: “Palestine is at least still British Empire, that must not be underestimated.”55 Already at the time of his first visit to Manchester, Freud had seriously begun to study English history.56 When it came to finding names for his children, Freud deviated from the Ashkenazi Jewish tradition and did not give them the names of deceased relatives, but of teachers and friends he wanted to honor.57 An exception was his son Oliver, and here his choice entered the world of English politics. However, he did not name him after Disraeli, but after Oliver Cromwell, the British politician of the seventeenth century, who for a long time had not only led the fate of Great

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Britain, but also made it possible for the Jews to reside in the country again. Later Freud often quoted John Stuart Mill, Aldous Huxley, and others with admiration.58 In the late eighteenth century, German writers had discovered Shakespeare, not as an English playwright, however, but as a Nordic bard who was closer to the Germans than the previously dominant courtly French culture, and they translated his works, most famously Ludwig Tieck and the August Wilhelm Schlegel. Thus, Shakespeare was admired by the authors of the Storm and Stress period, and later, of Romanticism. For them, Shakespeare’s dramas promised the release from French cultural dominance. But German Anglophilia had a special touch. Goethe was a committed reader of Shakespeare. The German translations of Shakespeare’s dramas became German literature it their own right. Freud would still quote the British bard’s work in English, however. In the library of his new house in London, he placed Shakespeare’s works next to Goethe’s, and they stood united next to the famous couch.59 For Freud, the land of political freedom was always also the land of Shakespeare, whose works gave Freud psychoanalytical insights. In his Interpretation of Dreams, Freud’s manifesto of psychoanalysis published in 1899, the author discusses the liberation from neuroses, but for illustration, he refers to Shakespearean literature as well. Quotations from Hamlet, for example, should comment on, and illuminate, his patients’ dreams. “‘There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave/To tell us this’ is what it says in Hamlet.” Chapters on “dream material” and “dream sources” contain longer interpretations of the play and compare it to Sophocles’ King Oedipus.60 For Freud, both plays are psychological dramas that deal with the relationship of father and son, and the son’s attempt to seek liberation from the father through patricide. “But the different treatment of the same subject matter reveals the entire difference between the inner lives of the two cultural periods, the secular and continuous repression in the emotional life of mankind,” Freud continues: In the Oedipus the child’s wishful phantasy that underlies it is brought into the open and realized as it would be in a dream. In Hamlet it remains repressed; and —just as in the case of a neurosis—we only learn of its existence from its inhibiting consequences.61

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Freud did not see Hamlet as a generally weak person, but as one who faltered in taking revenge: “Hamlet is able to do anything—except take vengeance on the man who did away with his father and took that father’s place with his mother, the man who shows him the repressed wishes of his own childhood realized.”62 In the section on dream work, Freud referred to the dream as a fulfillment of a wish.63 The reader was to interpret dreams, to understand their hidden meaning, by undoing the dream work. In undoing the dream work, the patient/analyst/reader could discover suppressed and forgotten desires. For Freud, psychoanalysis was about remembering and working through. But dreams were not to be realized; a wish should not always be followed by a deed. The avoidance of patricide, for example, can be successful, too, and lead to the path of civilization. Initially, Hamlet wanted to stage his revenge as a play only. In the play, the hero of Shakespeare’s drama becomes a playwright, and hopes that his uncle will understand his performance, and recognize his guilt. But Shakespeare’s Hamlet does not only show the psychological difficulties of his hero and his family history. It is also a political play about a prince of Denmark who wants to preserve his country’s independence. While Freud’s dream interpretation seeks a relief from neuroses, for Hamlet, the survival of the Danish Empire is at stake. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” a palace guard declares in the first act already, and although Hamlet is made aware of his father’s death by the ghost of his father, the murder of his father is also the murder of the country’s leader and king. The uncle does not realize his guilt after watching the play, but sends Hamlet to England where he should be assassinated. But the mission failed; Hamlet can escape, and he returns to Denmark. But he cannot save his country, as murder and manslaughter follow. Finally, Fortinbras, a Norwegian prince, will rule over Denmark with English support. In the end, there is no personal liberation. Perhaps, it is not Hamlet’s, but Freud’s secret wish that is fulfilled here as England is led to victory. In Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet confronts the spirit of his father. Freud in turn would meet spirits of his own. They all came from England. In a letter written in 1897, shortly after his father’s death, Freud tells his friend Wilhelm Fliess about the visit of John, his brother Emanuel’s eldest son. John had been Freud’s closest playmate in Freiberg, and at this time, he was 15, and Freud 14 years old.64 In July 1900, Freud reports the visit of his brother Emanuel to the same correspondent. “This is the year of revenants!” Freud exclaimed,65 and as in his case studies, Freud uses a

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French word for here, revenants, to underline his point.66 The Interpretation of Dreams had recently been published; it was a book as he would explain, that contained, “a portion of my own self-analysis, my reaction to my father’s death—that is to say, to the most important event, the most poignant loss, of a man’s life.”67 Freud would use the word “revenant ” in this study already, not in regard to his father, but in regard to John who had become in Manchester an Englishman “in every respect, with a knowledge of languages and technical matters well beyond the usual business education”68 : I have already shown how my warm friendships as well as my enmities with contemporaries went back to my relations in childhood with a nephew who was a year my senior; how he was my superior, how I early learned to defend myself against him, how we were inseparable friends, and how, according to the testimony of our elders, we sometimes fought with each other and—made complaints to them about each other. All my friends have in a certain sense been re-incarnations of this first figure who ‘früh sich einst dem trüben Blick gezeigt’: they have been revenants. My nephew himself re-appeared in my boyhood, and at that time we acted the parts of Caesar and Brutus together.69

The line “früh sich einst dem trüben Blick gezeigt ” appears in Goethe’s “Dedication (Zueignung )” to his Faust, a drama that Freud would quote often, and that features spirits, too. But in the anecdote cited above, Freud referred to a poem by Friedrich Schiller as well which in turn is related to another political play by Shakespeare, Julius Caesar.70 Once again, the play focuses on the murder of a ruler. Was this performance to elicit a recognition of guilt? Was it to banish a spirit? In 1938, Freud traveled to the land of his older, almost paternal brothers, who were long since dead. Now, the direction of the Revenants was reversed. And Freud was no longer moving to England in order to become an Englishman, but to end his life there. “Two prospects keep me going in these grim times: to rejoin you all and—to die in freedom,” Freud writes to his son Ernst shortly before his departure in May 1838, and the language of freedom is already English.71 Since his younger brother Alexander was thinking of emigrating to Canada,72 Freud was now the only sibling in England. The freedom gained in England meant for him the free determination over his death as well. When Freud asked Schur to assist him in suicide a few months later, he himself committed the ultimate patricide. The death date of the founder of psychoanalysis, caused by Freud himself, fell on Yom Kippur.73

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The Negative Homeland Does a revenant leave home, or does he return home? Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm referred to the term Heimat in their German dictionary as the Latin patria or domicilium, i.e., fatherland, home, or residence.74 Etienne François and Hagen Schulze refer to the origin of the term in legal studies: Until well into the 19th century, Heimat was regarded as the place one belonged to due to one’s birth or marriage, but also due to the granting of the right of domicile or employment by the community. This resulted in the right of residence, the exercise of a commercial trade or the acquisition of real estate. In this context, the possession of property played a considerable role. Those without property were homeless, and an exclusion from a home community seemed even justified if future impoverishment was to be expected.75

Freud thought about the idea of home and Heimat as well. In 1919, after the end of WWI and the dissolution of the Habsburg Empire, Freud published a study on what it meant to feel at home. Freud’s essay on the meaning of home is entitled “The Uncanny” (“Das Unheimliche”). At the same time, he also began work on an essay on the origin of man, death, and the longing of return, Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920); his last journey resonates with his speculations on death in this book, where a desire for life is met by an equally strong death drive. In “The Uncanny,” he begins with a reflection on the meaning of the words “heimlich” and “unheimlich”: “[H ]eimlich is a word the meaning of which develops in the direction of ambivalence, until it finally coincides with its opposite, unheimlich. Unheimlich is in some way or other a sub-species of heimlich.”76 Perhaps, London would become heimlich and unheimlich at the same time, just as Vienna was. But if England was to be the desirable home, Freud would find its model in another text and country. It was the Bible who had promised the Chosen People its own land. Is this a home of origin, or of destination? Freud had expressed his wish to die in freedom in a letter to his son Ernst, but he would continue with a reference to a Biblical story: “I sometimes compare myself to old Jacob, who as an old man was taken to Egypt by his children, as Thomas Mann will describe to us in the next novel.”77 The destination of that Biblical journey was Egypt. Elsewhere in the Bible, however, Egypt is the land that Jews were

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supposed to leave. Jews were to find a home that was not known to them yet, and Moses was to lead them there. Freud was particularly fascinated by Moses. On the occasion of his travel to Rome in 1913, Freud visited the statue of Moses by Michelangelo, and sent a picture postcard of the art work to Sandor Ferenczi.78 In 1914, Freud published an essay about Michelangelo’s sculpture in Imago, and did so anonymously.79 The essay begins with a detailed concession that he would not treat the work as an art historian, but as a person interested in the meaning of a work that appeared to be utterly mysterious. Freud compares the sculpture to Shakespeare’s Hamlet: Let us consider Shakespeare’s masterpiece, Hamlet, a play now over three centuries old. I have followed the literature of psycho-analysis closely, and I accept its claim that it was not until the material of the tragedy had been traced back by psycho-analysis to the Oedipus theme that the mystery of its effect was at last explained. But before this was done, what a mass of differing and contradictory interpretative attempts, what a variety of opinions about the hero’s character and the dramatist’s intentions! Does Shakespeare claim our sympathies on behalf of a sick man, or of an ineffectual weakling, or of an idealist who is merely too good for the real world?… But why do I call this statue inscrutable? There is not the slightest doubt that it represents Moses, the Law-giver of the Jews, holding the Tables of the Ten Commandments. That much is certain, but that is all.80

Later, Freud would turn from a discussion of Michelangelo’s sculpture to a discussion of the Biblical figure itself. In 1934, Freud finished the first of his three essays on Moses.81 As with his discussion of the concept of “unheimlich,” he begins this study with a reference to etymology. The name Moses echoed the names of many Egyptian pharaohs. For Freud, Moses was thus an Egyptian who wanted to teach monotheism to an initially ungrateful horde of men. Moses proclaimed an invisible God, and for his followers, this was hard to grasp. They decided to kill Moses. Soon, however, they were haunted by this patricide. They united and became the Jewish people not because they were convinced of Moses’s teaching, but by a common feeling of guilt. In his case studies, Freud referred to the story of Oedipus to illuminate his theses about individual human development. But already in Totem and Taboo (1913), he would discuss the relationship of ancient tribes and “primitive” people to their leader, and referred to the story of Oedipus within an anthropological context. In his study of Moses, Freud uses the Greek myth to speculate

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on the origin of the Jewish people. But Moses was more than a religious leader. He was also a politician who led his people out of the prison of slavery. Guilt, liberation, and the assumption of a new identity went hand in hand. Freud completed his first two essays on Moses in Vienna, and began work on a third there as well. He was to finish this last one in London within the first months after his arrival there. For this last essay, entitled “Moses, His People and the Monotheistic Religion,” he offered two preliminary remarks. The first was written in Vienna still, and is dated “March 1938.” There, Freud comments on the current political events: We are living in a specially remarkable period. We find to our astonishment that progress has allied itself with barbarism … We feel it as a relief from an oppressive apprehension when we sec in the case of the German people that a relapse into almost prehistoric barbarism can occur as well without being attached to any progressive ideas. In any case, things have so turned out that to-day the conservative democracies have become the guardians of cultural advance and that, strange to say, it is precisely the institution of the Catholic Church which puts up a powerful defence against the spread of this danger to civilization—the Church which has hitherto been the relentless foe to freedom of thought and to advances towards the discovery of the truth!82

Just a few weeks earlier, Freud had written to his son Ernst: “If we were rich and I were not disabled, I would be tempted to seek asylum in a beautiful spot on the Mediterranean coast. Even then one would have to overcome the concern that my escape would trigger the complete dissolution of the analytical group. Fortunately, this temptation does not exist.”83 Freud’s second preliminary remark to his essay, dated “June 1938, was already written in London: The quite special difficulties which have weighed on me during my composition of this study relating to the figure of Moses—internal doubts as well as external obstacles—have resulted in this third and concluding essay being introduced by two different prefaces, which contradict each other and indeed cancel each other out.84

And Freud continues with a discussion of the political changes that he witnessed:

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Then, suddenly, came the German invasion and Catholicism proved, to use the words of the Bible, ‘a broken reed’. In the certainty that I should now be persecuted not only for my line of thought but also for my ‘race’— accompanied by many of my friends, I left the city which, from my early childhood, had been my home for seventy-eight years. I met with the friendliest reception in lovely, free, magnanimous England. Here I now live, a welcome guest; I can breathe a sigh of relief now that the weight has been taken off me and that I am once more able to speak and write—I had almost said ‘and think’—as I wish or as I must.85

Thus, Freud’s penning his essay on Moses was made to collide with the political events that were unfolding. Freud, much like Moses, had to set out on a journey that did not lead across the Red Sea, but the English Channel. To which extend did Freud identify with Moses? Already in a letter to Carl Gustav Jung of 1909, Freud did not refer to Moses as a figure who formed Judaism and would bring the Jewish people together—to which Jung clearly did not belong. Instead, he would speak about the founding of psychoanalysis.86 Superstitious and already haunted by the specter of his own death, he wrote: “We are certainly getting ahead; if I am Moses, then you are Joshua and will take possession of the promised land of psychiatry, which I shall only be able to glimpse from afar.”87 Moses promoted monotheism, created the Jewish people, but never reached the Promised Land. He died too soon. And perhaps it was not life that was required to reach the Promised Land, but death. “When I was eighteen, Germany was in its teens also,”88 the old Goethe asserted, and thus implied that he and Germany should be thought of as synonymous. Freud was not only the founder of psychoanalysis; his person was also intimately tied to the discipline itself. “You guess quite correctly what Abraham’s death meant for me,” Freud wrote to Ludwig Binswanger in 1926, “[b]ut if one is to live so long, one cannot entirely avoid surviving others. After all, psychoanalysis is not a personal affair, and will continue to exist even after I have ceased to preside over its destinies.”89 But for Freud, psychoanalysis was a personal matter for Freud. And not just he, also the psychoanalytic discipline and professional organization with him needed a home. Shortly before his death, Freud wrote: “The events of recent years have made London the principal site and center of the psychoanalytical movement (Bewegung ),”90 using a term that strangely recalls the political movement or Bewegung that took hold in Vienna by then.

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Perhaps, Freud wanted to die in freedom; perhaps, England was to house the king’s symbolic body. Freud’s presence and resting place in death offered legitimacy to London as the new center of psychoanalysis. While Freud arrived in London in June 1938, his book on Moses still had far to go. It was commenced in Vienna, completed in London, but published posthumously in the Netherlands in 1939, with the English translation appearing in London in the same year.91 After the war, the analysts who had emigrated to the United States disputed London’s role as the discipline’s capital. That claim required Freud’s presence as well, and thus symbolically, body and hand were separated. Today, most of Freud’s library is stored in London92 ; but his papers were transferred as the “Sigmund Freud Archives” to the Library of Congress in Washington.

Notes 1. Sigmund Freud, letter to H.G. Wells, July 16, 1939, in: Freud, Letters of Sigmund Freud 1873–1939, ed. Ernst L. Freud (London: The Hogarth Press, 1979), p. 455. 2. Jakob Freud, letter to his granddaughters, June 28, 1892. Copy, Sigmund Freud Archives, Washington; series: Family Papers, 1851–1978; ms. 39990, box 12. Ditta and Lutzie are Edward Bernay’s older sisters Judith and Leah (Lucy). Italics mine. 3. The children of Maria and Moritz Freud were: Margarete (1887), Lilly (1888), Martha (1892), Theodor (1904) and Georg (1904); Georg died shortly after birth. 4. See Liliane Weissberg, “Ariadne’s Thread: Sigmund Freud, the Textile Industry, and Early Psychoanalysis.” MLN 125 (2010): pp. 661–681. 5. Freud, letter to Siegfried Fehl, November 1935; cited in Peter Gay, Freud: A Life for Our Time (New York: W. W. Norton, 1988), p. 597. 6. International Dictionary of Psychoanalysis (Farmington Hills: Gale, 2005), cf.: https://www.encyclopedia.com/psychology/dictionaries-the sauruses-pictures-and-press-releases/freud-jakob-kolloman-or-kelemenor-kallamon-1815-1896 (accessed October 2018). 7. See Pascal Hachet, Les psychanalystes et Goethe (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995), and Sander Gilman, Jutta Birmele, Jay Geller, and Valerie Greenberg (Eds.), Reading Freud’s Reading (New York: New York University Press, 1994). 8. Georg Sylvester Viereck, “Sigmund Freud Confronts the Sphinx,” in: Viereck, Glimpses of the Great (London: Macalauley Company, 1930), pp. 23–41; here p. 34.

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9. Martin Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking (1951),” in: Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, tr. Albert Hofstadter (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), pp. 143–161, here p. 154. 10. See also the attempt by Ernest Jones to persuade Freud to departure. Jones told the story of a second officer on the Titanic who did not want to leave his ship, but was ultimately convinced that the ship was leaving him; see Ronald W. Clark, Freud: The Man and the Cause (New York: Random House, 1980), p. 507. 11. Only four weeks before his death, Otto Bauer spoke out in favor of a Greater German Solution still. In regard to the discussion of this proposal by the Social Democrats even after the Anschluss by Adolf Hitler, see Bruno Kreisky, “Österreicher im Exil—Österreich im Exil,” in: Friedrich Stadler (Ed.), Vertriebene Vernunft. Emigration und Exil österreichischer Wissenschaft II (Wien: Jugend und Volk, 2004), pp. 63–68, and Peter Eppel, “Österreicher in der Emigration und im Exil 1938–1945,” in: Vertriebene Vernunft II, pp. 69–81, esp. pp. 72–73. 12. Freud, The Diary of Sigmund Freud 1929–1939: A Record of the Final Decade, tr. Michael Molnar (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1992), p. 229. 13. Freud, The Diary of Sigmund Freud 1929–1939, p. 230. 14. In England, various exile organizations merged in 1941 to form the “Free Austrian Movement,” also the “Council of Austrians in Great Britain” (1938) and the “Austrian League” (1940). After his arrival in London, Freud was made honorary chairman of the “Councils of Austrians.” 15. Freud, The Diary of Sigmund Freud 1929–1939, p. 263. In regard to the photographs, see the Sigmund Freud Papers, Library of Congress, Washington. A selection of Edmund Engelman’s photographs are published in Engelman, Berggasse 19: Sigmund Freud’s Home and Offices, Vienna, 1938 (New York: Basic Books, 1976). 16. Minna departed on May 5, 1938; Dorothy Burlington accompanied her to Switzerland first, and then to London. See Freud, The Diary of Sigmund Freud 1929–1939, p. 235. 17. The estate of Oliver and Henny Fuchs Freud is at the Library of Congress, Washington: https://www.loc.gov/item/mm92081384/ (accessed October 2018). Oliver Freud’s family moved from Berlin to France in 1933; from 1934 on, they lived in Nice. Oliver and Henny Freud emigrated to the USA in 1943; their daughter Eva remained in France and died in Marseille in 1944. 18. Eppel, “Österreicher in der Emigration und im Exil 1938–1945,” p. 69. 19. Freud, letter to Max Eitingon, February 6, 1938. Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 441. 20. See Volker Welter, Ernst L. Freud, Architect: The Case of the Modern Bourgeois Home. (ser.) Space and Place (London: Berghahn Books, 2011).

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21. Freud, letter to Arnold Zweig, February 25, 1934. Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 64. 22. Eppel, “Österreicher in der Emigration und im Exil 1938–1945,” pp. 69– 70. 23. Roland Kaufhold and Hans-Jürgen Wirth, “Der Weg ins Exil: Vor 70 Jahren emigrierte Sigmund Freud nach London:” http://www.hag alil.com/archiv/2008/11/freud.htm (accessed October 2018), and in Tribüne. Zeitschrift zum Verständnis des Judentums 44,177 (2006): pp. 158–171. 24. Roland Kaufhold, “Spurensuche zur Geschichte der die USA emigrierten Wiener Psychoanalytischen Pädagogen.” Luzifer-Amor 16, 31 (2003): pp. 37–69. 25. Uwe Henrik Peters, “1938 Sigmund Freud’s Departure from Vienna for Exile in England Marks a Symbolic End to the Wave of Emigration of German-Speaking Jewish Psychotherapists and Psychoanalysts in Germany and Austria,” in: Sander Gilman (Ed.), Yale Companion to Jewish Writing and Thought in German Culture, 1096–1996 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 558–562. 26. Freud und William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study (New York: Houghton Mifflin, Riverside Press, 1967). Freud and Bullitt conceived this study in the early Thirties. 27. See David Cohen, The Escape of Sigmund Freud (New York: The Overlook Press, 2012). As a soldier in the US forces, Freud’s nephew Harry was stationed in Vienna in 1945 and met Sauerwald there. For his political involvement, Sauerwald was tried and convicted to a prison sentence. His positive support for Freud and his family, and his help in the emigration process, became publicly known only later. 28. Freud, letter to Zweig, June 4, 1938. Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 160. 29. In regard to any financial considerations, see Clark, Freud, pp. 502–512. 30. Freud, letter to Alexander Freud, June 22, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 446. 31. Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality, including an “invitation” by Anne Dufourmantelle, tr. Rachel Bowlby. (ser.) Cultural Memory in the Present (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). 32. See Weissberg, “Freuds Exil,” in: Doerte Bischoff and Susanne KomfortHein (Eds.), Literatur und Exil. Neue Perspektiven (Berlin: DeGruyter, 2013), pp. 323–336. 33. Freud, letter to Alexander Freud, June 22, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 446. 34. Clark, Freud, S. 517. The documents on the handover of the official charter books for the signing in London are in the Freud archives in Washington: https://www.loc.gov/item/mss3999001404/ (last accessed October 2018). See also Ernst Federn, “Die Emigration von Anna und Sigmund Freud. Eine Fallstudie,” in: Vertriebene Vernunft II, pp. 247– 250.

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35. Freud, letter to Eitingon, June 6, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 445. 36. Freud, letter to Alexander Freud, June 22, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 447. 37. Regarding Freud’s sisters, see Christfried Tögel, “BAHNSTATION TREBLINKA. Zum Schicksal von Sigmund Freuds Schwester Rosa Graf:” http://www.freud-biographik.de/trebl.htm (accessed October 2018); Regarding Freud’s financial arrangements for his sisters, see Clark, Freud, p. 520. 38. Elisabeth Young-Bruehl, Anna Freud: A Biography (New York: Summit Books, 1988), p. 235. 39. The correspondence with Sam Freud is in the Ryland Library, Manchester: http://www.library.manchester.ac.uk/search-resources/specialcollections/guide-to-special-collections/atoz/sigmund-freud-papers/ (accessed October 2018). Sam Freud visited his uncle in London after his emigration; see Clark, Freud, p. 515. 40. Freud, letter to Gabriel Freud, July 29, 1936, in: Freud, Unterdeß halten wir zusammen. Briefe an die Kinder, ed. Michael Schröter (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 2010), p. 437. 41. Freud, letter to Eduard Silberstein, September 9, 1875, in: Freud, The Letters of Sigmund Freud to Eduard Silberstein, 1871–1881, ed. Walter Boehlich, tr. Arnold J. Pomerans (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1990), p. 127. 42. Ernest Jones, Sigmund Freud: Life and Work, Vol. 2: Years of Maturity 1901–1919 (London: The Hogarth Press, 1955), p. 57. 43. Young-Bruehl, Anna Freud, p. 69. 44. Freud, letter to Marie Bonaparte, October 4, 1938. In: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 451. 45. See also Ruth Kloocke, Mosche Wulff. Zur Geschichte der Psychoanalyse in Rußland und Israel. Tübingen: edition discord, 2002. 46. Jones founded the British-Psycho-Analytical Society (BPAS) in 1919 together with John Carl Flügel, Eric Hiller, Henry Butter Stoddart and others. He chaired the BPAS until 1944. 47. See Gail Donaldson, “Between Practice and Theory: Melanie Klein, Anna Freud and the Development of Child Analysis.” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 32, 2 (1996): pp. 160–176, and Young-Bruehl, Anna Freud, pp. 163–173. 48. See Neal Vorus, “Disquieting Phantasy: Klein-Freud Controversies,” in: Psychoanalytic Review 90, 1 (2003): pp. 63–99 und Elizabeth Bott Spillius, “Freud and Klein on the Concept of Phantasy,” in: International Journal of Psychoanalysis 82 (2001): pp. 361–373. 49. Freud, letter to Max Eitingon, June 6, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873– 1939, p. 444.

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50. See Clark, Freud, pp. 513–530. 51. Freud, letter to Eitingon, June 6, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 445. 52. Arthur G. Tansely, “Sigmund Freud 1856–1939.” (ser.) Obituary Notices of Fellows of the Royal Society, January 1, 1941. https://doi.org/10. 1098/rsbm.1941.0002, p. 274. See also: https://royalsocietypublishing. org/doi/pdf/10.1098/rsbm.1941.0002 (accessed October 2018). 53. See Buruma, Anglomania (New York: Random House, 1998), pp. 176– 198. 54. Hannah Arendt, “The Potent Wizard,” in: The Origins of Totalitarianism ([1958] San Diego: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1976), pp. 68–79. 55. Freud, letter to Zweig, late 1937, in: Ernst Freud (Ed.), The Letters of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Zweig (London: The Hogarth Press, 1970), p. 154. 56. See Peter Gay, “Six Names in Search of an Interpretation,” in: Gay, Reading Freud: Explorations & Entertainments (New Haven: Yale University, 1990), pp. 54–73. 57. See Weissberg, “Freuds Namen,” in: Stefan Börnchen, Georg Mein, and Martin Roussel (Eds.), Name, Ding: Referenzen (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2012), pp. 5–18. 58. Karl Wagner, Cervantinische Spuren bei Sigmund Freud und den frühen Psychoanalytikern, in: Marisa Siguán and Karl Wagner (Eds.), Transkulturelle Beziehungen. Spanien und Österreich um 19. Und 20. Jahrhundert. (ser.) Internationale Forschungen zur Allgemeinen und Vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft (Amsterdam: Radopi B.V., 2004), pp. 37–46; here p. 38. 59. This is still the case in the Freud-Museum in London. On Freud’s reading of Shakespeare, see Norman N. Holland, “Freud on Shakespeare.” PMLA 75, 3 (1960): pp. 163–173. 60. See also Jones, Hamlet and Oedipus (New York: Norton, 1949). Top of Form. 61. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams , The Standard Edition of the Complete Works, tr. from the German edition under the general editorship of James Strachey; in collaboration with Anna Freud (London: The Hogarth Press, 1953–1974), SE II: p. 263. 62. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams , p. 264. 63. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams , p. 121. 64. Freud, letter to Fliess, October 3, 1897, in: Sigmund Freud, The Complete Letters of Sigmund Freud to Wilhelm Fliess 1887 –1904. ed. and tr. Moussaieff Masson (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 268.

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65. Freud, letter to Wilhelm Fliess, July 1, 1900. The Complete Letters of Sigmund Freud to Wilhelm Fliess 1887 –1904, p. 419. See also Elke Siegel, “‘Non Vixit’: Friends Survived,” in: The Dreams of Interpretation: A Century Down the Royal Road, eds. Catherine Liu, John Mowitt, Thomas Pepper, and Jakki Spicer (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2007), pp. 115–132. 66. On Freud’s usage of French expressions see Weissberg, “Exit Dora: Freud’s Patient Takes Leave,” in: Psychoanalytic Inquiry 25, 1 Special issue, Freud and Dora: 100 Years Later, eds. Susan Levine and Sidney Pulver (2005): pp. 5–26. 67. Freud, “Preface to the Second Edition,” in: Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams , p. xxv. 68. Freud, letter to Silberstein, September 9, 1875. In: Freud, The Letters of Sigmund Freud to Eduard Silberstein, 1871–1881, p. 127. 69. Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams , p. 482. 70. Weissberg, “Freuds Schiller,” in: Walter Hinderer (Ed.), Friedrich Schiller and the Path to Modernity (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006), pp. 421–434. 71. Freud, letter to Ernst Freud, May 12, 1938, in: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 441. 72. Alexander Freud, a traffic engineer, was able to flee to Switzerland. He later visited his brother in London and to Canada with his family. His estate is now located at the Sigmund Freud Museum and Private Foundation in Vienna. 73. Freud asked Max Schur for suicide assistance and was in a coma for two days, before he died on September 23, 1939. See Mark Edmundson, The Death of Sigmund Freud: The Legacy of His Last Days (New York: Bloomsbury, 2010). 74. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 10 (1838–1961, 1971), “heimat bis heimatlich,” column 864–866: http://woerterbu chnetz.de/cgi-bin/WBNetz/wbgui_py?sigle=DWB&mode=Vernetzung& lemid=GH05424#XGH05424 (accessed October 2018). 75. Etienne François and Hagen Schulze, “Heimat,” in: François and Schulze (Eds.), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte III (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2001), p. 361. 76. Freud, “The Uncanny” (1919), in: Freud, SE XVII: pp. 217–256, here p. 225. 77. Freud, letter to Ernst Freud, May 12, 1938, in: Freud, Unterdeß halten wir zusammen, p. 444. 78. Freud, postcard to Sandor Ferenczi, September 13, 1913; Sandor Ferenczi Archive, Austrian National Library Vienna. See also Mary Bergstein, Mirrors of Memory: Freud, Photography and the History of Art (Ithaca: Cornell University Press), pp. 2–114.

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79. [Freud], “Der Moses des Michelangelo,” in: Imago. Zeitschrift für Anwendung der Psychoanalyse auf die Geisteswissenschaften III (1914): pp. 15–36, and Freud, “The Moses of Michelangelo” (1914), SE XIII: pp. 209–238. 80. Freud, “The Moses of Michelangelo,” pp. 211–212. 81. The first two essays appeared in German in 1937 in Imago 23, 1: pp. 5– 13 and Imago 23, 4, pp. 387–419; the English translation by Katherine Jones appeared in 1938 in the International Journal of Psycho-Analysis 19, 3: 291–298 and International Journal of Psycho-Analysis 20,1: 1, p. 32. See Endnote 96. 82. Freud, “Prefatory Note I (Vienna, before March, 1938),” in: Moses and Monotheism: Three Essays (1939). In: Freud, SE XXIII: pp. 53–54. 83. Freud, letter to Ernst Freud, February 22, 1938, in: Freud, Unterdeß halten wir zusammen, pp. 440–441. 84. Freud, “Prefatory Note II (London, June 1938),” in: Moses and Monotheism, p. 56. 85. Freud, “Prefatory Note II (London, June 1938),” in: Moses and Monotheism, p. 56. 86. See Frank Maciejewski, Psychoanalytisches Archiv und jüdisches Gedächtnis. Freud, Beschneidung und Monotheismus (Wien: Passagen Verlag, 2002). 87. Freud, letter to Jung, June 17, 1909, in: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, pp. 195–196. 88. Johann Peter Eckermann and Frédéric Soret, Conversations of Goethe, tr. John Oxenford. Revised Edition (London: George Bell & Sons, 1883), p. 59. 89. Freud, letter to Ludwig Binswanger, May 26, 1926. In: Binswanger, Sigmund Freud. Reminiscences of a Friendship, tr. Norbert Guterman (New York: Grune & Stratton, 1957), p. 76. 90. Freud, letter to Jones, March 7, 1939, in: Freud, Letters 1873–1939, p. 457. 91. Freud, Der Mann Moses und die monotheistische Religion. Drei Abhandlungen (Amsterdam: A. de Lange, 1939), and Freud, Moses and Monotheism, tr. Katherine Jones (London: The Hogarth Press and The Institute of Psycho-Analysis, 1939). 92. Richard Severo, “Freud Library, Victim of War, Gets New Home in New York.” New York Times (May 18, 1978): p. 1; also Gerhard Fichtner, “Die Anfänge der Freud Archives.” Luzifer-Amor: Zeitschrift zur Geschichte der Psychoanalyse 22, 43 (2009): pp. 23–44: https://www.loc.gov/item/lcw a00087575 (accessed October 2018).

CHAPTER 3

Ernst L. Freud, Domestic Architect: Zuhause in Berlin, at Home in London Volker M. Welter

Among the hundreds of unidentified and undated sketches and drawings in the archives of the architect Ernst L. Freud exists one that shows the setting of a psychoanalytical consulting room (Fig. 3.1). The couch stands parallel to the wall between two bookshelves, with a cubic upholstered chair with armrests and backrest of level height positioned next to the couch’s raised end on which a patient’s head would rest. Above the couch a framed picture in landscape format is suspended from a picture rail, the second piece of art, again in landscape format, hangs above the headrest of the couch, and a third piece, in portrait format, above the chair. The bookshelves are wide and not overly tall; they reach just a little over half of the height of the room. The open shelves are filled with books, loosely arranged as to leave room for new acquisitions and other objects such as, for example, a bowl on one shelf and some spherical object on another. A 1935 photograph shows Ernst Freud at his desk inside the new family home in London (Fig. 3.2). Behind him, a wall unit of open shelves and storage cupboards accommodates books, art pieces, and decorative

V. M. Welter (B) University of California, Santa Barbara, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_3

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Fig. 3.1 Ernst L. Freud. Design sketch for a consulting couch and psychoanalyst’s chair placed between two bookshelves, possible for 20 Maresfield Gardens, London, not dated (Photograph: RIBA Collections)

Fig. 3.2 Ernst L. Freud, at the desk of his study inside the living room-cumoffice of his London home, 1935 (Photograph: RIBA Collections)

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objects, and surrounds a small built-in fireplace. To the other side of the desk stands a chair for visitors. A coffee table and some oriental rugs on top of a wall-to-wall sisal carpet complete the visible part of the living room-cum-office that looks out through a steel-framed glass window and a glass door to the garden of the lot in St. John’s Wood Terrace. The two images illustrate memories of spaces and rooms that Sigmund Freud and Ernst Freud lost when National Socialism had forced them and their families into exile. They also illustrate Ernst Freud envisioning interiors that would make up for the lost spaces. And, they illustrate the mainstay of Freud’s architectural practice in both Berlin from 1920 to 1933, and in London after that. Throughout his career, Freud mostly worked as a domestic architect and interior designer. Psychoanalytical consulting rooms were the only other sustained area of his practice; indeed, Freud was one of, if not the first architect ever to design such rooms. The long list of executed works by Ernst Freud and the scope of his surviving archive illustrate his successful career as a domestic architect. How his architectural designs created notions of home (Zuhause) this chapter discusses by analyzing selected examples of Freud’s designs in Berlin and London. Most, but not all of the examples are works for Ernst Freud’s family, the wider Freud family, and the extended psychoanalytical family of colleagues and professional friends of his father.

Embedding Memories in Interior Designs The drawing of the consulting room and the photograph of Freud’s London living room-cum-office provide important cues as to how Freud aimed at embedding recollections and memories of his clients in an interior while also inserting his architectural imagination that envisioned his designs as modern. The undated sketch presumably shows Ernst Freud’s idea for his father’s consulting room as it was to be recreated in 20 Maresfield Gardens, London, in 1938 when his parents were forced to flee Nazi-occupied Vienna. Ernst Freud arranged chair and couch exactly as they had been placed to each other in the Viennese consulting room since 1934.1 The couch is similar to the one Freud had been using in Vienna, and the format of the artwork above it recalls the Abu Simbel print that hung above it in Vienna. At the same time, the imaginative mind and, accordingly, the ordering hand of the architect can be traced all over the drawing. The symmetrical positioning of the two shelves contains the asymmetry of the functional placement of couch and chair, while

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the carefully edited knowledge represented by the books restrains from spilling over into the rest of the room the rambling thoughts of the freely associating patient. The hanging of the artwork is coordinated with the furniture placed below along the wall, and the height of the shelves aligns with the upper edge of the frame of the largest piece of art. A combination of accurate evocations of past interiors with the ordering eyes of an architect aiming at contemporary architectural ideas also underpinned the design of Freud’s London home. The chairs at the desk come from the family apartment in Berlin. The wall unit is not from that apartment but was designed by Freud for the Berlin apartment of Gustav Krojanker, a Zionist friend since mutual student days in Munich.2 A fireplace surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves the Freuds had already enjoyed in Berlin; indeed, the fireplace screen in the London room is from the Berlin apartment (Fig. 3.3). The portrait bust of Lucie Freud (née Brasch, 1896–1989), Freud’s wife, which watches over Ernst Freud from

Fig. 3.3 Ernst L. Freud. Chairs, bookshelves and fireplace in the office inside the family apartment, Regentenstraße 23, Berlin, as published in Die Pyramide, August 1928 (Berlin: Sieben Stäbe) (Photograph: Canadian Centre for Architecture)

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on one of the shelves behind the desk, was sculpted by the artist Joachim Karsch in Berlin in 1929. The interior design of the London house also illustrates Freud’s ideas about a modern home in the mid-1930s. The built-in unit creates a new vertical surface plane in front of the original wall with its pronounced recesses; only the new fireplace projects forward. Elsewhere in the house Freud removed all fireplaces and chimney flutes in order to gain space, thus demonstrating the claim that “the idea of the house centred around the hearth” was no longer valid that he had made when lecturing on “Modern Architecture in England?” at the time he was designing his exile home.3 Finally, the interior draws on Freud’s detailed knowledge of earlier Viennese modern architecture. The height of the wall unit continued as a unifying line around the room in the form of a small wooden profile. Above the window and door to the garden, the profile hid a curtain rail; once the curtains were drawn, they would form a vertical surface of soft fabric that helped to transform the room into a cubic interior which created the impression of a box that had been inserted into the existing space. Freud’s understanding of the interior as a space and, accordingly, as a design task that was tangibly separate, even if not entirely independent from the shell of a building harks back to ideas of the Viennese modernist architect and cultural critic Adolf Loos. While Freud studied architecture at the Technische Hochschule Wien (College of Technology), today Technische Universität Wien, from 1911– 1913, he also attended lectures and site visits of Adolf Loos’ newly founded private Bauschule. During that period Loos lectured on the “civilized home” of the bourgeoisie, a topic that reverberated through Freud’s œuvre for his entire professional life.4 Freud’s friend and fellow architecture student Felix Augenfeld characterized Freud as being “strongly influenced by Loos” but, most importantly, pointed out as well that Freud was “not a very conscious participant or fanatic disciple” of the Bauschule.5 Even the photograph showing Freud at his desk in his study corner of the living room refers back to life in pre-First-World-War Vienna where Max Pollak produced in 1914 an etching of Sigmund Freud at his desk in his study. Pollak zoomed in on Freud’s pair of eyes which looks out straight into the distance with his hands holding a fountain pen while resting on a manuscript. The ancient statuettes that Freud aligned in front of him stare passed him into the distance; psychoanalysis is depicted as a triangular relationship between history and memories, the written word,

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and the human mind. Ernst Freud was photographed from further away showing the man and his trade in the form of the interior and furniture that he had designed. The images of two generations of Freuds at their desks surrounded by the paraphernalia of their professions—manuscripts, antique statuettes, writing tools, and drawings supplies—neatly illustrate as well the type of bourgeois clients that mostly commissioned designs from Ernst Freud.

Creating Homes in Vienna and Berlin Sigmund Freud could have been one of these clients as early as 1923 when Ernst Freud suggested remodeling the family home in Vienna’s Berggasse. The main goal then was to improve the family apartment and the cramped and crooked spaces that constituted in the adjacent apartment Sigmund Freud’s consulting room, office, anteroom, and affiliated spaces. Anna Freud bitterly complained about this attempt at modernizing the family home: In the short time he [Ernst Freud] was here, he wanted to make all sorts of improvements in order to demonstrate to all of us what we should do in an improved manner. […] But I believe that he is wrong. Because I live here, I know that everything came about somehow over time according to the essence of the humans around us, and I orient myself accordingly.6

Anna Freud certainly misread her brothers’ intentions when she alleged that his proposed functional improvements would precisely instruct the inhabitants how to go about their domestic life. Usually, Ernst Freud’s architectural designs evolved around a deep respect for the habits that shaped the habitations of his clients and, accordingly, formed the basis of his architectural improvements or new designs. Even if Ernst Freud lived by then in Berlin, one of Germany’s centers of architectural modernism, his approaches to design and architectural improvements were not identical with that Germanic functionalism that Viennese circles often criticized as pithy and radical without delivering practical, ideal, or even workable solutions. The Austrian architect Josef Frank, for example, insisted that above and beyond quantifiable needs, a human being dwells by “a certain measure of sentimentality” that requires architects to design “sentimental surroundings” allowing for “superfluous, perfunctory activity that extends beyond the necessary.”7

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The Freud family apartment in Berlin-Tiergarten exemplifies Freud’s take on a modern interior.8 Located in Regentenstraße 23, the Freuds lived there from 1924 to 1932 when they moved into a new apartment. In 1928 the interior of the apartment was published in an architectural magazine as one of three contemporary upper-middle-class homes. Sandwiched between Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret’s Villa Stein in Garches, France, and the extensive remodel of the historical English country house Northease in Rodmell, Sussex, Freud’s interior occupied a cozy middle ground between a radical modernism and traditionalism.9 Freud designed all the furniture and built-ins for the apartment. In Freud’s office, the desk and chair establish a subtle dialogue with contemporary modernist furniture and stylistic ideas. The chair is constructed from L-shaped, partially cantilevered wooden profiles. It honestly displays the structure, foregoes ornament, and minimizes the materials needed, but without aiming at those artistic extremes that transformed into abstract pieces of sculptures, for example, Gerrit Rietveld’s Red-Blue chair (1918). The components of that chair point beyond their physical junctions toward modernist ideas about space and art. Freud’s chair does not protrude into such lofty realms; it is modern, presumably comfortable, but does not signify modernism. Freud’s friend Augenfeld identified as “true modernity” approaches to interiors and architecture that aimed at “incredible comfort”; created furniture that was “silent witness” to all glances, words, and activities happening in the spaces around them; and were not concerned whether a designer or architect was even known to the inhabitants or anybody else; remarks that fit Freud’s works particularly well.10

Designing Psychoanalytical Consulting Rooms Coincidentally, Freud’s various interiors for psychoanalytical consulting rooms have been for many decades his least-known designs most likely because of psychoanalysis’s respect for privacy when it came to the where and the how of therapeutic sessions. The consulting rooms are also the one area where Freud challenged established spatial conventions concerning the setting of psychoanalysis. The rather brief existence of psychoanalytical consulting rooms since Sigmund Freud’s invention of psychoanalysis suggests to characterize more accurately Ernst Freud’s contribution to the design history of this type of room as defining rather than overthrowing spatial arrangements.

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In Berlin, Ernst Freud created psychoanalytical consulting rooms for Karl Abraham (1920), Sandor Rado (1927), and René Spitz (1928– 1929). Rado and Spitz’s rooms were part of large interiors for private dwellings, details about Abraham’s consulting room are not known. For the psychoanalyst Max Eitingon Freud remodeled two floors of a townhouse (1921); it is not known whether a consulting room was included. From 1925 to 1926, Freud also designed a private house including a consulting room for Hans Lampl and Jeanne (Adriana) Lampl-de Groot, two followers of Sigmund Freud who had moved to Berlin where they settled in Berlin-Grunewald. Chronologically, Freud’s designs for private home and apartments that incorporated a psychoanalytical consulting room precede the “praxisapartments” that the Viennese architect Ernst Plischke designed from approximately 1930 to 1931 onwards when he, allegedly, invented the combination of a medical doctor or psychoanalyst’s consulting room and private home.11 Regardless, Freud translated into deliberately designed apartments or houses the combination of a private home and psychoanalytical consulting room that Sigmund Freud had established when renting two adjacent apartments in Berggasse. The Lampl-de Groot house is probably the best example of an ErnstFreudian praxis-home that combined a psychoanalytical consulting room with a private home. The detached home’s stepped silhouette, the tight, upright cubic volume, and Freud’s intention to contain all rooms within an almost square footprint, recall domestic architecture by Loos like, for example, the unrealized Moissi house (1923) and, even more, the Rufer house (1922) in Vienna.12 Inside, the consulting room, a waiting room, living and dining rooms, and a kitchen were all on the lower floor. Behind the main entrance, Freud installed a hall from which five doors opened into the cloakroom, waiting room, consulting room-cum-study, living quarters, and, a stair hall, respectively. Thus, the professional quarters were separated from the private one, but at the price of an entrance hall that did not convey the impression that one had entered a private home. None of the Ernst Freud-designed private consulting rooms in Berlin was photographed, another consequence of Sigmund Freud’s exemplary privacy; after all, the primeval consulting room was recorded only when the older Freud was forced to flee Austria. Contemporary photographs, however, exist of Freud-designed consulting rooms for two psychoanalytical clinics in Berlin. Freud designed the interior of the Policlinic for

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Psychoanalytical Treatment in 1920 and again in 1928 when it moved to new premises. The later rooms are illustrated in a Festschrift published to coincide with the policlinic’s tenth anniversary.13 In 1927, Freud designed the interior of Ernst Simmel’s Psychoanalytical Clinic Sanatorium Schloß Tegel, a large project that comprised numerous interiors, including several psychoanalytical consulting rooms. Photographs and written descriptions of Freud’s interiors were included in a brochure advertising the clinic’s offerings of stationary psychoanalysis to wealthy, paying patients, making this one of the earliest examples where the physical setting of psychoanalysis was declared to be essential to the therapeutic effort.14 Sigmund Freud’s consulting room and adjacent office were personal, individualized spaces filled with antiques, artworks, books, a desk, and the couch and chair. These objects had meaning for Freud and, presumably, also acquired meaning for regular patients, even if this was unintended. Aesthetically, however, the rooms represented the worst nineteenthcentury aesthetic excesses as they were cluttered with dust-collecting artifices and soft surfaces susceptible to impressions the moment someone sat down on them. The 1928 consulting rooms of the Berlin policlinic were cleansed of any clutter. The furnishing was reduced to a couch, a comfort chair for the analyst, an occasional writing desk with a chair, a shelf, and perhaps a portrait of Sigmund Freud on the wall. The neutral, even impersonal interiors responded to the use of the rooms by varying analysts and clients; their clean design suggested professionalism rather than individualism. The consulting rooms for the Sanatorium Schloß Tegel fundamentally changed the spatial setting of psychoanalysis; presumably Ernst Freud developed their design following instructions by Simmel. Sigmund Freud preferred to sit discreetly behind the patient and perpendicular to the couch that was placed, furthermore, alongside a protective wall. In the sanatorium, the couch projected into the room with the psychoanalyst sitting slightly behind and opposite of it so that the patient always remained in sight. While the room setting was thus innovative, the couch which Freud conceived was derived from his father’s couch. Ernst Freud designed a head end that bent steeply upwards similar to the original couch in Vienna. Freud modified the couch by adding a cylindrical footrest with storage space underneath, and modernized it by covering its surface in a single soft fabric, thereby doing away with the signature rug thrown over the Vienna couch. The professional, spartan appearance

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again hints at various psychoanalysts using the rooms during a day or a week. The promotional brochure illustrates some of Freud’s interiors, in particular, a single bedroom, a double bedroom, and a treatment room. The private rooms show fully developed Freudian domestic interiors, even though they were located in an institutional setting. The linoleum floors are covered with rugs with geometric patterns. All furniture is made from wood with the occasional cane filling and is composed of clean geometric forms. The furnishing program comprises beds, nightstands, day bed, desk and chair, sheers to filter the light, and curtains to keep it out entirely. The interiors emphasize “the impression of comfortable living space and workroom” thanks to “the inconspicuous posture of the form of the bed.” The description continues: A simple rectilinearity of the architectonics of the furniture combines their colors and the large, differently hued expanses of walls, ceilings, and curtains into a comforting, harmonious overall picture. Accordingly, each room is tuned into its own color, while also integrated into the atmosphere that results from the yellow and brown of the foyer and the corridors’ mixed daylight that streams freely everywhere.15

Both colors and straight geometrical forms of the furniture are considered as contributing to the therapeutic process. The latter is furthermore supported by the interiors of the private rooms that simulate at once living rooms, studies, and home offices—domestic spaces that thrive on activity—rather than bedroom settings more typically associated with passive forms of relaxation or even hospital environments.

An Architect in Exile The Freud family fled Berlin late in 1933, during the early months of National Socialist rule. In London, Freud’s exile career began with a large project when in 1933 Melanie Klein commissioned a redesign of her house in St. John’s Wood including a consulting room complete with couch and chair.16 Freud divided an L-shaped drawing-room into a smaller waiting room and the consulting-cum-living room. The latter was furnished with bulky comfort chairs, a sofa, and various Freud-designed tables. The consulting couch stood next to a single comfort chair; the only known photograph of the room has been cropped to keep the couch

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invisible. Other elements of Freud’s refurbishment, for example, a glassplated front door and a striking copper surround for a fireplace lit by two brass lamp holders, gave the Klein home a distinctly modern character. Commissions from other psychoanalysts followed, for example, a project by Kate (Käthe) Friedlaender and Hilde Maas for a psychoanalytical sanatorium in London.17 When that project failed in 1934, Friedlaender opened a private psychoanalytical practice for which Freud designed the consulting room.18 Among the British psychoanalysts who commissioned works from Freud were Ernest Jones and John Rickman; for both Freud refurbished cottages outside London, although it is not clear whether these included consulting rooms. Fellow refugees who had been Freud clients in Berlin again sought his advice once in exile. For example, Freud reused in the exile home of the art historian Wolfgang Herrmann and Annie Herrmann (née Marx) furniture that he had designed in 1927 for the interior for the couple’s new house in Berlin-Dahlem.19 Another commission that required reusing Berlin furniture in a London home came from Richard Hamburger, a professor at the Charité hospital in Berlin and owner of the private Gartenhausklinik for children with waiting room furniture designed by Freud. When forced into exile, Hamburger exported his tubular steel medical furniture, the Freud-designed furniture, and even the cork flooring to England where Freud reassembled a new consulting room inside Hamburger’s new private home.20 The detached house and the interior for Dr. Adolf and Heide Marx, the parents of Annie Herrmann, is a particularly interesting example of Freud creating a home in exile. The 1935 project aimed at creating a modern design that would appeal to the client and to the wider London public from which Freud was hoping to receive commissions. The clients wanted a home that could accommodate their collection of German expressionist and other modern paintings and existing furniture which they could take with them when they left Berlin, where Dr. Marx had been a banker, possibly as early as 1932. Contemporary photographs show the walls of the dining and sitting rooms, which face Hampstead Heath, hung with paintings and the spaces filled with heirloom furniture.21 Freud arranged the artwork and furniture into small ensembles. Setting these clusters off against lightly painted walls, they became reference points of familiar objects in the stillunfamiliar surroundings of the new home, understood in the sense of a Zuhause, the physical setting in a house, and of a Heimat in England.

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A New Berggasse Quarter in London As the first family member who had fled to England in 1933, Freud was consulted by subsequently arriving relatives regarding accommodation and even investments into real estate. With Ernst Freud’s help, a London Berggasse quarter grew up around 20 Maresfield Gardens, the final home of Sigmund and Martha Freud, for some years during and after the Second World War. Ernst Freud’s uncle Alexander Freud purchased 4 Maresfield Gardens in 1939 and Freud planned to divide the townhouse into rental flats.22 Ernst and Lucie Freud temporarily moved into the adjacent building at 2 Maresfield Gardens in early 1940, and during 1941 Anna Freud and Dorothy Burlingham opened nearby various premises of the Hampstead War Nurseries23 ; in almost all cases Freud was called upon to adjust the buildings to their new purpose. More family properties were nearby in Belsize Park Gardens where Lucie Freud’s sister Gerda Mosse owned number 25, a townhouse which accommodated during the war staff from the Hampstead War Nurseries.24 Townhouse number 1 in the same street was mutually owned by Gerda Mosse, Ernst Freud, and a Mrs. Böhm. Freud converted the two townhouses into small rental apartments and thus helped Jewish émigrés, who cherished and, in exile, even clung to their middle-class background to live in bedsits and small apartments in “more or less ‘bourgeois’ neighborhoods” in London that reminded them of “German middle class residential districts, such as Berlin’s Grünewald [sic] and Tiergarten.”25 Ernst Freud’s sister, Mathilde Hollitscher, extended the new Berggasse quarter to the north of Maresfield Gardens, where she owned property in Linfield Gardens.26 And his son Lucian Freud pushed the borders to the south when he rented 28 Clifton Hill around 1948. 32 St. John’s Wood Terrace, inside of which Ernst Freud had been photographed in 1935, was another part of the English Berggasse quarter (Fig. 3.2). The house was remodeled with an eye to spatial and economic efficiency.27 Furniture from the Berlin apartments was reinstalled in an intricate three-dimensional puzzle of built-in cupboards, wardrobes, and storage spaces on the upper parts of the interior walls.28 Purpose-designed furniture and antique pieces created an interior that the exiled writer Arnold Zweig called “charming in its simple dignity and modernity.”29 The heart of the new Berggasse quarter, however, was 20 Maresfield Gardens. Ernst Freud adjusted the detached house to the needs of his parents by “making two rooms into one or the other way around, sheer

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witches’ sorcery translated into architectural terms.”30 Inside the house, Ernst Freud could finally create his version of a consulting room and office for his father. A detailed recreation of the Viennese rooms proved to be impossible to achieve as study and consulting room now occupied a single, though large room. Equally unrealized remained Freud’s earlier discussed design sketch (Fig. 3.1) for an improved consulting room of his father, most likely because of the rescue of many furniture from the Vienna home, personal possessions, and the collection of antique statues which provided sufficient familiar objects to recreate the atmosphere of the Viennese rooms. Accordingly, the memory of the lost Viennese rooms took priority over Ernst Freud’s intentions to aesthetically and functionally improve his father’s professional quarters. One wall of the new room was covered by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Integrated into it were two Biedermeier display cabinets that had already in Vienna accommodated numerous antiquities. Overall, the room was reminiscent of the office and the consulting room in Vienna, but not an accurate copy. Precisely recreated, however, was the placement of couch and chair, the spatial setting of psychoanalysis. The couch stood once again parallel to a protective wall, and the chair was placed perpendicular behind it. In short, the London consulting room-cum-study mimicked the Viennese setting while also exemplifying the transferability of the most intimate spatial setting of psychoanalysis into very different architectural spaces, even in a different country. The exile in England dramatically reduced the scope and extent of Freud’s architectural commissions, but it was in the aftermath of the Second World War that his work as a domestic architect eventually came to an end. With Great Britain embarking on creating a socialist welfare state, including large-scale social housing estates, Freud’s focus on individual domestic commissions was increasingly out of sync with the modern period. Aware of the fact that new times required new architecture, Freud participated in 1951 in the competition for the Golden Lane Housing estate in London to which end he employed the young Canadian architect Arthur Erickson. Alas, Freud and Erickson’s contribution remains unknown because of the loss of almost all competition entries. Freud spent the next decades designing, and occasionally also building, prestigious non-domestic commissions, for example, a design for the Mermaid Theatre for Lord Bernard Miles (St. Johns Wood, 1951, unbuilt) and the British Synagogue at the London Jewish Hospital (Stepney Green, 1958, demolished). Freud also continued working for

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family members and friends, refurbishing, for example, existing cottages and designing new ones in Walberswick, Suffolk, a small seaside village where Ernst and Lucie Freud had owned a cottage since 1937. The coastline near the village evokes memories of the German Baltic Sea where the Freud’s once possessed a cottage on the island of Hiddensee. Even later in life, Ernst Freud returned to his family roots in Vienna when he (and Lucie Freud) began editing his father’s writings. The subject matter of Freud’s daily work thus changed from designing houses to editing texts. But a desk surrounded by bookshelves, fireplace, comfort chairs, and artworks remained as central to Freud’s notion of a home as it had been to his father and many other of his clients, especially once exile had forced them to live abroad, away from their Zuhause.

Notes 1. Hearing difficulties forced Freud in 1934 “to re-verse the position of his couch and chair to hear his patients” with his left ear (Michael Molnar (ed. and trans.), The Diary of Sigmund Freud 1929–1939: A Record of the Final Decade [London: Freud Museum Publications, 1992], p. 234). 2. Krojanker commissioned an interior for his apartment when he took up a position as a director at the Jüdischer Verlag publishing house in Berlin. From correspondence we know that but not why Freud took the shelves from Krojanker’s apartment to London (Letter Ernst Freud to Lucie Freud, October 14, 1933 [Collection Esther Freud]). 3. Letter Marshall McLuhan to Elise, Herbert, and Maurice McLuhan, February 27, 1935 (Matie Molinaro, Corinne McLuhan, and William Toye (eds.), Letters of Marshall McLuhan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 62–63). 4. Quoted from Burkhardt Rukschcio and Roland Schachel, Adolf Loos: Leben und Werk (Vienna: Residenz, 1982), p. 169, my translation. 5. Felix Augenfeld, ‘Erinnerungen an Adolf Loos,’ in: Bauwelt 72 (1981): 1907, my translation. The chronology of Freud’s studies in Vienna and Munich is important when assessing Loos’s influence. Freud could attend Bauschule events only during his second year of studies in Vienna from fall 1912 to summer 1913. When the Bauschule entered its second year, Freud was already at TH Munich where he completed his studies in April 1919, after his military service during the First World War. 6. Letter Anna Freud to Lou Andreas-Salomé, May 10, 1923 (D. A. Rothe and I. Weber (eds.), ‘… als käm ich heim zu Vater und Schwester’ Lou Andreas-Salomé—Anna Freud Briefwechsel 1919–1937 , 2 vols. (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2001) vol. 1, pp. 184–85, here p. 185, my translation).

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7. Josef Frank, ‘Der Gschnas fürs G’mut and der Gschnas als Problem,’ in: Deutscher Werkbund, Bau und Wohnung (Stuttgart: Akad. Verlag Dr. Fr. Wedekind & Co., 1927), pp. 48–57, here cited from Wilfried Wang’s translation, ‘Flippancy as the Comfort of the Soul and as Problem,’ in: 9H 3 (1982): pp. 5–6. 8. For all buildings and projects designed by Ernst Freud that are discussed in this chapter please consult the images and the selected list of works in Volker M. Welter, Ernst L. Freud, Architect: The Case of the Modern Bourgeois Home (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012). 9. Die Pyramide 15 (August 1928): pp. 231–57. 10. Felix Augenfeld, ‘Wahre Modernität,’ in: Innen-Dekoration 40 (May 1929): p. 216. 11. Eva B. Ottilinger, ‘Ernst Plischkes Wiener Wohnung und das Beziehungsgeflecht zwischen den AuftraggeberInnen [sic],’ in: Elan Shapira (ed.), Design Dialogue: Jews, Culture and Viennese Modernism (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2018), pp. 413–26, here p. 413. 12. Max Risselada, ‘Documentation of 16 Houses,’ in: Max Risselada (ed.), Raumplan versus Plan Libre: Adolf Loos and Le Corbusier, 1919–1930 (Delft: Delft University Press, 1991), pp. 78–134, here pp. 83–85. 13. Deutsche Psychoanalytische Gesellschaft (ed.), Zehn Jahre Berliner Psychoanalytisches Institute (Poliklinik und Lehranstalt) (Vienna: Psychoanalytischer Verlag, 1930). 14. Anonymous, Sanatorium Schloß Tegel Psychoanalytische Klink Berlin Tegel (n. l.: n. p., 1927). 15. Anonymous, Sanatorium Schloß Tegel, pp. 13–14, my translation. 16. Sometime before her death, Klein gave the chair and the couch to the psychoanalyst Donald Meltzer (1922–2004) (Conversations with Donald Meltzer, Oxford, October 2002). Meltzer still used both pieces in his home in Oxford in late 2002; it is not known what happened to the Ernst Freud-designed couch after his death in 2004. Attempts to contact the Donald Meltzer Psychoanalytic Atelier (www.psa-atelier.org) and the Donald Meltzer Development Fund have remained without response. 17. Letters Ernst Freud to Lucie Freud, July 12, 1933; March 13, 14, and 22, 1934; April 9 and 11, 1934 (Collection Esther Freud). 18. E-mail conversation with Gerda Flöckinger CBE, November 2006 to January 2007. 19. Letter Ernst Freud to Lucie Freud, October 19, 1933 (Collection Esther Freud). Correspondence Frank Herrmann, London, with the author, July 17, 2001 and August 14, 2002. Conversation with Harry Weinberger, Leamington Spa, October 18, 2002. 20. Letters Michael Hamburger to the author, July 31, 2002, August 10, 2002, and October 8, 2002.

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21. Correspondence Frank Herrmann, London, with the author, August 14, 2002. Conversation with H. Weinberger, Leamington Spa, October 18, 2002. 22. Note from Alexander Freud and Ernst Freud, October 13, 1939 (Washington, DC, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, folder Ernst Freud/Lucie Freud, 1938–53, box 1, Alexander and Sophie Freud papers). 23. Anna Freud with Dorothy Burlingham, Infants without Families: Reports on the Hampstead Nurseries 1939–1945 (New York: International University Press, 1973), p. xxiii. 24. Freud, Infants without Families, pp. 28–29. 25. Lori Gemeiner Bihler, Cities of Refuge: German Jews in London and New York, 1935–1945 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2018), p. 23. 26. Letter Mathilde Hollitscher to Harry Freud, October 22, 1950 (Washington, DC, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, folder Mathilde Hollitscher, box 7, Harry Freud papers). 27. Noel L. Carrington, ‘Ernst L. Freud. Interviewed at His New London House,’ in: Decoration 7 (November 1937): pp. 22–25; Ernst L. Freud and H. Bright, ‘The Conquest of Space with the Aid of Electricity,’ in: Good Housekeeping, October 1936, pp. 60–61, 104–5. 28. Freud and Bright, ‘The Conquest of Space,’ pp. 60–61, 104–5. 29. Arnold Zweig to Sigmund Freud, October 14, 1937, in: The Letters of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Zweig , ed. Ernst L. Freud, trans. Elaine and William Robson-Scott (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1970), p. 148. 30. Letter Sigmund Freud to Jeanne Lampl de Groot, August 22, 1938 (London, Sigmund Freud Museum, SF/K to N, box 17), trans. in Freud Museum London (ed.), 20 Maresfield Gardens: Guide to the Freud Museum (London: Serpent’s Tail, 1998), p. 8; I slightly amended the translation.

CHAPTER 4

Intellectual Hero, Most Beloved Master: Stefan Zweig and Sigmund Freud in British Exile Werner Michler

Burying and Praising Freud “Freud’s body”, writes Ernest Jones in his three-volume biography of the deceased, “was cremated at Golders Green on the morning of September 26 in the presence of a large number of mourners, including Marie Bonaparte and the Lampls from abroad, and his ashes repose there in one of his favourite Grecian urns. The family asked me to deliver the funeral oration”.1 As Jones had kept his notes, he was in a position to render the text of this speech (and indeed, he had it printed once before, in 1940, in one of the first issues of American Imago). Before using it to close his biographical account, however, he notes that “Stefan Zweig then made a long speech in German which was doubtless more eloquent than mine but which could not have been more deeply felt”.2

W. Michler (B) University of Salzburg, Salzburg, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_4

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In his diary, Stefan Zweig gives an account of the same day from a different angle (another one is given at the end of his memoir, The World of Yesterday). Zweig was applying for British citizenship at the time, and kept his diary in English for purposes of practice; the following paragraph clearly shows both the effort this cost him and his reluctance to change the language of his writing in exile, as he largely maintains German syntax. In this respect, the traits displayed by his English are tragic rather than peculiar: Sunday 24 Sept. On the broadcast I hear that Freud has died yesterday night – the great friend, the dear master. I will of cause [= course] to the funeral. But I feel again my isolation in this country – I have no newspaper to write a few words, no opportunity to let say something and this after six years in England. in such moments and in such alone I regret not to have gone to another country – but now I have no more choice, I have to stay where I am; my life in any case is not more worth much […]. Tuesday 26. Sept. Morning notes for the speech I have to deliver at Freud’s funeral. I have no time to sheare [share] and go directly to the Crematorium – wonderful situated with the look in the green meadows. The brave Marie Bonaparte did come through the dangerous seas, many people, but nearly nobody from the English literature or the government. First speaks in front of the … Professor Jones, honestly and really moved, that [then] I do my task and I hope I do it fairly well, after me speaks an Austrian busybody. How kind Mrs. Freud says me, that the dear master loved me so much and expected always the day, when I came to visit him, all the relatives show themselves extremely kind and grateful to me. Altogether a dignified and taktfull ceremony.3

More than 150 mourners attended the funeral at Golders Green, among them many psychoanalysts from Central Europe and Great Britain as well as fellow exiles from Austria, the International Psychoanalytic Association and the Austrian Centre, also known as the Council of Austrians in Great Britain, a very active organization of Austrian refugees.4 Zweig was 25 years younger than the founder of psychoanalysis, and had first made contact with Freud by sending a copy of his dramatic debut, Tersites, only to be told to his delight that Freud had already taken notice of Zweig’s poetry, his Die frühen Kränze (1906). 77 surviving items of correspondence and Zweig’s frequent visits to Freud’s home show the intensity of the exchange. However, scholarship has taken quite different views on the Zweig–Freud relationship. Whereas

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psychoanalytic critics, notably Johannes Cremerius, remained sceptical as to whether Zweig had ‘correctly’ understood Freud’s findings and the writer’s alleged transference of psychoanalysis into literature, newer, philological approaches tend towards the more just notion that Zweig undertook an independent literary engagement with the new psychology. Psychology, as he wrote to Freud in 1926, “(you understand this as nobody else does) is the one passion of my life today”,5 and most of his literary texts show an intense interest in the inner life of their protagonists. Brennendes Geheimnis (1911), for example, is the story of a twelveyear old who tries to undermine his mother’s extramarital affair; Fear (Angst, 1925) painstakingly depicts the moral conflict of an unfaithful partner, whereas the novella Confusion (Verwirrung der Gefühle, 1927 [1926]) tells of a homosexual professor in a provincial university town, in a cultured, insightful, courageous and nuanced piece on a then burning issue, the political discussion of § 175 of the German Criminal Code. Appreciation of his friend’s writing is clear in a letter from Freud to Zweig of September 4, 1926: I almost wished that I never had got to know Dr. Zweig in person and that he had never treated me so amiably and respectfully. For now I am prey to doubts that my judgement might be compromised by personal sympathy. If I happened on such a volume of novellas by an unknown author, I would surely state without faltering that I had encountered a creative spirit of the first rank and a supreme artistic achievement. But I really do believe these three novellas – well, two of them – to be masterworks.6

The texts in question are “Confusion” und “Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman” (“Vierundzwanzig Stunden aus dem Leben einer Frau”, 1927); a preliminary interpretation of the latter is worked into Freud’s essay “Dostoevsky and Parricide” (“Dostojewski und die Vatertötung”, 1928), as “a brilliantly narrated, seamlessly motivated story” a “little masterpiece”, written by “a poet friend of mine”.7 “In a way”, Thomas Anz sums up the relationship between the two of them, “Freud is admiring in Zweig his own mirror image in the realm of psychological literature. Zweig conversely is admiring in Freud his own mirror image in the realm of scientific psychology”.8 It is a long-established fact that literature played a central role in Freud’s thinking as an inspiration as well as a kind of proto-psychology. Freud and Zweig shared great admiration for Goethe’s work and Goethe as a person; Goethe as a poet-scientist is

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addressed several times in Zweig’s Freud monograph from 1931, which closes by quoting Goethe’s maxim from the poem Vermächtnis: “Was fruchtbar ist, allein ist wahr”, true is only what is productive.

“A Return into Your World”: Beware of Pity (Ungeduld des Herzens) Zweig’s only finished novel, Beware of Pity (Ungeduld des Herzens ) was published in exile in November 1938 (predated 1939), by Bermann Fischer and Allert de Lange. There is no proof that Freud took notice of the book Zweig had announced to him: “I am working on a very difficult, but not long psychological novel, with the title to be ‘Murder by Pity’, showing that weakness, half-pity, not making the final sacrifice, is more murderous than violence. It is a return into your world, touching the medical field – it is my consolation”.9 In the following I will focus on two questions: what is meant by “Freud’s world” and what is meant by “Freud’s world”, the construction of pre-World War I Austria as a totality. The novel opens with a frame narrative which, much as in many contemporary novellas, serves to put the main story in a historical perspective. The deadly catastrophe of Lieutenant Hofmiller’s relationship with the disabled heiress Edith von Kekesfalva coincides with the outbreak of World War I; the narrative frame shows the older Hofmiller as a highly decorated if broken man. He was awarded the Order of Maria Theresia for extraordinary bravery, but explains his courage in retrospect to a psychologically curious listener as a case of fleeing from responsibility for his behaviour towards the young lady, which led to her suicide. The frame narrative is conspicuously set in 1938, the year of the Anschluss and the end of the First Austrian Republic, which had been ruled in an authoritarian manner by the Austro-Fascist regime since 1933/1934. The choice of two liminal points, two pre-war-periods close to the outbreak of fighting, not only provides some dramatic tension, but also opportunities for taking stock of the periods in question. As regards the main plot, in a small garrison town close to the Hungarian border the young Hofmiller makes the acquaintance of estate owner Baron Kekesfalva and his daughter Edith, who suffers from an acquired paralysis of the lower body and legs. She is affectionately looked after by her desperate father and cared for medically by Dr. Condor, who is trying to catch up with the latest developments in his discipline in the hope of bringing about some improvement, hitherto without any

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lasting effects. Edith falls in love with Hofmiller who inexplicably overlooks the fact for a considerable time and is devastated when he realizes that Edith took for love what had been meant as pity. Struck by remorse, he becomes engaged to Edith, in the hope that it might cure her, but denies the relationship to his comrades. When Edith learns about his denial, she commits suicide by throwing herself from the top of the tower of Kekesfalva’s country house. Hofmiller’s telegramme explaining his denial as a misunderstanding gets lost in the confusion of mobilization in summer 1914 and arrives too late. Hofmiller hurls himself into battle. Zweig’s novel shares some features with other literary resumés of the vanished Austrian empire, especially Radetzky March (1932) by Zweig’s friend, Joseph Roth. The closeness to Radetzky March has tempted some to locate the setting of the novel at the “outermost” periphery of the Habsburg monarchy; in fact the model of the Kekesfalva estate seems to have been the garrison town of Bruck an der Leitha and castle Prugg.10 The state’s backbone, the multi-ethnic military, serves as the primary focus; there is panoramic depiction of different paradigmatic social milieus, ranging from the Viennese suburbs—where Condor serves as a doctor for the poor, much like the psychologist Alfred Adler and the socialist politician Victor Adler—to the Hungarian gentry; in addition we are given an exemplary case of Jewish assimilation, as the fabulously rich Hungarian baron turns out to be the former factor Lämmel Kanitz, who was lucky enough to turn a business transaction and an affair of the heart into a fortune. Edith’s illness, said to have befallen her suddenly one day in her early youth, serves as the “immobile motor” and revolving point of Beware of Pity! Although some commentators have attributed her lameness to an accident,11 Kekesfalva tells Hofmiller that the doctors assume a “Bazillus” (UH12 105) is responsible. This—taken together with the treatments of muscular fixation Condor is applying—implies a diagnosis of poliomyelitis, a common and still quite mysterious threat at the time. Dr. Condor states that in Edith’s case the “central nervous system” has been “affected” (BP 183; “Zentralnervensystem […] betroffen”, UH 232), speaking of a “Paraplegie” (UH 192). However, a certain ambivalence regarding the possible psychological nature of the illness remains. For Hofmiller it certainly remains a possibility; and in the first manuscript draft of the novel, Condor himself had hoped that Edith’s lameness might be a “hysterical” phenomenon: “I hoped for hysteria […] in severe cases still hope hysteric”.13 Towards the

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end of the manuscript Zweig notes: “Bilateral Paraplegia | inertness of organs | flaccid paraplegia, spastic | from spinal Polio (spinal cord) anterior horns through infection (via the nose)”,14 but whether this was meant— which is likely—as a possible diagnosis stated by a character, or whether it is an author’s note, maybe an excerpt from a medical publication, remains unclear. Dr. Condor displays traits of Freud’s friend and later rival, the founder of individual psychology Alfred Adler, further confirmed by the protagonist’s name (Condor/Adler).15 By the same token, Condor is also reminiscent of the Enlightenment healer Franz Anton Mesmer, whose most spectacular success in the Vienna of the 1780s had been the temporary cure of the blind pianist Marie-Therese Paradis: According to Kekesfalva, Condor’s wife is “a blind woman seven years older than himself, not beautiful and without any money, a hysterical creature, who is now a burden to him and is not the least bit grateful” (BP 84).16 Condor turns into Mesmer, the advocate of “animal magnetism”, when he touches his wife to comfort her: she, a “hysteric” (BP 252, “Hysterikerin”) according to Hofmiller, calms down as Condor strokes her hair: “He went up to the blind woman and tenderly stroked her gray, rumpled hair. At his touch, her whole expression changed. The anxiety that had distorted her large, heavy mouth was conjured away at this tender caress […] It was breath-taking, this expression of sudden calm and assurance after the outburst of violence. […] Her hand, attracted as though by a magnet, groped towards him through empty space, and when her gently exploring fingers found his coat, they kept stroking his arm, up and down, up and down” (BP 261, my italics).17 In other respects, too, Zweig’s novel employs motifs from his own portraits from an alternative history of medicine and psychiatry. In his triptych Mental Healers (Die Heilung durch den Geist, 1931), Zweig combined three lengthy essays, on Franz Anton Mesmer, the founder of the sectarian church of suggestion, Mary Baker-Eddy, and Sigmund Freud—mixed company that failed to enthuse the latter. To Zweig’s mind, however, there were clear parallels between his three subjects. Like Freud, Zweig’s Mesmer is a paragon of the future, persecuted by an Ibsen-like compact majority and by stubborn doctors refusing to see the light. Zweig even asked Freud for polemical documents against psychoanalysis, to substantiate the Mesmer parallel.18 Psychoanalysis had always been critical of Baker-Eddy, as Freud reminded Zweig (Zweig’s portrait of her lacked the “mad and the outrageous”—as well as the “unspeakably

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deplorable” American context),19 and Ernest Jones had explicitly warned against any contact with Christian Science (which could not have been further away from science as Jones understood it).20 Beware of Pity! makes ample use of terms as “hypnotic” and “unconscious”. But even as Condor—who might have known better, given that he is partly modelled on a pioneer of psychoanalysis—favours mechanical therapies for polio in Edith’s case, the sympathetic soldier Hofmiller pleads for the patient not to be told about the non-applicability of a new therapy, in the hope that the expectation of improvement might in itself bring about betterment. Mental healing is at least thinkable for Hofmiller (and, as shown above, also for the Condor of the first draft). Hofmiller calls the issue “all this hysterical speculation” (BP 261; “diese ganze hysterische Angelegenheit”, UH 325), although innocent of the allusion he is unconsciously making. For the story leads us back to the “hysterischen Angelegenheiten” of the 1880s and 90s, back to the Freud-Breuer case studies and their Studies on Hysteria (Studien über Hysterie) of 1895, for example to the case of the lame Elisabeth von R., whose “mental healing” is so spectacularly successful that her therapist— Freud, in this case—is gratified to see his “former patient whirl past in a lively dance” at a private ball.21 Edith betrays “a variegated picture of paralyses with contractures, inhibitions and states of mental confusion” (“ein buntes Bild von Lähmungen mit Kontrakturen, Hemmungen und Zuständen von psychischer Verworrenheit”22 ) just as Anna O. did in Freud’s retrospective account, a text Zweig had used extensively for Mental Healers . Condor shows the courage to confront and disappoint the patient, but lacks empathy in this respect (although not in general); Hofmiller has empathy for the patient (possibly more than in general), but the wrong kind, a limp and inconsistent pity. He lacks the courage to break with convention and the—aesthetic and moral—norms of the compact majority. Condor talks too little, Hofmiller talks too much and too ambiguously, both of them failing to recognize the sexual nervus rerum. What is missing in the novel is a reliable and responsible approach to the case, be it medical or human, and there is even a political dimension to it when personal failure makes Hofmiller stumble onto the killing fields of World War I. So Beware of Pity! indeed shows Freud’s world, as Zweig put it, but not so much his Lebenswelt as his field of work.

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“Like a Roman Hero”: Zweig’s Eulogy for Sigmund Freud Zweig’s eulogy was promptly printed in 100 copies as a private edition by De Lange, Amsterdam, partners to Gottfried Bermann Fischer, Zweig’s publishing house in exile.23 On November 16, 1939, Hermann Broch thanked Zweig for his copy from Princeton, his American place of exile: Dear fellow! […] [I] must tell you that the emotion so perceptible in your speech on Freud translates itself immediately to the reader. It is one of your most beautiful, most earnest und most humane achievements, and I thank you from all my heart for the true present you made me with it. I cannot remember having written to you how deeply I was affected by Freud’s death. It was as though a whole world had vanished with him, not an old one, to which he did not belong, but the new one we dreamed of and in whose advent I hardly believe anymore.24

The emotion of the writers Zweig and Broch and the language they used to express it, comprehensible within the context of European rhetorical traditions, must most likely have sounded alien and even questionable to the empirically minded physician Ernest Jones. Freud shared the pragmatist mind-set and its style of expression and was praised by Zweig for this, for its clarity and sobriety. Freud in turn praised Zweig’s writing the most when he could acclaim the “mature language” of a work, as in the case of Maria Stuart (1935), which he described as “liberated from a certain pathos”, and thereby testifying to its author’s mastery. Freud’s and Zweig’s ideals of writing lack congruence, even if Freud, using classical topoi, lauded Zweig’s ability to adjust speech to thought like dress to body. Zweig, according to Freud, is able to approach a subject’s most intimate essence through cumulations and augmentations.25 We are witnessing an intricate constellation of language, style and appropriateness, of affects, feelings and their textual representation, arranged according to national and discipline-specific cultures; that is to say, of rhetoric and performative speech acts. Zweig’s speech is arranged according to the functions of the funeral oration26 (Figs. 4.1 and 4.2). According to classical tradition, such a speech has to fulfil three tasks: laudatio, the praise of the deceased; lamentatio, mourning; and consolatio, comfort. Each task is represented clearly in Zweig’s elaborately disposed (dispositio) and finely worded (elocutio) speech. For the laudatio, Freud is addressed as a Greek “Heros” (250),27

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Fig. 4.1 Stefan Zweig, Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds (Fragment I). Manuscript Reed Library, State University of New York, Fredonia—Stefan Zweig Collection, SZ-AP2/W-H206, p. 1

which is more than a hero, as a discoverer (“Entdeckertat”, 250), a seeker of truth (“Wahrheitssucher”, 251) and a paragon of courage “in mankind’s eternal struggle for knowledge” (“im ewigen Erkenntniskriege der Menschheit!”, 251). The theme of the laudatio is the researcher as a hero, Zweig’s rhetoric here is similar to that in which he deals with the conquistadores of the Sternstunden der Menschheit (Fateful Hours of Mankind, 1927/1943). He skips all the lore of the loci a persona,

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Fig. 4.2 Stefan Zweig, Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds (Fragment II). Manuscript Literaturarchiv Salzburg, University of Salzburg—Stefan Zweig Collection, SZ-AAP/W33‚ p. 4

the enumeration of the discoveries themselves, the details and whereabouts of the deceased’s life, the honours bestowed on him and the names of his pupils and followers; instead, we are given a laudatory characterology, which relies heavily on the figures of the genus grande, the high register of speech as is traditionally used to mourn heroes, the high nobility and the eminent. The eulogy resonates with echoes from other well-known examples of the genre: in the opening climactic triad— speaking in the name of “his Viennese, his Austrian and his friends from all over the world” (“im Namen seiner Wiener, seiner österreichischen, seiner Weltfreunde”, 249)—there is an audible allusion to the “friends, Romans, countrymen” of Mark Anthony’s speech on Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, consistent with Zweig’s idea of presenting Freud as a deceased Roman hero. Language itself is gradually taking centre stage. The deceased is said to have “enriched and ennobled” (“bereichert und geadelt”, 249) the German language, the very language the exile Zweig himself is to represent at the scene of the funeral, just as Zweig and his fellow Austrians in their London exile represent their language and homeland against the Nazis’ abuse of them at home. According to Zweig, Freud is a creator of language: Freud’s “discovery of the human soul” lives on as an “undying legend in all languages, and in the most literal sense: for where is the language which could miss and do without all of the terms and the vocabulary he wrenched from the twilight of the

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semi-conscious?” (“unvergängliche Legende in allen Sprachen und dies im wörtlichsten Sinne, denn wo ist eine Sprache, welche die Begriffe, die Vokabeln, die er der Dämmerung des Halbbewußten entrungen, nun wieder missen und entbehren könnte?”, 250). If Freud’s is more a linguistic than medical or psychological achievement here, this may serve as a general key to Zweig’s understanding of Freud’s work and methods. Even Zweig’s Freud monograph of 1931 did not follow the development of psychoanalytic doctrine (or the arrangement of Freud’s own introductory textbooks, for example the Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse of 1917), but, as Zweig wrote to Freud, “the arc I draw has a higher span than most of the current presentations [of psychoanalysis]. I will engage not so much with the healing effects themselves but with the discovery’s effects on the world, the transformation of our whole spiritual and moral outlook”.28 There is a decidedly oratorical note already in the “Freud” of Zweig’s tryptic Mental Healers : “As a splendid achievement for a solitary thinker, an isolated investigator, Freud has enabled man to know himself better. Note the precise words. I do not say that he has made man happier. For a whole generation he has given increasing depth to the picture of the world; but mark, once more, I do not say that he has made that picture more beautiful. The radical, the revolutionary, does not bring happiness or beauty; only momentous decisions”.29 Zweig dedicates his efforts, not so much to an account of psychoanalysis, but to celebrating the intellectual hero’s courage as a fighter against the Victorian morals Zweig depicted vividly in the “Eros matutinus” chapter of The World of Yesterday. (In a letter to Freud, Zweig thanked him for his “courage in psychology”.30 ) A volume with monographs on Hölderlin, Kleist and Nietzsche, The Struggle with the Demon (Der Kampf mit dem Dämon, 1925), had been dedicated to Sigmund Freud. It examines the discourse of the “conventional lies of our civilization”, as Max Nordau famously put it. Zweig’s eulogy was printed, as mentioned above, as Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds (“Words at the coffin of Sigmund Freud”). Zweig’s original manuscript has been preserved, although it was divided in two parts and is now housed at two different institutions in Europe and the US, and only lately rejoined by virtue of digitalization.31 It is obviously the very manuscript Zweig held in his hands on September 26, as can be discerned both by marks for pronunciation and by spontaneous minor corrections made during the process of composing and writing. There is a second set

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of corrections in red ink, consisting of additional words and phrases that found their way into the De Lange print version. Paradoxically enough, the speech becomes even more prolix in print than it had been when performed at Golders Green. Zweig’s rhetoric abounds with polysyndeton und parallelism, climax, assonance and paronomasia. The speech, opening with the paradoxical and alliterating hypallage of a “glorious coffin” (‘ruhmreicher Sarg’, 249), uses the residual elements of the spell, the performative magic of language, be it from Romanticism or from archaic usage. The most important of these devices is alliteration: “Widersinn und Wahnsinn unserer Welt” (252, “our world’s absurdity and madness”), “herbstliche Weisheit” (252), “einen wahrhaft Weisen” (252, “the autumnal wisdom of a truly wise man”). The end of the speech is a firework of alliterations on “d”: The apostrophe of the noble dead combines thanks (“Dank”) und the “du” form of address (“you”), used in German for both intimate and sacral communication, in its initial sounds; at its very end it paronomastically combines the “Freund” (“friend”) and—Freud: “Thanks for such an example, beloved, honoured friend, and thanks for your great creative life, thanks for all of your deeds and works, thanks for what you have been and for what you have infused of yourself in our souls – thanks for the worlds you opened up for us and through which we are from now on wandering without guidance, always true to you, always commemorating in veneration, most valuable friend, most beloved master, Sigmund Freud”.32 In his letters from British exile, Zweig, the trusted friend and compatriot, not the orator, had consistently addressed Freud as “Teurer, verehrter Professor” (“dear, revered Professor”), only to switch to “Mein teurer verehrter Freund und Meister” (“my dear revered friend and master”) in the final letter.33 Undoubtedly, Zweig’s eulogy is closer to incantation than meditation. The remarkably intimate public address at the end of it reminds us one last time that the style of the speech is the genus sublime, reserved for princes, men of war and heroes. In The World of Yesterday, Zweig tells us that when Freud “himself realized clearly – he, to whom clarity always had been the highest quality of thinking – that he would not be able to continue to write, to function, like a Roman hero he permitted the doctor to end his pain”.34 Fittingly, a Grecian urn depicting Dionysus serves as his last resting place. High style mobilizes strong affects; we are close here to the katharsis ton pathematon, which, according to Aristoteles’ Poetics, tragedy should bring about, and the excitations of the aesthetics of the sublime—which,

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of course, is the very idea which served as a catalyst for the development of psychoanalysis itself in the early models of Freud and Breuer and which has been shown to be the locus of Ungeduld des Herzens. In Zweig’s view, grand affects, linguistically induced, conveyed and treated, are— neglected—features of a true and meaningful psychoanalysis, which is also, but not only, realized in the image of a hero of discourse, shattering social conventions. Zweig’s own rhetoric doubtlessly displays excessive force here, but this is needed to generate maximal (emotional) voltage so that the powerhouse of the feelings, the “Kraftwerk der Gefühle”, as Alexander Kluge called opera, can run at full capacity. Zweig himself had already identified the contrast between such emotional charge and the “heroic rationalism” of Freud’s methods and language. As he concludes in Die Heilung durch den Geist, this leaves a “hunger of the soul” dissatisfied: “This hunger of the soul for faith can find no nutriment in the harsh, the cold, the severe, the matter-of-fact sobriety of psychoanalysis. Analysis can give knowledge, and nothing more. For the very reason that it has no place for faith, it can only supply us with facts, with realities but never with a philosophy. That is its limitation”.35 One may imagine Ernest Jones’ uneasiness with Zweig’s display of pathos and rhetoric—in his own speech, speaking “for his family and his friends gathered here”, after a praise of Freud’s predilection for English values, Jones stated Freud was “being buried to-day in the atmosphere he would have wished, one of stark truth and realism; in sheer simplicity, without a note of pomp or ceremony”,36 which translates into a rhetorical language and gesture in diametrical opposition to Zweig’s, into plain style.37 Whereas Zweig was fluent in a range of literary idioms from Symbolism to Expressionism up to Neue Sachlichkeit, Freud never gave up his sympathies for Realism and science-based Naturalism. To Zweig’s way of thinking, it was the resources of the literary intellectual that were able to bring about the rapport between bodies and souls. Even Freud, always correct and slightly formal, had become mild and ready for physical closeness, “once so reserved, he would now proffer a familiar gesture; he would lay his arm around my shoulder and his eyes would glow more warmly through his shining glasses”.38 The actual loss of the majority of their readership and the commonly stated insecurity about their command of their own language added to the pressure the state of exile exerted on writers, poets and essayists.39 In this context, Zweig’s eulogy for Freud may be seen as an attempt to establish rapport among those scattered in exile, in commemoration of one

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“neither weary nor bent”,40 as Zweig put it in The World of Yesterday, and in this sense pathos is one of the languages of exile, a means of forming a community of the displaced. Zweig’s tacit recommendation to psychoanalysis seems to have been that it should revive its performative and dramatic roots, thereby contributing to real-life processes of katharsis. This could have led to more than an alternative marketing strategy; admirable as the erudite (if bookish) and rational plain style might be, a reform in style could have contributed to a deeper understanding of political emotions such as those at stake at the time. “The problem of Judaism and its present tragedy occupied” Freud in his last days, writes Zweig, “but his science provided no formula and his lucid mind found no solution”.41

Notes 1. Ernest Jones, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud (New York: Basic Books, 1953), vol. 3, pp. 290–291. 2. Jones, Freud, vol. 3, pp. 290–291—In the abridged one-volume edition the whole book ends with the quoted sentence; as the text of Jones’ oration is skipped, this is the final note of Jones’ Freud biography. Ernest Jones, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud, ed. and abridged Lionel Trilling, Steven Marcus, intro. L. Trilling (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964), p. 657. 3. Stefan Zweig, Tagebücher, Knut Beck ed. (Frankfurt/M.: S. Fischer, 1984), p. 429. 4. The third speaker, Zweig’s “busybody”, was probably Paul Neumann, a former lawyer of the Vienna Zsolnay-Verlag, who might have been nominated by Austrian exile institutions. The Times wrote of a “P. Neumann, representing the Committee of Austrians in England”. Cf. “Professor Freud—Body Cremated at Golders Green”, The Times, September 27, 1939. My thanks to the Freud Museum London for providing me with this article and other materials.—Neumann was to found the Austrian Academy in Great Britain one year later. On Austrian exile in Great Britain see Dokumentationsarchiv des österreichischen Widerstands, ed., Österreicher im Exil. Großbritannien 1938–1945, intro., red. Wolfgang Muchitsch (Wien: ÖBV, 1992); Sylvia M. Patsch, Österreichische Schriftsteller im Exil in Großbritannien. Ein Kapitel vergessene österreichische Literatur (Wien, München: Brandstätter, 1985), Marietta Bearman, ed., Out of Austria: The Austrian Centre in London in World War II (London: Tauris, 2008). 5. “Mir ist Psychologie (Sie verstehen dies wie kein zweiter) heute eigentlich die Passion meines Lebens.” Stefan Zweig, letter to Freud, September

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6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

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8, 1926. Stefan Zweig, Über Freud. Porträt, Briefwechsel, Gedenkworte (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1989), p. 142. “Beinahe würde ich wünschen, daß ich den Dr St. Zweig nie persönlich kennen gelernt und daß er sich nie so liebenswürdig und respektvoll gegen mich benommen. Denn nun leide ich unter dem Zweifel, ob mein Urteil nicht durch persönliche Sympathie beirrt sein mag. Fiele mir ein solcher Novellenband eines mir unbekannten Autors in die Hände, so würde ich gewiß ohne Schwanken feststellen, daß ich auf einen Schöpfer ersten Ranges und eine künstlerische Höchstleistung gestoßen bin. Ich glaube aber wirklich, diese drei Novellen – strenger: zwei von ihnen – sind Meisterwerke.” Stefan Zweig, Über Freud, pp. 137–138. “glänzend erzählte, lückenlos motivierte Geschichte”, “kleines Meisterwerk”, “der mir befreundete Dichter”. Sigmund Freud, Gesammelte Werke, Anna Freud ed. (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag 1999), vol. 14, pp. 416–417 (my translation). “In gewisser Weise bewundert Freud dabei in Zweig also sein eigenes Spiegelbild im Bereich der psychologischen Literatur. Zweig wiederum verehrt in Freud sein Spiegelbild im Bereich der wissenschaftlichen Psychologie.” Thomas Anz, “Psychologie und Psychoanalyse”, in: Stefan Zweig Handbuch, eds. Arturo Larcati, Klemens Renoldner, Martina Wörgötter (Berlin, Boston: de Gruyter, 2018), p. 73. “ich arbeite aber an einem sehr schweren aber nicht langen psychologischen Roman der ‘Mord durch Mitleid’ heissen will und dartun, dass die Schwäche, dass das halbe Mitleid, das nicht bis zum letzten Opfer geht, mörderischer ist als die Gewalt. Es ist eine Rückkehr in Ihre Welt und das Buch spielt ins Medicinische hinein – es ist mein Trost.” Zweig, Über Sigmund Freud, p. 174. Cf. Margarete Wagner, “Der pannonische Grenzraum als literarischer Ort in Stefan Zweigs Ungeduld des Herzens ”, in: Estudios filológicos alemanes 13 (2007), pp. 485–495; Wagner, “Ungeduld des Herzens”, in: Stefan Zweig Handbuch, pp. 365–375. E.g. Astrid Heyer, “Suicide on the Fiction of George Bernanos and Stefan Zweig. The Death of Two Female Adolescents”, in: Christianity and Literature 56/3 (2007), p. 447. Stefan Zweig, Beware of Pity, trans. Phyllis and Trevor Blewitt (London et al.: Cassell, 1939), quoted as “BP”; Stefan Zweig, Ungeduld des Herzens. Roman (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2016, p. 35. ed.), quoted as “UH”. “Ich hoffte auf Hysterie […] schweren Fällen noch immer Hoffnung hysterisch” Stefan Zweig, First manuscript notes for “Ungeduld des

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14.

15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

Herzens ”, transcr. Stephan Resch (Marbach am Neckar: Deutsches Literaturarchiv), 4 r. My thanks to Stephan Resch, University of Auckland, NZ, for permission to cite from his transcription. Resch’s edition of Ungeduld des Herzens will appear as vol. 4 of the Salzburger Ausgabe of Zweig’s narrative works, gen. eds. Werner Michler, Klemens Renoldner. “Paraplegie (beiderseitige Lähmung) | Eine Schlaffheit der Organe | Schlaffe Lähmung, krampfige | Kommt von spinaler Kinderlähmung (Rückenmark) Vorderhörner des Rückenmarks durch Infection (über Nase)”. Zweig, First manuscript notes, 59 v. On Condor/Alfred Adler cf. Horst Thomé, “Stefan Zweigs psychologischer Realismus. Zu Ungeduld des Herzens ”, in: Literaturstraße 2 (2001), pp. 83–102. “als junger Mensch eine blinde Frau, sieben Jahre älter als er, nicht schön und ohne Geld, eine hysterische Person, die jetzt auf ihm lastet und ihm gar nicht dankbar ist” (UH 107). Zweig, Beware of Pity, p. 261. “Gleichzeitig ging er auf die Blinde zu und strich ihr zart über das graue und verwirrte Haar. Sofort veränderte sich bei dieser Berührung ihr ganzer Ausdruck. Die Angst, die eben noch ihren großen, schweren Mund verzerrt hatte, glättete sich unter diesem einen zärtlichen Strich […]. Unbeschreiblich war dieser Ausdruck persönlicher Beruhigung und Gesichertheit nach jenem Ausbruch der Heftigkeit. […] Ihre Hand tastete, magnetisch angezogen, ihm durch die leere Luft entgegen, und sofort, da die weich suchenden Finger seinen Rock erreichten, strichen sie schon rieselnd aber- und abermals den Arm entlang” (UH 333). Letter to Freud, December 6, 1929. Zweig, Über Sigmund Freud, p. 148. Freud, letter to Zweig, February 17, 1931: “Das Verrückte und das Frevelhafte der Begebenheit mit Mary B. E. kommt in Ihrer Darstellung nicht zur Geltung, auch nicht das unsäglich Betrübliche des amerikanischen Hintergrundes.” Zweig, Über Freud, p. 154. Jones, quoted in Ronald W. Clark, Freud. The Man and the Cause (New York: Random House, 1980), p. 261. Josef Breuer, Sigmund Freud, Studies on Hysteria, transl., ed. James Strachey (New York: Basic Books, 1955), p. 160; Freud, Gesammelte Werke, vol. 1, p. 226; cf. also Gesammelte Werke, vol. 14, p. 52. Freud, Gesammelte Werke, vol. 14, p. 44. The currently available English translation of Zweig’s eulogy, to be found in Stefan Zweig, Freud by Zweig, transl. Eden and Cedar Paul (Lexington, MA: Plunkett Press 2012), pp. 107–108, is abridged and altered. “Lieber! […] [ich] muß Ihnen doch sagen, daß Ihre eigene Ergriffenheit, die aus der Freud-Rede herauszuspüren ist, unmittelbar auf den

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25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

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Leser übergeht; die Rede ist eine Ihrer schönsten und ernstesten und menschlichsten Leistungen, und ich danke Ihnen von ganzem Herzen für das wahrhafte Geschenk, das Sie mir mit ihr gemacht haben. Ich weiß nicht mehr, ob ich Ihnen geschrieben habe, wie sehr ich vom Tode Freuds berührt gewesen bin: es war, als verschwände eine Welt mit ihm, nicht eine alte Welt, zu der er ja nicht gehört hat, wohl aber jene neue, welche wir uns erträumt haben und an deren Kommen ich kaum mehr glaube.” Hermann Broch, letter to Zweig, November 16, 1939. Hermann Broch, Kommentierte Werkausgabe, ed. Paul Michael Lützeler (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1981), vol. 13/2, pp. 151–152. Freud, letter to Zweig, October 19, 1920. Zweig, Über Freud, p. 127. On Zweig as eulogist (not on Freud), see Mark H. Gelber, “Stefan Zweig as (Austrian) Eulogist”, in: Stefan Zweig Reconsidered. New Perspectives on his Literary and Biographical Writings, ed. Mark H. Gelber (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2007), pp. 151–162; on the funeral oration as a rhetorical genre cf. Franz M. Eybl, “Leichenrede”, in: Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik, ed. Gert Ueding, vol. 5 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2001), col. pp. 145–151. Stefan Zweig, “Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds. Gesprochen am September 26, 1939 im Krematorium London”. Zweig, Über Freud, pp. 249–252. “[…] dass der Bogen doch etwas höher gespannt wird als in den meisten Betrachtungen. Ich werde mich weniger auf die eigentliche Heilwirkung einlassen, sondern auf die Weltwirkung, auf die Umformung des ganzen geistigen und moralischen Bildes durch diese Entdeckung”. Zweig, letter to Freud, December 6, 1929. Zweig, Über Freud, p. 148. Stefan Zweig, Mental Healers. Mesmer, Eddy, Freud, trans. Eden and Cedar Paul (London: Pushkin Press, 2012), p. 282. “Sigmund Freud hat die Menschheit – herrliche Tat eines einzelnen Menschen – klarer über sich selbst gemacht: ich sage klarer, nicht glücklicher. Er hat einer ganzen Generation das Weltbild vertieft: ich sage vertieft und nicht verschönert. Denn das Radikale beglückt niemals, es bringt nur Entscheidungen.” Stefan Zweig, Die Heilung durch den Geist. Mesmer – Mary Baker-Eddy – Sigmund Freud (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer, 1982), p. 288. “Lassen Sie mich einmal klar sagen, was ich, was viele Ihnen danken – den Mut in der Psychologie.” Zweig, letter to Freud, September 8, 1926. Zweig, Über Freud, p. 142. Both fragments are now to be found at http://www.stefanzweig.digital/ (Literaturarchiv Salzburg). “Dank für ein solches Vorbild, geliebter, verehrter Freund, und Dank für Dein großes schöpferisches Leben, Dank für jede Deiner Taten und Werke, Dank für das, was Du gewesen und was Du von Dir in unsere eigenen Seelen gesenkt – Dank für die Welten, die Du uns erschlossen und

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33. 34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39.

40. 41.

die wir jetzt allein ohne Führung durchwandeln, immer Dir treu, immer Deiner in Ehrfurcht gedenkend, Du kostbarster Freund, Du geliebtester Meister, Sigmund Freud.” Zweig, Über Freud, p. 252. Zweig, letter to Freud, September 14, 1939. Zweig, Über Freud, p. 188. Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday. An Autobiography, trans. Eden and Cedar Paul (London et al.: Cassell, 4th ed. 1947), p. 318. “[…] gab er wie ein römischer Held dem Arzt Erlaubnis, dem Schmerz ein Ende zu bereiten.” Stefan Zweig, Die Welt von Gestern. Erinnerungen eines Europäers, ed. Oliver Matuschek (Frankfurt/M.: Fischer Taschenbuch 2020, p. 450. Zweig, Mental Healers , pp. 371–372. “Für diesen Hunger der Seele nach Gläubigkeit hat die harte, die streng sachliche, die kaltklare Nüchternheit der Psychoanalyse keine Nahrung. Sie gibt Erkenntnis und nicht mehr, und weil ihr alle Weltgläubigkeit fehlt, kann sie immer nur eine Wirklichkeitsanschauung bleiben und nie Weltanschauung werden. Hier ist ihre Grenze.” Zweig, Heilung durch den Geist, p. 375. Ernest Jones, “Funeral Oration [Sigmund Freud]”, in: American Imago. A Psychoanalytic Journal for the Arts and Sciences 1 (1940) (March 1), p. 2. Gilad Sharvit, pointing at the highly critical, if not sardonic book review of Mental Healers Jones published in the International Journal of PsychoAnalysis 18 (1937), pp. 316–317, writes of a “duel” between Jones and Zweig; at stake was, according to Sharvit, the growing rationalist approach against which Mental Healers “was meant to be a wake up-call”. Sharvit, “Zweig, Freud, and the Ends of Criticism”, in: Journal of Austrian Studies 49 (2016), p. 43. Zweig, The World of Yesterday, p. 317. “[M]anchmal fand er jetzt”, in his London home, “zärtliche Gesten, die ich vordem nie an dem Zurückhaltenden gekannt; er legte einem den Arm um die Schulter, und hinter der blitzenden Brille blickte wärmer das Auge einen an.” Zweig, Welt von Gestern, pp. 448–449. Cf. Richard Dove, “‘Meilenweit von Politik’: Stefan Zweig’s Exile in Britain”, in: Zweigs England, eds. Rüdiger Görner, Klemens Renoldner (Würzburg: Königshausen and Neumann, 2014), p. 18. Zweig, The World of Yesterday, p. 316. “[K]ein müder Mann und kein gebeugter”, Zweig, Welt von Gestern, p. 448. Zweig, The World of Yesterday, p. 318. “[…] beschäftigte ihn das Problem des Judentums und dessen gegenwärtige Tragödie; hier wußte der wissenschaftliche Mensch in ihm keine Formel und sein luzider Geist keine Antwort.” Zweig, Welt von Gestern, p. 451.

CHAPTER 5

Émigrés, Exiles and Strangers: Berthold Viertel and 1930s Cinema in Britain Laura Marcus

Émigré Film-Makers in Britain The contribution of Central European (and mostly Jewish) émigré(e)s to British cinema of the 1930s cannot be overstated. As Tim Bergfelder wrote, ‘Britain can be considered, with the possible exception of the Netherlands, the European country benefiting most from the diaspora of continental film personnel that resulted from the Nazis’ rise to power’.1 The producer Alexander Korda (as well as the English-born Michael Balcon), the directors Paul Czinner, E.A. Dupont, Lothar Mendes, Berthold Viertel, Emeric Pressburger (1902–1988) and the actor Conrad Veidt (1893–1943) are just some of the leading figures.2 For many emigrant workers in the film industry London was a second best or a way station to Hollywood, and as the European situation worsened in the 1930s moving on became more imperative. There was, however, a substantial movement in the opposite direction in the earlier period, and this included Viertel, who returned to Europe from the US in 1932. The most significant figure in this eastward movement was the

L. Marcus (B) University of Oxford, Oxford, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_5

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Hungarian Alexander Korda (born Sándor Kellner), who had also worked in Hollywood from 1926 to 1930. Korda joined the Hungarian company Corvin Films in Budapest in 1916 and took it over in 1917, though he was forced to flee Hungary, under the proto-fascist Horthy regime, in 1919 and settled in Vienna and Berlin, making films with mixed success there until he was offered a contract in Hollywood. Dissatisfied with the US studio system, he relocated to Paris and then London, founding his own company, London Films, in 1932. The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933) was extremely well-received, and this and subsequent films enabled Korda to build a studio complex at Denham which merged with Pinewood in 1939. He moved to Hollywood to complete The Thief of Bagdad, directed by Ludwig Berger, returning to London in 1943, where he continued to produce films until his death in 1956. Daniel Snowman writes: From the mid-1930s onwards, in the canteen at Denham, the lobby of the Cumberland Hotel or the restaurants of Soho and the cafés of Swiss Cottage, the film community in exile would laugh, quaff and quarrel…Producers and directors including [Günther von] Stapenhorst, Gabriel Pascal…Filippo del Giudice (‘Del’), Berthold Viertel, Ludwig Berger and…Alberto Cavalcanti…all found themselves grounded in England, deposited by the vicissitudes of recent history.3

Imre (Emeric) Pressburger, who had made films in Germany and France, arrived in England in 1935, working as a screenwriter for Korda and beginning his partnership with Michael Powell. Lothar Mendes, who had worked for Max Reinhardt in Vienna and Berlin and then directed films in the United States, moved to London in 1934 and directed Jew Süss with Conrad Veidt and other films, returning to the United States in 1941. Stapenhorst lived in England from 1935 to 1939, when he moved to Switzerland and produced a number of films. Gabriel Pascal (Gábor Lehel), who had begun his career making films in Italy for Ufa, filmed several plays by George Bernard Shaw. Filippo del Giudice produced a number of films in Britain between 1939 and 1950, as did the Brazilian director Alberto Cavalcanti, who worked for the Post Office documentary film unit from 1933 and might well have become its head had the price not been that of taking up British citizenship. Rejecting this option, he worked for another six years with Michael Balcon at Ealing Studios.

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In a younger generation, Karel Reisz arrived from Czechoslovakia on a Kindertransport and became a major figure in post-war British cinema.

Berthold Viertel in Britain This chapter focuses on Berthold Viertel, who also played an important role in bridging some of the tensions between German and AustroHungarian exiles and between communists and social democrats or liberals. Viertel, born in Vienna in 1885, was as a young man part of the circle around Karl Kraus, writing for Die Fackel until Kraus decided in 1911 to write the entire journal himself. After abandoning his philosophy degree and starting work for the Volksbühne theatre in Vienna, Viertel volunteered to fight in the First World War but came to share Kraus’s opposition to it. While on leave in 1916 he met the actor Salka Steuermann who became his second wife. From 1918 to 1922 he worked in the Staatstheater in Dresden and, from 1922, in Berlin. His cinema work began with the screenplay for F.W. Murnau’s 1921 film Schloß Vogelöd and later the direction of Nora, Die Perücke and, as director in 1926, the lost silent film Die Abenteuer eines Zehnmarkscheines [Adventures of a Ten-Mark Note], which explored the world of white-collar workers in the metropolis. The film, with a script by the Hungarian-born writer and film critic Béla Balázs, was widely reviewed, with Siegfried Kracauer writing in the Frankfurter Zeitung (December 5, 1926), in a mixed account of the film, of the strengths of its direction, which ‘provides a series of stimulating images from unfamiliar perspectives; street views, symbolic details. Sometimes it succeeds in reflecting life disrupted; for example in one sequence which once again races through all the adventures of the note’.4 Following an unsuccessful period in Düsseldorf, Viertel returned to Berlin, working on the screenplay for Murnau’s Four Devils . In 1928 he signed a three-year contract, facilitated by Murnau, with Fox Studios and moved to Hollywood: an early emigration which led him later to describe himself as an exile honoris causa. In America Viertel worked on Murnau’s City Girl (Our Daily Bread) and directed some eight films; the Viertel household later became a major centre for film people, including emigrant Germans and Austrians. Salka’s career in acting and screenwriting continued and she was often the main earner. Viertel, who became increasingly dissatisfied with the mechanised processes of the Hollywood studios, which did not allow, as he wrote in 1934, for any individual vision

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or creativity on the director’s part,5 returned to Europe in 1932, but what he described in a lecture in Vienna in 1933 as his ‘Heimkehr nach Europa’6 ended abruptly when he had to flee Berlin for Prague and later California shortly after Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor. Alexander Korda was Viertel’s first port of call when he arrived in Britain in 1932; he had no work for him in his own company but put him in touch with Gaumont-British. Viertel directed three films for Gaumont: Little Friend (1934), The Passing of the Third Floor Back (1935), suggested by and produced by Michael Balcon, and Rhodes of Africa (1936). Rhodes (his last British film, on the controversial politician Cecil Rhodes), was poorly received because it was perceived as insufficiently supportive of British imperialism and implicitly hostile to the European dictators in its portrayal of Rhodes’ fanaticism—something which did not fit in with Britain’s policy of appeasement. Isherwood, who worked on the first of the Gaumont-British films, Little Friend, and fictionalised Viertel in his autobiographical novel Prater Violet (1946), suggests, in his memoir of 1976, Balcon’s hostility, as a Sephardic Jew, to the ‘so-called Jews’ of Eastern Europe—such as Viertel. ‘One of the Gaumont executives…exclaimed angrily to Christopher that Viertel wasn’t a Jew at all but one of those mongrel Ashkenazim […]’7 In Prater Violet, Christopher Isherwood wrote of his meeting with the director: ‘I knew that face. It was the face of a political situation, an epoch. The face of Central Europe […]’8 Little Friend, based on a novel Kleine Freundin (1932)9 by Austrian author Ernst Lothar, who had also worked from 1925 to 1933 writing theatre and film reviews for the Neue Freie Presse, was the most successful of the three films. Christopher Isherwood, for whom Viertel became both a close friend and a father-figure in London and, subsequently in California (where Isherwood moved permanently in 1939), worked with him on the screenplay, a first version of which had been scripted by the author Margaret Kennedy. The writer and publisher John Lehmann wrote of Viertel in the first volume of his autobiography, The Whispering Gallery: A man of quite unusual, unshakeable integrity and loyalty; but not, I fancy, the easiest person, with his inflammable temperament, to be associated with professionally[…] if Christopher and Berthold had stayed in Europe, if the war had not come, I believe that the alliance might have made theatrical – or film – history.10

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Viertel wrote to Lothar of Little Friend that he was excited by the ‘extraordinarily psychological’ theme and was struggling ‘to make the child’s world of dreams and illusions, her inner reasoning, cinematically visible’.11 Lothar replied that he was taking his time about it. Lothar had earlier agonised over the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and visited Freud in 1918 to ask him ‘how one can go on living without the country one has lived for’. Freud pointed out that Lothar had lost his mother five months earlier and that living without the mother/homeland was the normal fate of the next generation. Before this exchange Lothar reports that as Freud welcomed him in and sat down at his desk he smiled knowingly; ‘his eyes lit up from inside’ and he ‘X-rayed the psyche (Seele) simply with his eyes’, in the time it would have taken to give an injection. Lothar published his account of his visit in 1960 in his Wunder des Überlebens (The Miracle of Survival).12 The cinematographer on Little Friend was the Austrian Günther Krampf, who moved to Britain in 1931, working on six films for Gaumont-British between 1932 and 1936. A significant figure in Weimar cinema, he had earlier made a silent film, Narkose (1929), with a screenplay by Stefan Zweig (author of the novella, Brief einer Unbekannten (Letter from an Unknown Woman), on which the film was based) and Béla Balázs.13 The film, told in flashback, is the dream sequence of a woman reliving an unhappy love affair while under anaesthetic during childbirth.14 The film of Little Friend, like Lothar’s novel, opens with a dream sequence; the child Felicity (played by Nova Pilbeam) is woken by her estranged parents’ shouting, which the dream (following the Freudian account in which dreams function to secure sleep) has attempted to incorporate into its own narrative. The objects seen in the opening sequence—a goldfish bowl, a doll, pot plants—are at once dream images and, as we see later in the film, ‘real’ objects in Felicity’s room, blurring the division between dream and reality (and pointing to the correlation, central to psychoanalytic approaches to cinema, between dreams and films). The dream also incorporates memories and anticipations, both centring around alarming figures of authority: a dentist wielding an enormous drill (the images pointing to a dream-state under dental gas anaesthetic) and various uniformed adults instructing the dreaming Felicity to ‘keep off the grass’: ‘No children allowed’. The images foreshadow the sequence in the film in which Felicity, riding her new scooter outside the gates of the park, narrowly avoids being knocked down by

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a car. (She is saved by a delivery boy who becomes central to the film’s plot.) It has indeed been suggested that we should understand the film of Little Friend as a dream tout court —opening and closing as it does with Felicity in bed. (In both the novel’s and the film’s endings, she is recovering after attempting to gas herself, as a result of her unhappiness over the proceedings being carried out in the divorce court—her act reunites her parents). In this reading, the drama that unfolds between the film’s beginning and its end is in its entirety a dreamscape, an interpretation certainly given some (but perhaps not complete) substance by the narrative framework and by its non-naturalistic camerawork and mise en scène, at their most heightened not only in the dream-sequences but also in the performance of a pantomime, Jack and the Beanstalk, in which the émigré actor Fritz Kortner played the terrifying giant.15 Notations in the film’s original script point up the wish to connect dreaming and waking sequences without necessarily collapsing the distinction between them: ‘It is important that the whole atmosphere of this sequence [in which Felicity runs from home at night to plead with her mother’s lover] should be slightly ghostly and unreal so that it follows on naturally from the mood of the child’s dream’.16 Prater Violet gives us little insight into the director’s specific intentions, because Isherwood transmutes the film on which they are working from the family romance Little Friend into a musical comedy, set in Old Vienna. This is one of a number of displacements, the first being the translation of Lothar’s novel from 1920s Vienna (where the father of Felicity’s young rescuer is a social democratic member of parliament) to contemporary London. As news of Austro-Fascist Chancellor Dolfuss’s attack on the workers of Vienna comes through to England, Bergmann (the fictional version of Viertel in the novel) speaks violently against the film—the eponymous Prater Violet —that they are making: ‘It covers up the dirty syphilitic sore with rose leaves, with the petals of this hypocritical reactionary violet. It lies and declares that the pretty Danube is blue, when the water is red with blood […]’.17 The novel Prater Violet does, however, give a powerful sense of Viertel (in the guise of Bergmann) as a director; at once actor and orchestral conductor. I watch him, through the take. It isn’t necessary to look at the set: the whole scene is reflected in his face. He never shifts his eyes from the actors for an instant. He seems to control every gesture, every intonation, by a

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sheer effort of hypnotic power. His lips move, his face relaxes and contracts, his body is thrust forward or drawn back in its seat, his hands rise and fall to mark the phases of the action […] Bergmann’s concentration is marvellous in its singleness of purpose. It is the act of creation.18

Isherwood also seems to make oblique allusions to the plot of Little Friend (giving a further twist to its displacement into the imagined film Prater Violet ), as well as to his Berlin experiences in the early 1930s (versions of which he depicted in Goodbye to Berlin (1938)), as in his first-person narrator Christopher’s account of a ‘peculiarly vivid nightmare, about Hitler’s Germany’. The narrated dream begins with a courtroom which ‘I knew, was a political trial. Some communists were being sentenced to death’ and unfolds through dream-scenes in which appear ‘Hitler Jugend’, clad like ‘supers’ in a performance of Wagner’s The Ring, a Jew whose hands had been shot off, his would-be assassin— an old blind lady in uniform—and ‘a drawling young man’ in the British Embassy, whose walls are covered with post-impressionist and cubist paintings. ‘Christopher’ concludes this account: ‘Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to tell this dream to Bergmann. I wasn’t in the mood for one of his elaborate and perhaps disagreeably personal interpretations. Also, I had a curious suspicion that he had put the whole thing, telepathically, into my head’.19 Bergmann’s ‘Freudianism’—alluded to here and elsewhere in the text in relation to dream-interpretation—is thus satirised, but Isherwood nonetheless seems to be hinting at the complex, unsettling relationship between dreams, films and the violence of the times. Letters from Viertel to Isherwood in 1944, after Isherwood sent Viertel the manuscript of Prater Violet, and in 1945 and 1946, on the novel’s publication and in relation to its possible German translation, reveal not only Viertel’s affection for Isherwood but also his initial unhappiness with aspects of his portrayal as Bergmann. In particular, he took issue with the idea that he would ever have consented to make a schmaltzy Viennese waltz film. On consideration he suggested that Isherwood could make it clear that it was Bergmann’s precarious position as an emigrant—a representative figure which, he wrote, Isherwood had captured in unprecedented ways in literature—that had forced him into such a compromise and that, in these circumstances, he committed himself to making something worthwhile. On the novel’s publication, and with its critical acclaim, Viertel seemed happier to accept the portrait of himself that the novel offered.20

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Isherwood returned to the story of his collaboration with Viertel in Christopher and his Kind: 1929–1939, published some decades later. For hours, he writes, Viertel would talk of anything, except Little Friend – of the Reichstag Fire Trial, then in progress (he imitated Dimitrov defying Goering); of his productions for Die Truppe in Berlin during the nineteen-twenties (he recited speeches from the leading roles); of the poetry of Hoelderlin; of the awful future in store for the world; of the nature of women.21

Viertel’s attitude towards Little Friend ‘varied continually’; he would, Isherwood writes, sometimes denounce it as ‘prostitution’ and at other times find in the story ‘a deep significance’. On these occasions, ‘He philosophized over it, quoting Marx, Freud, Nietzsche and his own elected Socrates, Karl Kraus (of whom Christopher, before meeting Viertel, had never heard). But such high moods of optimism didn’t survive the daylight’.22 Its creators were, then, ambivalent towards the film. Isherwood wrote later that ‘the old-fashioned sentimental theme had been modernized but not at all desentimentalized by the introduction of Freudian symbols and dreams’.23 Little Friend was, nonetheless, well-received, both in Britain and the United States—the New York Times review called it ‘very close to being a masterpiece of its kind’—and Gaumont-British contracted Viertel for three more films24 (Figs. 5.1 and 5.2). The film Viertel planned on Byron as a freedom fighter was apparently rejected because of references to Hitler to which the British Home Office objected, and Michael Balcon instead offered Viertel the opportunity to make a film of a 1908 play and short story by the Edwardian writer Jerome K. Jerome. This was The Passing of the Third Floor Back. The plot centres on a London boarding-house (the ‘third floor back’ refers to the location of a small room on its upper floor), occupied by warring, malicious and impoverished residents (one of the group, depicted as an embittered spinster, is played by Isherwood’s close friend Beatrix Lehmann, with whom Viertel had begun an affair in 1934). Towards the film’s opening, a stranger calls at the boarding-house to ask for a room. (The shot of the unknown man framed in the doorway against the backdrop of the city fog strongly recalls the opening of Alfred Hitchcock’s Expressionist-influenced film The Lodger (1926), in its turn indebted to an image from F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922) and one of

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Fig. 5.1 Peter Witt, Lothar Mendes and Berthold Viertel talk about their latest films, in: Picturegoer Weekly, April 7, 1934, p. 14

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Fig. 5.2 Peter Witt, Lothar Mendes and Berthold Viertel talk about their latest films, in: Picturegoer Weekly, April 7, 1934, p. 15

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the two screenwriters for Viertel’s film was indeed Hitchcock’s wife, Alma Reville. The cinematographer on the film was the German–Jewish émigré Curt Courant, who had worked with both Hitchcock and Murnau.) ‘The stranger’, played by the German actor Conrad Veidt, is represented as an émigré—a stranger in the land. He describes himself to the landlady of the house as a ‘wanderer’, which she glosses as ‘What we call a cosmopolitan’: a term which, in the Europe of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, would have held strong connotations of ‘Jewishness’. Through the power of his goodness, ‘the stranger’ is in part able to bring out the lodgers’ better natures and create harmony between them. It is striking that both Jerome’s play/short story and its silent film adaptation by Herbert Brenon (1918) include crudely stereotypical representations of a Jewish figure. In the play/short story, the character, named Isidore, is a lisping businessman. Intent on gaining financial advantage, he reports shamefacedly to his business partner the details of a ‘long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with the door shut’: What did he thay! Talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they were – how people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot. Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth! Thought I wath one of ‘em!25

This brief reported scene is expanded in Brenon’s film, and the Jewish character—now named Jake Samuels, and identified in the opening sequence as ‘a rogue’—is at the heart of the struggle between materialism and idealism dramatised in the film. When Samuels tries to sell shares in his bogus gold mine to ‘the stranger’, the latter brings him round to a recognition of his duty to uphold the reputation of his ‘great race, a race rich in honourable names’. Samuels points out the antisemitism of contemporary society—‘You’d think it was a disgrace to be a Jew’—to which ‘the stranger’ responds with the assertion that ‘the Jew shall teach them their mistakes’. After the episode, Samuels states that, if he were to sell his bogus shares to ‘the stranger’, ‘I’d feel as if I were selling the whole Jewish race for a couple of hundred pounds’. In Viertel’s adaptation, the Jewish character is not present, and the truly evil figure is the British property developer Joseph Wright [Frank Cellier], ‘a self-made man’, who seeks to destroy any harmony and happiness that ‘the stranger’ has brought to the household. Viertel’s film thus stages a stark conflict between the forces of good and evil. It also unsettles

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the implication (strongly present in Jerome’s text and in Brenon’s film) that ‘the stranger’ is a Christ-figure, while possibly hinting at Christ’s Jewish identity. There is a marked element of martyrdom in Veidt’s characterisation and performance, notably as he pleads with Wright to take pity on the other lodgers’ human frailties and their inabilities to withstand the harm that Wright wishes to wreak upon them: ‘They are not strong enough’. The theme of redemption captures the implication that ‘the stranger’ is at once a Christ-figure returned to earth and a ‘wandering Jew’.

Conrad Veidt in Britain Veidt, whose wife was Jewish, had come to Britain in 1932, leaving Germany permanently after a brief return to the country resulted in his detention by the German authorities for alleged anti-Nazi propaganda. His British naturalisation was ratified in 1939. Prior to The Passing of the Third Floor Back, Veidt had starred in five films for British companies, including The Wandering Jew (Elvey, Twickenham 1933), in which he played a Jew who lives through the ages and, through good works, is finally granted death, and Jew Süss (Gaumont 1934), an adaption of a novel by Lion Feuchtwanger, directed by Lothar Mendes, with art direction by the German émigré Alfred Junge, who also worked on Little Friend.26 The film depicts the life of the ‘court Jew’, Joseph Süss Oppenheimer, who gains great power and wealth in his employment with Karl Alexander, Duke of Württemberg. At the film’s close, Oppenheimer, known as ‘Jew Süss’, conspires to bring down the Duke, who dies as a coup is taking place. Jew Süss is condemned to death, refusing to undertake the conversion to Christianity that would save him. The final shots in the film show him being put in chains and raised up to the gallows in a cage, as the Jewish community-leaders sing a Hebrew prayer, their voices not quite drowned out by the baying crowd of onlookers. The close-ups of the tears coursing down Veidt’s face point up the theme of martyrdom hinted at in The Passing of the Third Floor Back; they are also strongly reminiscent of images in Carl Dreyer’s Joan of Arc (1928). Jew Süss was banned by the Viennese authorities after its first screenings for its sympathetic portrayal of Jews, with the New York Deutsche Zeitung writing (October 24, 1934): ‘we may point out that the seat of Jewish film propaganda has moved from Hollywood to London. British-Gaumont is particularly at its disposal, and, unfortunately, they are even able to engage

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German actors […]’. Reviews in Britain were mixed, though a number were sympathetic to what they perceived as the film’s message: the need for ‘toleration for Jewry […] particularly in the fact of contemporary events in Germany and elsewhere’.27 (The film, retitled as Power, was premiered simultaneously in London and New York: Albert Einstein, who was asked to endorse the film, was present at the New York screening, along with Chaplin and Viertel, with whom he appears in a photograph taken at this time.28 ) Veidt’s earlier career had made him one of the most highly regarded and popular actors in Germany, with his reputation established in the German Expressionist cinema of the 1920s—his films included Dr. Caligari (1919/1920), The Hands of Orlac (1925) and The Student from Prague (1926). Sue Harper has written of Veidt’s performance style that: ‘His patterns of gaze in the German and early American films were unpredictable and unfixed, and the overall impression is of a dystopian persona riven by contradiction’.29 In his British films of the 1930s, by contrast, the formerly unstable gaze has become steady and the persona charismatic. In The Passing of the Third Floor Back, this charisma (which at moments in the film is depicted as a hypnotic power) has to be redeemed from the more dangerous mesmeric forces associated with German Expressionist cinema, and, into the 1930s, with the powers of dictators, by its intermingling with the representation of an overwhelming empathy. Later into the 1930s, Veidt’s interest in the hypnotic dimensions of acting, as Harper notes,30 took him from an interest in Mesmer and Charcot to a preoccupation with Freud; he planned to make a film about a Freudian psychoanalyst practising in Harley Street, which would open up the question of dream symbolism, the Oedipus complex and theories of sexuality: ‘Most people […] are eager to know just how much their own lives are influenced by dreams and subconscious thoughts’.31 Veidt was, however, unable to raise funding for this planned film, which was perhaps perceived to be too ‘European’ in its preoccupations.

Viertel and Émigré Activism Viertel’s last British film was Rhodes of Africa. Balcon had left Gaumont in 1936 and a letter from Viertel to his close friend in Vienna, the art historian Ludwig Münz, refers to his need to ‘complete a film, under difficult circumstances – and then [go] straight to America, where Salka urgently needs me’.32 The making of Rhodes of Africa was encouraged

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by two favourable circumstances: Balcon’s (and Korda’s) enthusiasm for celebration of Empire and the popularity of ‘biopics’—notably Korda’s Private Life of Henry VIII (1933). The Empire itself, in the form of the South African and Southern Rhodesian governments, had been hostile to the idea of a film about Cecil Rhodes which might destabilise white rule, but were persuaded to approve the Gaumont-British proposal. Gaumont had played on the argument that it would be better that such a film should be made by a British rather than a US company and agreed to take advice on presenting Rhodes in a sympathetic light. Viertel was not allowed much input into the script, which was based on a celebratory biography; he defended the film against subsequent criticism that it was insufficiently patriotic with an essentially Marxist argument that he had portrayed ‘Rhodes and his main opponents, Lobengula and Kruger, [as] each representing the land in a different stage of development; the primitive man, the patriarchal farmer, and the representative of progressive capitalism spreading modern civilization […]’.33 Responses to the film vary from the criticism that (implicitly by modern standards) it belittles the indigenous population of the region to the suggestion that the portrayal of Rhodes’ demagogic performances had deliberate echoes of the fascist dictators. While in London in the mid-1930s Viertel was very active writing pseudonymously for opposition papers in Austria and working in antifascist organisations such as the Ligue de l’Autriche vivante and the Freier Deutscher Kulturbund (Free German League for Culture). In the FDKB he worked alongside Oskar Kokoschka, Stefan Zweig, Alfred Kerr and Wilhelm Unger—the last two leaving because of its communist orientation. As a politically unattached anti-Nazi with a foot in both countries he may have helped to bridge the divisions between Germans and Austrians, social democrats and communists. (The German/Austrian division came up later in his polemic in 1945 with Lothar, who had contrasted a German culture of power with an Austrian culture of devotion and reflection (Andacht), in a way which Viertel considered nostalgic and reactionary.)34 Viertel wrote that ‘we can only believe in a future that has learned something from the mistakes of the past’.35 A particularity of the Austrian emigration was however that the state had been abolished after the Anschluss, and it was not until 1943 that the Allies undertook to re-establish the Republic. As Edward Timms and Ritchie Robertson pointed out in their preface to Austrian Exodus, this made the cultural activities of exile organisations especially important.

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‘The reaffirmation of Austrian independence during the years 1938-1945 was essentially the task of small groups of poets and painters, actors, musicians and cabaret performers in Hampstead, Swiss Cottage and Golders Green (paralleled by similar groups in the United States)’.36 As J.M. Ritchie notes in an article in the same volume, Austrian academics and scientists were as quick to organise as their musical, literary or artistic colleagues. By far the most famous name was that of Sigmund Freud, but he was by no means the only psychoanalyst to settle in Great Britain.37

Not surprisingly, given the complexities of the Austrian–German relationship, the British authorities were uncertain whether to consider Austrians as prima facie victims of Nazism, like Poles or Czechoslovaks, or as ‘enemy aliens’ on a par with Germans. In the event, both nationalities were subject to internment and/or deportation after the war began. In London, Viertel was also able to nurture contacts with prominent British intellectuals such as H.G. Wells, Aldous and Julian Huxley and in particular J.B. Priestley, who spoke at an event Viertel organised on ‘Creative Exiles’ which included Brecht’s scene on ‘The Informer’ from Furcht und Elend des Dritten Reiches.38 By 1937 there were already over 5000 German refugees in Britain and by the winter of 1939 there were 62,000 Germans and 12,000 Austrians. By then Viertel was back in America, having been unable to get more film work and to extend his residence permit. It also turned out later that Viertel was on the Nazi wanted list for the prospective invasion of Britain. His departure in 1939 meant that he did not overlap with Freud, who later in the year settled in the street in which Viertel had stayed during his time in London, Maresfield Gardens in Hampstead. The Nazi boycott of British films made by emigrants drove many from Britain to the United States, including Fritz Kortner.39 Kurt Weill, who left in 1935, was anyway not keen on London, writing that thinking about it prevented him from sleeping.40 Viertel spent the war years from 1941 to 1945 on various unsuccessful film projects; as Katharina Prager notes, he worked for almost all the main British and American studios but without making a real reputation for himself.41 He also directed German-language theatre and worked in exile organisations such as the Nationalkomitee Freies Deutschland, founded in 1943. Spied on by the FBI, he was however able to do broadcast work for the Office of War

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Information, for which Lothar and a host of other eminent exiles also worked, and to obtain American citizenship. He returned to Britain in 1947 to work for the BBC, including a tour of Germany. While London was the ‘bridge’ back to (the rest of) Europe, Viertel wrote that wherever he went he now felt he was immigrating into a strange country.42 In 1948 Viertel took up a guest directorship at the Burgtheater (which never offered him a permanent contract), also working with Brecht at the Berliner Ensemble but turning down Brecht’s offers of a permanent attachment there. In 1952 he was able to recover his Austrian citizenship, though only after the President’s intervention. (Lothar, who had also become an American citizen, had no such difficulty in becoming Austrian again, but he was not impressed that his wife was asked if in America ‘you also suffer so much from the Jews’.)43 In the year of his death Viertel directed his last play at the Burgtheater. Viertel in an autobiographical fragment includes Freud along with Marx, the Secession and the Wiener Werkstätte among the first generation of contemporary Viennese modernity. Briefly, we have two generations, the fathers and the sons. The fathers are generally concerned to preserve things, while the sons are revolutionaries and nihilists. But the scepticism begins with the fathers, who also feel the position they occupy is lost.44

In 1944, in a birthday tribute to Lion Feuchtwanger, he cited Feuchtwanger’s reference, on his arrival in the United States, to Darwin, Marx, Freud and Einstein as both his own masters and four fundamental masters of anti-fascist civilisation.45 In the same year he wrote that ‘Psychoanalysis was discovered as it became indispensable. Freud diagnosed the “Discomfort in Culture”’.46 In an article discussing Kracauer’s From Caligari to Hitler he argued that Kracauer focuses on film as historical material precisely because film, rising out of the unconscious, never entirely reaches conceptual awareness unless the critic helps by providing an analysis of what has been seen […] Kracauer undertakes […] a psychoanalysis of the mass psyche as it is manifested in the film and corresponding to its mode of production and use[…]. It is rewarding to read what the average German – anxious and feverishly despondent and megalomanic – dreams together until the word is ‘Deutschland erwache!’ By their wish-fulfilment dreams and anxiety dreams you shall know them.47

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In 1930, the British film theorist and documentary film-maker Paul Rotha had referred to the German directors working in British studios as ‘failing to understand British temperament and trying to intermix German psychology with British bourgeois unintelligence’.48 In the 1930s, when choice turned into necessity, and despite the negative responses towards émigré film directors expressed in some quarters,49 there was at least some recognition that the state of historical emergency justified a darker cinema of shadows. Viertel’s films, which brought such shadows into the worlds of sentiment and melodrama, are striking documents of their time. Viertel as a director is thus much more than a footnote in the history of British cinema; beyond this, he should also be remembered as a central cultural mediator in the world of exiles and émigrés in the Britain of those times.

Notes 1. Tim Bergfelder, ‘Introduction’, in: Destination London: German-Speaking Emigrés and British Cinema, 1925–1950, edited by Tim Bergfelder and Christian Carnelli (New York: Berghahn, 2008), p. 1. 2. The Hungarian émigré to Britain George Mikes wrote in How to Be an Alien (originally published in 1946; reprint Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1966, p. 60) that ‘A little foreign blood is very advantageous, almost essential, to become a really great British film producer’ and one of Nicholas Bentley’s’s illustrations is of a door with a list of extremely British names of film production companies and the managing director: ‘Sir Ipoli Podmaniczky (British)’. 3. Daniel Snowman, The Hitler Emigrés: The Cultural Impact on Britain of Refugees from Nazism (London: Chatto & Windus, 2002), p. 156. 4. Siegfried Kracauer, Kleine Schriften zum Film 1921–1927 . Werke, Band 6.1, edited by Inka Mulder-Bach (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2004), no. 192, pp. 275–276. 5. Berthold Viertel, ‘The Function of the Director. 2. The Studio Director’, in: Cinema Quarterly, vol. 2, no. 4, Summer 1934, pp. 206–210. 6. See Berthold Viertel: Kindheit eines Cherub: autobiographische Fragmente, edited by Siglinde Bolbecher and Konstantin Kaiser (Vienna: Verlag für Gesellschaftskritik, 1991), pp. 269–288. 7. Christopher Isherwood, Christopher and His Kind (originally published in 1976; reprint London: Vintage, 2012), p. 170. See Peter Parker, Isherwood: A Life (London: Picador, 2004), p. 290; also Nathan Adams (ed.), Hidden in Plain Sight: Jews and Jewishness in British Film, Television, and Popular Culture (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2016). 8. Christopher Isherwood, Prater Violet (London: Methuen, 1946); (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961), p. 20.

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9. Ernst Lothar, Little Friend, translated by Willa and Edwin Muir (London: Martin Secker, 1933). 10. John Lehmann, The Whispering Gallery (London: Longmans Green, 1955), p. 305. 11. See Dagmar Heiβler, Ernst Lothar (Vienna: Böhlau, 2016), p. 81. 12. Das Wunder des Überlebens. Erinnerungen und Erlebnisse (Vienna: Zsolnay, 1961). 13. For discussion on Stefan Zweig in British exile, see Chapter 4 in this volume. 14. Michael Omasta, in a chapter on Krampf, writes that ‘All the juxtapositions of scenes and optical effects were apparently done in the camera’. ‘Famously Unknown: Günther Krampf’s Work as Cinematographer in British Films’, in: Bergfelder and Cargnelli, Destination London, p. 79. 15. Kevin Gough-Yates stresses the ‘steroscopic’ effects created by Krampf’s lighting techniques. (Kevin Gough-Yates, ‘Berthold Viertel at GaumontBritish’, in: Jeffrey Richards, The Unknown 1930s. An Alternative History of the British Cinema 1929–1939. [London: Bloomsbury, 2001], p. 206). In Film Weekly (May 3, 1935) Viertel insisted that his work should be seen within the context of a European non-naturalistic perspective. 16. Michael Balcon’s copy of the script, Section 418. British Film Institute, Special Collections, SCR 11366. 17. Isherwood, Prater Violet, p. 97. 18. Isherwood, Prater Violet, p. 80. 19. Isherwood, Prater Violet, pp. 57–59. 20. These letters are in the Christopher Isherwood papers at the Huntington Library in California. Viertel also wrote of his expressions of ‘rage and pain’ as he made the film, in a letter to his wife: ‘These are the outbursts I had in London, which Christopher remembered […]’ Quoted in: Salka Viertel, The Kindness of Strangers (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969), p. 289. On the relation between Viertel and Isherwood, see Ernst Glaser, ‘Berthold Viertel und Christopher Isherwood’, in: Siglinde Bolbecher, Konstantin Kaiser, and Peter Roessler (eds.), Zwischenwelt. Traum von der Realität. Berthold Viertel (Vienna: Theodor Kramer Gesellschaft, 1998), pp. 138–154. 21. Isherwood, Prater Violet, p. 161. 22. Isherwood, Prater Violet, p. 121. 23. Isherwood, Christopher and His Kind, p. 155. 24. Gough-Yates, ‘Berthold Viertel’, in: Richards, The Unknown 1930s, p. 206). 25. Jerome K. Jerome, The Passing of the Third Floor Back and Other Stories (London: Hurst and Blackett, 1907), p. 29.

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26. In both films, as Sue Harper notes, Veidt created an innovative image of Judaism, free from the negative stereotyping of many literary representations. ‘“Thinking Forward and Up”: The British Films of Conrad Veidt’, in: Richards, The Unknown 1930s, p. 128. 27. The Monthly Film Bulletin, 1 (1934), p. 81. 28. See Edgar Feuchtwanger, ‘Two Films about Jud Süss ’, in: Lion Feuchtwanger und die deutschsprachigen Emigranten in Frankreich von 1933 bis 1941, edited by Daniel Azuelos (Bern: Peter Lang, 2006); proceedings of the International Feuchtwanger Society Conference 2005, Sanary-surMer. www.feuchtwanger.com/Edgar%20Recent%20Articles%20and%20A ppearances.html. Accessed 15.12.19. 29. Harper, ‘Thinking’, p. 123. 30. Harper, ‘Thinking’, p. 134. 31. See Film Weekly, March 12, 1938. 32. November 14, 1935; see Irene Jansen, Berthold Viertel. Leben und künstlerische Arbeit im Exil (New York: Peter Lang, 1992), p. 102. 33. Letter to The Times, April 13, 1936; see also Gough-Yates, ‘Berthold Viertel’, p. 214. 34. See Heiβler, Ernst Lothar, p. 224. 35. Berthold Viertel, ‘Austria Rediviva’, in: Austro American Tribune, January 1945; reprinted in Viertel, Die Überwindung des Übermenschen. Exilschriften, edited by Konstanin Kaiser and Peter Roessler, with Siglinde Bolbecher (Vienna: Verlag für Gesellschaftskritik, 1989), p. 199. 36. Austrian Exodus: The Creative Achievements of Refugees from National Socialism, edited by Edward Timms and Ritchie Robertson. Austrian Studies, vol. VI, 1995, p. xii. 37. J.M. Ritchie, ‘The Exodus from Austria’, in: Austrian Studies, vol. VI, 1995, p. 154. See also Charmian Brinson and Richard Dove, Politics by Other Means: The Free German League of Culture in London, 1939–1946 (Edgware: Vallentine Mitchell, 2010). 38. On this see Hans-Christoff Wächter, Theater im Exil. Sozialgeschichte des deutschen Exiltheaters 1933–1945 (Munich: Carl Hanser, 1973), pp. 66– 73; also Steffen Pross, In London treffen wir uns wieder (Frankfurt: Eichborn, 2000). 39. Pross, In London, p. 207. 40. Pross, In London, p. 209. 41. Katharina Prager, Berthold Viertel. Eine Biografie der Wiener Moderne (Wien: Böhlau, 2018), p. 66. 42. Berthold Viertel diary entry on January 10, 1947. Quoted in: Prager, Berthold Viertel, p. 72. Original source: Siglinde Bolbecher and Konstantin Kaiser (eds.), Berthold Viertel, Kindheit eines Cherub. Autobiographische Fragmente, in Berthold Viertel – Studienausgabe in vier Bänden, Vol. 2, Vienna, 1991, p. 247. My translation.

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43. ‘Leiden S’ in Amerika auch so unter die Juden?’, in: Lothar, Wunder des Überlebens, pp. 322–323. 44. Berthold Viertel, Österreichische Illusionen/Der Knabe Robert Fürth (o.D.,o.S., NK12,A : Viertel, Deutsches Literaturarchiv, Marbach); quoted in Prager, Berthold Viertel, p. 99. My translation. 45. Berthold Viertel, ‘Zu Lion Feuchtwangers sechzigstem Geburtstag’, in Austro American Tribune, July 1944; reprinted in: Viertel, Die Überwindung des Übermenschen. Exilschriften, edited by Konstanin Kaiser and Peter Roessler, with Siglinde Bolbecher (Vienna: Verlag für Gesellschaftskritik, 1989), p. 186. 46. Berthold Viertel, ‘Geburtstage. Skizze einer Epoche’, in: Austro American Tribune, September 1944; reprinted in Viertel, Überwindung, p. 193. 47. Berthold Viertel, ‘An ihren Träumen sollt ihr sie erkennen!’, in: Austro American Tribune, August 1947; reprinted in Viertel, Überwindung, p. 260. 48. The Film Till Now: A Survey of the Cinema (London: Cape, 1930), p. 176. 49. Graham Greene and C.A. Lejeune were two prominent film critics who displayed nativist and, in Greene’s case, antisemitic prejudices in their columns.

CHAPTER 6

“A Sea Ringed with Visions”—Oskar Kokoschka’s Reception of Sigmund Freud’s Theories in His London Years Régine Bonnefoit

First Contact with Freud’s Theories in Vienna and Prague (1908–1938) At the end of his art studies Oskar Kokoschka was introduced by architect Adolf Loos to the most influential personalities of Viennese intellectual life, including Karl Kraus. In this manner he inevitably came into contact with the theories of Sigmund Freud.1 In his first poetic work Die träumenden Knaben published in 1908, Kokoschka addresses subjects that were hardly conceivable without knowledge of Freud’s writings: the awakening of the sexuality of a pubescent boy whose fears and hesitant attempts to approach the opposite sex are discharged in dreams, metaphors for sexual union and even in murder phantasies. Red fish symbolize the sexual urges that the first-person narrator of the poem tries in vain to kill with a knife. Thomas Schober already interpreted this scene “in accordance with Freud’s fish symbolism” as sexual fantasies.2 The

R. Bonnefoit (B) University of Neuchâtel, Neuchâtel, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_6

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poem Die träumenden Knaben is the first in Kokoschka’s literary work on a motif that runs through his entire early works like a red thread, with the highlight in his first drama Mörder, Hoffnung der Frauen: the connection between sexuality and death, Eros and Thanatos, which fascinated not only the artists of his time but also Sigmund Freud.3 In Vienna, Kokoschka mainly came into contact with psychoanalysis through Viktor von Dirsztay, who—as Ulrike May calculated—must have spent about 1400 hours on Freud’s couch between autumn 1910 the spring of 1920. In 1911, Kokoschka portrayed the Hungarian baron and created illustrations for Dirsztay’s novels Lob des hohen Verstandes (1917) and Der Unentrinnbare (1923), the contents of which are deeply influenced by his therapy with Freud.4 In 1912 Kokoschka painted the portrait of the Viennese neurologist and psychologist Alfred Adler, who had distanced himself from Freud’s methods a year earlier.5 In Kokoschka’s written estate in the Central Library of Zurich, a photocopy of an expert opinion by Adler is preserved, according to which the artist “clearly bears the traits of the most general genius.” In it he describes Kokoschka as unsteady and impulsive: “He often planned to come to me for a cure, but even in this case he was unable to follow his decision.”6 Kokoschka probably met the psychologist through his poet friend Albert Ehrenstein, who underwent therapy with Adler in 1911.7 Under the influence of Ehrenstein, Kokoschka increasingly dealt with the writings of the Basel legal historian Johann Jakob Bachofen (1815– 1887) and his theories on a matriarchal prehistory, which also play a role in Freud’s reflections on myths.8 In an unpublished essay in the National Library of Israel entitled Bachofen und Freud from 1939, Ehrenstein explains how the excavations by Heinrich Schliemann, Bachofen’s interpretation of myths and Sigmund Freud changed the image of antiquity.9 Kokoschka’s most specific examination of Freud’s writings can be found in his 1933 essay Totem and taboo. Thinking exercises of a cynic, in which he not only acknowledges Freud’s teachings, but also predicts their transversal significance for the future of the humanities: Siegmund [sic] Freud’s research provides an opportunity to learn about the state of neuroses and instincts, dream research, psychopathology, and the results of psychoanalytical ego and character research. As soon as their technique was made usable for the social fundamental principle, Freud’s

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teaching would not only have to be evaluated as clinical work, but would find its application in the field of the humanities: ethnology, anthropology, ethnopsychology, sociology, mythology, religious studies, cultural psychology and pedagogy.10

In London, too, Kokoschka seems to have continued to deal with Freud’s writing Totem and Taboo, as the English translation published by Penguin Books in 1940 in his estate library suggests.11 Kokoschka’s written estate contains only a reference to personal contact with Freud: It is a thank-you card by Freud from May 1936 with the following form: “Thank you very much for your participation in the celebration of my eightieth birthday” and the handwritten addition: “Yours sincerely Freud.”12 But Kokoschka, who had lived in Prague since autumn 1934, seems to have participated just as physically in this celebration as Freud himself, who had stayed away from the two ceremonial lectures of Ludwig Binswanger and Thomas Mann of May 7 and 8, 1936 due to illness. It is more likely that Kokoschka only congratulated Freud in writing. The extent of the response to his 80th birthday is shown by the fact that 191 writers and artists from all over the world signed an “exuberant greeting and thank-you address by Thomas Mann and Stefan Zweig.”13

Kokoschka in the Context of British Freud Reception On October 17, 1938, shortly after the Munich Agreement, Kokoschka arrived in the British capital as a refugee from Prague, now with a Czechoslovak passport.14 He found his first accommodation in King Henry’s Road 45a in Hampstead, not far from Freud’s new residence. Compared to Prague, where the reception and institutionalization of psychoanalysis proceeded much more slowly, Kokoschka found in London an environment of emigrants and English intellectuals in which Freud’s theories were discussed with fervour.15 Among them were the British poet, art historian and theorist Herbert Read and the art collector Antoine Graf Seilern, born in London in 1901 as the son of an Austrian and an American, to whom he owes his most important commission of the London era: the triptych Die Prometheus Saga (1950). Seilern had studied not only art history but also child psychology at the University of Vienna from 1933 to 1937.16 After returning to London for good in September

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1939, he supported several Austrian emigrants by giving them commissions. One of them was the architect Ernst Freud, the son of Sigmund Freud, who rebuilt Seilern’s city palace in South Kensington, 56 Princes Gate, in 1948.17 A year later, Seilern asked Kokoschka to create a rectangular ceiling painting for the entrance hall of the same building, a work that the artist expanded into a triptych with two additional panels.18 It is well known that Freud made a special effort to disseminate his teachings in Britain by receiving English analysands in Vienna despite his fully booked practice, who then disseminated his methods in their homeland.19 He noted as early as 1914 that his theories were particularly well received in this country: “The interest of scientific circles in England in analysis has developed slowly, but all signs suggest that it will flourish there, supported by the English sense of the factual and their passion for fairness.”20 Matthias Munsch emphasized in his 2004 study Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne the significance of James Strachey and his wife Alix for the dissemination of Freud’s writings in Britain. Both were analysed by Freud in Vienna 1920 and were nominated by him as main translators of his works into the English language.21 After Hitler seized power, many German psychoanalysts settled in London, including Hilde Maas and Kate Misch, who in 1934 commissioned Ernst Freud with the conversion of an existing building in Hampstead into a psychoanalytic sanatorium. The aim of the project, which was never realized, was to help exiled doctors and psychoanalysts from Berlin to a new existence in Britain.22

Herbert Read As an art writer, Herbert Read was editor of Burlington Magazine, and from the spring of 1938, as “Chairman of the Organising Committee” of the exhibition 20th Century German Art, was more committed to contemporary art in general and German Expressionism in particular than anyone else in his country. He had helped Kokoschka escape to London by vouching for him with the British Immigration Service.23 Read was the most important of a group of British art critics in whose writings psychoanalysis played a fundamental role.24 From the late 1910s he was an avid reader of Sigmund Freud’s and C. G. Jung’s writings.25 In his early 1925 essay “Psychoanalysis and the Critic” he devoted the same attention to Freud, Adler and Jung.26 David Cohen regards this essay as a reaction to the lecture The Artist and Psychoanalysis given by the art critic

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Roger Fry a year earlier at the British Psychological Society.27 In his work Art and Society (1937), Read most clearly manifests his conviction “that psychoanalysis is also the key to most of the unsolved problems of art.”28 In Kokoschka’s estate library, Read’s 1944 book on The Education of Free Men is preserved, in which the artist underlined the following passage with a pen: Already certain followers of Freud set drastic limits to the beneficial effects of state interference. For example Dr. Edward Glover, the director of the Psychoanalytical Institute of Great Britain, does not hesitate to declare that ‘state worship is a form of fetishism derived from the displacement of family dependence’, and suggested further that ‘however useful the state may be in the regulation of material things it is nevertheless a backward and superstitious organisation.’29

By reading the three-volume work The Mothers (1927) by the English social anthropologist Robert Briffault (1876–1948), Kokoschka had already arrived at a similar conviction in the mid-1930s that there was a direct connection between the power structures within a patriarchal family and bondage by an authoritarian state.30

Edith Hoffmann It was certainly the art historian Edith Hoffmann who introduced Kokoschka to Read. As the daughter of the Bohemian poet and diplomat Camill Hoffmann, Hoffmann had grown up in Hellerau and then in Berlin, where her father was appointed cultural and press attaché of the Czechoslovak embassy in 1920. She first met the artist in 1917 in the house of her parents in Hellerau. Her father, who had published two essays on Kokoschka that year, was at the time editor of the feuilleton of the Dresdner Neueste Nachrichten.31 Edith Hoffmann studied art history in Berlin, Vienna and Munich, where she received her doctorate under Wilhelm Pinder in 1934. Because of his Jewish ancestry, Camill Hoffmann decided to bring his daughter to Britain immediately after graduating from university to escape the National Socialists. Her encounter with Herbert Read was decisive for Edith Hoffmann’s further professional career. From the end of 1937 both worked on the preparation of the exhibition 20th Century German Art.32 Hoffmann owed her employment as editorial secretary of the Burlington Magazine in 1939 to Read.33 In 1947 she published a monograph on Kokoschka in the

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London publishing house Faber & Faber, which the artist had previously substantially reworked in his spirit.34 The idea for this book arose during Hoffmann’s visit to Kokoschka in Prague in the spring of 1937, the impetus for which came from the artist himself.35 It is striking how Kokoschka tries to portray himself in Hoffmann’s monograph as an artist familiar with psychoanalysis. In a letter dated April 15, 1943, he informed the author of his wish to see his “Self-Portrait as a Degenerate Artist” (Fig. 6.1) depicted in colour in her work. For him, “the self-portrait is extraordinarily important and probably also indispensable as the first picture in the book from a psychological point of view.”36 In a letter to Hoffmann dated November 24, 1937 from Moravian Ostrava, Kokoschka described this work as “New Self-Portrait in My Illness Now Painted, Suggestive, and Very Good.”37 In an interview in 1969/1970, the artist recalled a “kind of mental collapse – also physical” that had brought him to the hospital of the Vítkovice steelworks after his defamation as a “degenerate artist” in the autumn of 1937.38 Subsequently,

Fig. 6.1 Oskar Kokoschka, Self -Portrait as a Degenerate Artist, 1937, Private collection, permanent loan to the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh

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“under the impression of the terrible events in Germany, in anger at these circumstances, he painted the ‘self-portrait of a degenerate artist’ […].”39

“A Sea Ringed with Visions” Kokoschka considered his early 1912 essay “Vom Bewußtsein der Gesichte” (On the Consciousness of Visions) just as indispensable in Hoffmann’s book as this self-portrait. It is found in English translation in the appendix to the monograph entitled “On the Nature of Visions.” In no text does Kokoschka go deeper into the artist’s consciousness, into which visions penetrate from hidden layers of the soul, which he attempts to capture in images. He speaks of “the vision’s penetration of one’s very soul,” that produces the state of awareness, of expectancy. At the same time there is an outpouring of feeling into the image which becomes, as it were, the soul’s plastic embodiment. […] Consciousness is the source of all things and of all conceptions. It is a sea ringed about with visions. […] It is the psyche which speaks.40

Here Kokoschka compares human consciousness with a sea from whose depths the visions emerge and form rings on the surface of the water. The comparison of the soul with a deep water can already be found in Goethe’s Gesang der Geister über den Wassern (Song of Spirits over the Waters, 1779). Incidentally, the German word for soul, Seele, is etymologically derived from the word See (sea).41 C. G. Jung also uses the lake or the sea as a pictorial metaphor for the unconscious.42 Kokoschka owes the fact that he was able to place his essay “On the Nature of Visions” in this monograph against the will of Hoffmann and the Faber & Faber publishing house to the support of Herbert Read,43 who in his Concise History of Modern Painting deals in detail with Kokoschka’s metaphor: Kokoschka has described consciousness as ‘a sea ringed about with visions’, and what floats into this sea is beyond our control. Whether the image that takes shape suddenly is of a material or an immaterial character, figurative or non-figurative, that too is beyond our control. It is the psyche which speaks, and all the artist can do is to bear witness to the vision within himself. But the vision itself is fed by images from all human experience, as a lamp with oil, and the flame leaps before the artist’s eyes as the oil feeds it.44

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With the “images from all human experience” the art critic alludes to the archetypes of C. G. Jung, who in the 1940s replaced Freud in his importance for Read’s philosophy and with whom he was in personal contact in his capacity as “general editor of the English translation of the Swiss psychologist’s collected writings.”45 In 1962 the publishing house Thames and Hudson published an English translation of Kokoschka’s short stories, which had appeared six years earlier in Zurich under the title Spur im Treibsand.46 Significantly, Kokoschka chose the title A Sea Ringed with Visions for the English version.47 Its dust jacket features an image of Kokoschka’s head, fired by the Berlin Porcelain Manufactory after a self-portrait modelled in clay by the artist, depicting Kokoschka with closed eyes (Fig. 6.2).48 This selfportrayal for the English public is intended to suggest his creative style: The artist reflects on his inner visions in a self-absorbed way. The image and title bear witness to Kokoschka’s reaction to the prevailing enthusiasm for psychoanalysis in England.

Fig. 6.2 Oskar Kokoschka, A sea ringed with visions, London: Thames and Hudson, 1962

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Joseph Paul Hodin In order to give the Anglo-Saxon public access to his work, Kokoschka needed art historians who were willing to publish about him in English. In addition to Hoffmann, a second German-speaking art historian of Czech origin, Joseph Paul Hodin (1905–1995), who studied Kokoschka’s work, lived in London from 1944. Born in Prague, Hodin published the book Oskar Kokoschka—The Artist and his Time with the London publisher Adams & Mackay in 1966. Hodin reports that his plan to write a biography of Kokoschka dates back to 1938.49 One of the reasons why it did not appear until 1966 is that Edith Hoffmann forestalled it with her Kokoschka monograph. In a letter to the English art historian Lionel Benedict Nicolson dated March 30, 1965, Hodin confessed that, after Hoffmann’s book was published first, he had wanted to wait ten years before publishing his own work, which in the end had become twenty years.50 From 1939 Hodin was in contact with Kokoschka by letter, without having met him personally before.51 The first meeting took place in February 1944 after Hodin had moved from Stockholm to the British capital. In the following two years he visited Kokoschka almost daily in his studio and spent a whole month with him in the Scottish fishing village of Ullapool in the spring of 1944.52 Their extensive conversations served Hodin as a collection of material for numerous publications. Through Kokoschka he also got to know Herbert Read, from whom he will have received important impulses for the use of psychoanalytical methods in art historiography and artist biography. Hodin’s reviews of Read’s writings testify to the eagerness with which he dealt with Read’s thoughts over the years.53 In 1964, on the occasion of Read’s 70th birthday, he paid tribute to the extensive life’s work of this outstanding British intellectual in the form of an essay in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism.54 Hodin seems to have eagerly discussed psychoanalysis and its pioneers with Kokoschka, as the following passage from his biography of 1966 shows: Kokoschka finds psychology materialistic, although Freud is accepted because he is not only a rationalist but has all the other qualities besides without being aware of them, possibly even against his own will. Freud’s Hungarian following – the Imago people – are malicious and make him ill. Jung is better, because his position is nearer to that of art and he

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understands formative processes. Adler, again, is too calculating. Modern psychology in general can tell us nothing that is new to the poet and artist; its associative methods are mechanical.55

Judging by the last sentence, Kokoschka must have regarded his artistic intuition as far superior to the psychoanalytic method. Throughout his life he cultivated the myth of the seer, whose gaze not only explores the psyche, but can also clearly predict the future of an individual.56 However, he himself did not allow his biographers to intrude into his inner life, since he always strove to shape and control his image in public. For this reason, the artist looked closely at Hodin’s fingers while writing and repeatedly intervened “correctively” in his texts.57 In a letter to Wilhelm Wartmann, director of the Kunsthaus Zurich, dated February 15, 1948, Kokoschka expresses his dissatisfaction with the already advanced manuscript of his biography: “The book deals least with my painting and more with what Dr. Hodin thinks I think, to which his inclination to use the psychoanalytical method predestined him to do in his opinion.”58 But Kokoschka didn’t want Hodin to psychoanalyse him. In the spring of 1963, he revised page after page of his book manuscript and expressly asked him to “eliminate” all of his “personal statements” that he had not marked himself with quotation marks, so that only words authorized by the artist would reach the public.59 Because of his psychoanalytical ambitions, Hodin was especially interested in Kokoschka’s childhood memories and early erotic experiences. About these he wrote in his Biographical Study: Kokoschka has written down some of the experiences of his childhood; they were imaginative, rather than factual. If one can break through the self-conscious framework and disentangle the facts from the stylistic peculiarities and attitudes in which the artist has cloaked them, the man himself, the artist, appears. Kokoschka does not reveal much from his early childhood, but it is of great importance. He describes his first, incomprehensible, shattering encounter with death; his early erotic impressions and doubts; […].60

Among the erotic experiences Kokoschka told his biographer about the intrusive tenderness of a neighbour who then fell into the fountain and drowned, about sadistic equestrian games with his little sister, whom he

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wanted to marry in his childhood—in short, stories that Hodin was burningly interested in, without the artist having allowed him to interpret them on his own.61

Hodin’s Book “Oskar Kokoschka. Eine Psychographie” (1971) In order to be able to live out his psychoanalytical ambitions in a different way, Hodin prepared another work on Kokoschka in parallel from the 1950s onwards, for which he delegated the analytical part to experts: Oskar Kokoschka. Eine Psychographie (A Psychography). Published by Wiener Europa Verlag in 1971, the work contains a 90-page text by Hodin entitled “Kokoschka und der moderne Mensch” (Kokoschka and Modern Man), as well as psychoanalytical studies and character studies on the person of the artist by six specialists for Expression-research (Ausdruckskunde) and psychologists. All had been trained in Vienna or Germany and emigrated abroad, for the most part to London, after Hitler’s seizure of power or the annexation of Austria. In his Psychography, Hodin tested a new form of biography, as it became possible in England only through the knowledge of Sigmund Freud’s teachings. Since psychoanalysis searches for hidden biographical connections, it is per se a biographical undertaking. Freud’s ambition to spread his psychoanalytic biography is manifested in a letter to C. G. Jung, in which he speaks of the necessity of “campaigns” for his cause: “We need men, workers for further campaigns […] biography must also become ours.”62 Freud did everything he could to put his method of psychoanalysis at the service of the literary description of the lives of famous personalities. Under the impression of reading Freud’s writings and their reception in British art historiography, Hodin came to the conclusion that the “biographer of an artist […] must not only be versed in art history, but also in psychology and cultural history.” “In order to illuminate the mysterious process of creation,” it required, according to Hodin, “more than the artist’s statements and the biographer’s personal intuition; here modern psychology must be consulted.” Hodin understands a work of art in the sense of psychoanalysis as “visible manifestations of these unconsciously rooted and dynamic forces of the soul.”63 His own text for Psychography contains chapters titled “The Problem of Biography” and “Psychology and Art. The Genius. Forms of Biography.”64 It also contains an enthusiastic homage to Sigmund Freud:

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Sigmund Freud took the brilliant creative step of organically combining the soul problems of the anthropological-ethnographic disciplines, the primitives, prehistoric times and also antiquity with the researches of modern psychology, the step on which all further soul research rests, with his Interpretation of Dreams (1900/1901; the incest fantasy as root of the enormous ancient drama material of the Oedipus saga) and in Totem and Taboo (1912).65

In the same work, Hodin quotes a large number of writings not only by Sigmund Freud but also by his pupils and Anglo-Saxon followers. He pays special tribute to the role of the British writer Lytton Strachey, who at the beginning of the twentieth century radically renewed conventional biographies in England on the basis of psychoanalysis66 : And yet it was the merit of psychoanalysis that it also broke the prudery and falsehood of Victorian morality in the field of biography and made the idealizing biographers of the 19th century with their hero worship and conventional beauty impossible. The Englishman Lytton Strachey fought against both the traditional documentary and often uninspired chronicle biography and the superficial form of the authorized biography so popular in the 19th century, and in its place created the critical, sometimes ironic, but always humanly lively narrative portrait biography, […].67

Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood In his biographies, Lytton Strachey fulfilled two important premises that Freud demanded in his Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood as criteria for a successful biography: the consideration of the sexual constitution of the person portrayed and his childhood memories.68 In his Psychography, Hodin deals in detail with Freud’s writing, which was so groundbreaking for artist biographies. In it Freud explains the reasons for biographers’ tendency to turn their object of study into a hero: They then devote their energies to a task of idealization, aimed at enrolling the great man among the class of their infantile models – at reviving in him, perhaps, the child’s idea of his father. […] That they should do this is regrettable, for they thereby sacrifice truth to an illusion, and for the sake of their infantile phantasies abandon the opportunity of penetrating the most fascinating secrets of human nature.69

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Hodin deals with exactly this passage in his Psychography, stating that he too must deal with Freud’s observation that “biographers are fixed to their heroes in a very peculiar way.”70 It is conceivable that at this point Hodin would have self-critically confronted the greatest weakness of his biography Oskar Kokoschka—The Artist and his Time, which an anonymous reviewer ridiculed in 1967: “Mr. Hodin’s hero-worship of Kokoschka is touching […].”71 In his criticism of hero worship, Freud held a mirror to the face of the biographer of his time, in which Hodin may have recognized himself. In 1963 Hodin had written an emotional homage to Kokoschka under the title Larenopfer (Sacrifice to the Lares), which shows that the artist was indeed a father figure for him.72 In his Psychography, he formulates his resolution for improvement as follows: “I did not want to write a romantic biography and had to keep my feelings in check at every turn with objective data. […] In my quest for objectivity, I have gone so far as to use an aid […],” which he claims to have found in the studies of psychologists such as Adolf Busemann and David P. Boder.73

Kokoschka, (Psycho-) Analysed The most important “aid” were the six Expression researchers and psychologists whom Hodin called his contributors in his Psychography.74 From the mid-1950s he delegated to them the task of fathoming the character and soul life of the artist. In this way, he hoped to escape the paternalism and manipulation of his object of study. In his essay “Kokoschka and Modern Man,” with which he introduces his Psychography, he explains the reasons for the decision to leave the psychological part to trained experts: […] for years I have recorded Kokoschka’s own statements, simultaneously, while speaking or shortly afterwards, from immediate memory and under the impression of what has been said. What was missing was the experience and evaluation of the unconscious contents in the artist’s inner life. Modern psychological findings could not be ignored. To avoid them would have been ignorance, even childish cowardice, as Louis Mumford so aptly put it in his biography of Herman Melville.75 Mumford used theories from Sigmund Freud in his biography of the author of the famous novel Moby Dick, published in New York in 1929.76

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Hodin chose a graphologist, a chirologist, a physiognomer, an adept of the so-called type theory and a depth psychologist versed in astrology. All these disciplines have one thing in common: the line that serves as a diagnostic guide to the soul. For Hodin it is “the dashes of writing, the lines of the palm and face, the contours that define the type, and the arcs that surround the stars, which are mysteriously related to Kokoschka’s fate as a human being and artist.”77 Because of the graphic element of the line, Hodin called his study A Psychography. He described it as a method to unite the “‘graphic’ elements of expression of a personality and to evaluate them psychologically.”78 Hodin’s text is followed by an analysis of the German graphologist H. J. Jacoby, born in Berlin in 1906, who was elected chairman of the Berlin Graphological Society in 1932 and emigrated to London in 1936, where he published his Analysis of Handwriting three years later.79 His wife Marianne Jacoby, who went with him to London, where she published in English journals about graphology and became a member of the Association of Psychotherapists, subjected the artist to an astrologicaldepth psychological analysis based on his life data.80 Julie Neumann, who left Berlin in 1934 with her husband, the depth psychologist Erich Neumann, and settled in Tel Aviv as a psychotherapist, met Hodin in 1956 at the Eranos Conference in Ascona. Since on her way home to Israel, she was unable to make a detour via the small town of Villeneuve on Lake Geneva, where Kokoschka had lived since 1953, she prepared her chirological analysis based on photographs and prints of Kokoschka’s palms. In a preliminary remark to her results, she defines her method as follows: “I use the chirological test as a tool to grasp the human being as a whole, to go from characterological interpretation to psychotherapeutic counseling, for which I use chirology as an essential tool since I am an analytical psychologist.”81 Leo Herland, born in Vienna in 1880, analysed the artist’s physiognomic expression, working exclusively with photographic material and self-portraits of Kokoschka. In 1935 he received his doctorate in psychology from the University of Vienna under Karl Bühler, and after the publication of his work Gesicht und Charakter (1938) he fled from the National Socialists via London to the United States.82 Through the work Gestalt und Gestaltung —Das Kunstwerk als Selbstdarstellung des Künstlers (Form and Form production—Artwork as Self -portrayal of the Artist ), which the art historian Gustav F. Hartlaub published together with the psychologist Felix Weissenfeld in 1956,

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Hodin became aware of the latter’s teaching on human types based on the model of Ernst Kretschmer.83 Weissenfeld accepted Hodin’s invitation to analyse Kokoschka’s physique with the help of photographs. Weissenfeld assigned the artist to the “leptosome-athletic mixed type.”84 In the epilogue to Psychography, Hodin publishes a letter by the Austrian Anton Ehrenzweig, who had studied psychology and art history in Vienna and fled to London in 1938, where he acquired the theories of the Austrian-British children psychoanalyst Melanie Klein and worked as a lecturer in art history from a psychoanalytical perspective.85 In this letter of November 9, 1959, Ehrenzweig analyses the composition of Kokoschka’s best known painting, Die Windsbraut (The Bride of the Wind, 1913), as “a very clear symbol of the encircling womb that nestles from all sides, in which the enclosed individual is dragged into emptiness with lightning speed.” The Bride of the Wind is “the imago of the mother giving birth and killing, whose embrace destroys the individual’s existence.”86 While Hodin’s contributors eagerly tried to break down the artist’s psyche into its individual parts, Kokoschka stayed far away from London in his villa on Lake Geneva. The artist himself did not come into contact with the analysts commissioned, nor did he seem to have any interest in an encounter, which is why Hodin had to provide them with the visual material. The case of Julie Neumann, who sent him a list of questions about Kokoschka’s parents, the answers to which were important for the success of her hand analysis, shows how cunningly he proceeded. Since Hodin was aware that the artist would certainly not deal with her questions, he addressed them “without emphasizing them, in conversations” with Kokoschka.87 He also commissioned a photographer from Villeneuve to take good photographs of Kokoschka’s hands.88 With the help of his team of analysts, Hodin believed that for the first time he had seen through the artist completely, as he explained contentedly in the epilogue: “The examination of the personality of Oskar Kokoschka, which we had in mind as a task, can essentially be considered completed.”89 Despite all his efforts, however, his Psychography remains a confused “potpourri” that bears witness to Hodin’s extensive but undigested reading of psychoanalytical writings. The same applies to the Psychography, as Matthias Munsch states in respect of many of the psychoanalytically well-founded works of his time: These are “less reliable analyses” which “primarily used the vocabulary of a new jargon.”90

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Psychoanalytical Symbols in Kokoschka’s Prometheus Saga In 1932 Sigmund Freud published his essay called The Acquisition and Control of Fire, in which he carries out a psychoanalytical interpretation of the Prometheus myth.91 In 1949, in order to deepen Freud’s theses in this essay, Anton Ehrenzweig, one of Hodins’ contributors wrote the essay “The Origin of the Scientific and Heroic Urge. The Guilt of Prometheus” in The International Journal of Psychoanalysis.92 A year later, in July 1950, Kokoschka declared that he had created for Antoine Graf Seilern a “Promethean epic […] from the realm of the earth mothers to the realm of the man who steals fire from heaven and may perish because of his own stupidity, unless a miracle occurs.”93 Persephone, who runs on the left wing of the triptych from the underworld into the arms of her mother Demeter (Fig. 6.3), stands for the “Empire of the Earth Mothers.” Prometheus, on the other hand, represents the “realm

Fig. 6.3 Oskar Kokoschka, Hades and Persephone, left wing of the Prometheus Triptych, 1950, The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London

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of the man” on the right wing (Fig. 6.4). From the middle of the thirties, Kokoschka propagated in numerous political writings a return to the socalled empire of the mothers, which should put an end to a violent male rule on earth.94 Inspired by Bachofen’s work Das Mutterrecht (1861) and the aforementioned study of The Mothers by Briffault, Kokoschka developed from 1934 his utopia of a better future through a government of peacemaking mothers, which he designed as a counter-image to the tyranny of a “patriarchal” fascism. Under the impression of the Cold War and nuclear armament, Kokoschka felt all the more urgent about the overthrow of the male empire symbolized by Prometheus in bondage and the return of women to power symbolized by Persephone’s liberation from the violence of Hades. By giving the god of the underworld his own facial features (Fig. 6.3), Kokoschka presents himself as the driving force behind the desired reversal of power relations. With his left hand raised, he releases Proserpina from his empire and gives her back to her mother. In his right hand he holds the head of Medusa, surrounded by snakes, the severing of which Freud interprets in his writing “Medusa’s Head” as an act of castration.95 Ehrenzweig follows Freud’s interpretation in this essay by interpreting the petrifying face of the Gorgon as “the strongest castration symbol.”96 Does Kokoschka use the head of Medusa as a symbol of emasculation, which figuratively means victory over the male element? What is striking is that he represents Proserpina with a sickle in his left hand—an attribute that is usually not found in representations of this deity.97 Is it an allusion to the weapon forged by the earth goddess Gaia to castrate Uranus, and thus another castration symbol? Ehrenzweig, in his essay “The Guilt of Prometheus,” also interprets the way the gods punished Prometheus for robbing fire as a form of castration: “The cruel eagle’s beak tearing into Prometheus’ side symbolizes Prometheus’ own wish for oral castration.”98 It is noticeable that Kokoschka by no means shows the eagle (Fig. 6.4) eating the liver of the Titan. He places its left claw on Prometheus’ right thigh, while his beak is dangerously close to his genitals. Kokoschka’s longing for a return to the matriarchal primeval times described by Bachofen can be found in his writings 16 years before the completion of the Prometheus Saga, for example in his essay “Zur ‘Via Lucis’,” where one reads: “Europe could have peace if the sword of the Faustian man no longer determined the social situation there. If the ‘mothers’ of the Eleusinian mysteries […] had something to say again!”99 What is new is that in 1950 Kokoschka introduces symbols into

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Fig. 6.4 Oskar Kokoschka, Prometheus, right wing of the Prometheus triptych, 1950, The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London

his painting in the environment of Seilern, which suggests his knowledge of castration theories, as Freud and Ehrenzweig practised in their interpretations of ancient myths. It is this form of updating myths, whether as a parable of the present or for understanding human patterns of action, in which Kokoschka’s interests overlap with those of psychoanalysis. His theoretical analysis of Freud during the London years is reflected not only in Hodin’s transmission of his conversations with the artist but also in Kokoschka’s desire to introduce himself to the English public in the appendix to Hoffmann’s monograph with the essay in which the reference to psychoanalysis is most evident: “On the Nature of Visions.” (translated by Susan Ambler Smith).

Notes 1. On Kokoschka’s analysis of Freud, cf. Claude Cernuschi, “Oskar Kokoschka and Sigmund Freud: parallel logics in the exegetical and

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3.

4.

5. 6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

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rhetorical strategies of expressionism and psychoanalysis,” in: Word & Image. A Journal of Verbal Visual Enquiry, vol. 15, no. 4 (1999): pp. 351–380; Claude Cernuschi, Kokoschka and Freud, Re/casting Kokoschka, Ethics and Aesthetics, Epistemology and politics in Fin-de-siècle Vienna (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press) and (London: Associated University Presses, 2002). On the relationship between Kraus and Freud, cf. Edward Timms, “Zauberer und Lehrlinge: Die Begegnung Karl Kraus’ mit Sigmund Freud,” in: Psyche. Zeitschrift für Psychoanalyse und ihre Anwendungen 46, no. 4 (1992): pp. 309–335. Thomas Schober, Das Theater der Maler, Studien zur Theatermoderne anhand dramatischer Werke von Kokoschka, Kandinsky, Barlach, Beckmann, Schwitters und Schlemmer (Stuttgart: M & P, Verlag für Wissenschaft und Forschung, 1994), p. 47. Ulrich Irion, Eros und Thanatos in der Moderne. Nietzsche und Freud als Vollender eines anti-christlichen Grundzugs im europäischen Denken (Würzburg: Könighausen & Neumann, 1992), in particular Part III, pp. 151–185. Ulrike May, “Ein ungarischer Baron in Analyse bei Freud,” in: Der psychoanalytische Aufbruch Budapest-Berlin, 1918–1920, ed. Ágnes Berger, Franziska Henningsen, Ludger M. Hermanns, János Can Togay (Frankfurt a. M.: Brandes & Apsel Verlag, 2011), pp. 25–34, here pp. 25, 30, 36. Gerald Mackenthun, Grundlagen der Tiefenpsychologie (Gießen: Psychosozial-Verlag, 2013), p. 123. Letter from Alfred Adler to one “Herr Doktor” dated September 28, 1916, Zentralbibliothek Zürich, hereinafter abbreviated as ZBZ, Nachl. Olda K E 2004 (Ärztegutachten, 1915–16). Almuth Bruder-Bezzel, Alfred Adlers Wiener Kreise in Politik, Literatur und Psychoanalyse, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Individualpsychologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019), p. 18. On the significance of Bachofen for Kokoschka, cf. Régine Bonnefoit, “Von der Magna Mater zur schwarzen Madonna – Kokoschkas Mutter-Mythos im Spiegel seiner Sammlung,” in: Oskar Kokoschka— Wunderkammer, ed. Régine Bonnefoit, Roland Scotti (Göttingen: Steidl 2010), pp. 145–165. On Bachofen and Freud, cf. Yahya Elsaghe, Krankheit und Matriarchat. Thomas Manns Betrogene im Kontext (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2010), p. 211. Albert Ehrenstein, “Bachofen und Freud” [1939], Typoskript, National Library of Israel, Albert Ehrenstein Archives, ARC. Ms. Var. 306 4 150. Oskar Kokoschka, “Totem und Tabu. Denkübungen eines Zynikers 1933,” in: Oskar Kokoschka. Das schriftliche Werk, ed. Heinz Spielmann, vol. 4 (Hamburg: Christians, 1976), pp. 43–66, 53.

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11. Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo, Resemblances between the psychic lives of savages and neurotics (London: Penguin Books, 1940). The estate library is in the Oskar Kokoschka-Zentrum at the University of Applied Arts Vienna. 12. Sigmund Freud to Oskar Kokoschka in May 1936, ZBZ, Nachlass O. Kokoschka 52.8. 13. Reinhard Gasser, Nietzsche und Freund (Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1997), p. 157. 14. Three days after the Anschluss of Austria, Kokoschka applied for czechoslovak citizenship, which he was granted on July 30, 1938. Cf. Régine Bonnefoit, “Oskar Kokoschkas pazifistisches und politisches Engagement in Prag,” in: Stifter Jahrbuch 29 (2015): pp. 161–188, here pp. 186–187. 15. In the 1930s it was mainly German emigrants that promoted psychoanalysis in Prague. Freud’s Traumdeutung was only translated into the Czech language in 1938. Cf. hereon Anja Tippner, Die permanente Avantgarde. Surrealismus in Prag (Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 2009), pp. 86–87. 16. Byam Shaw, “James: Count Antoine Seilern (1901–78),” in: The Burlington Magazine CXX, no. 908 (1978): pp. 760–762. 17. Volker M. Welter, Ernst L. Freud, Architect: The Case of the Modern Bourgeois Home (New York, Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012), pp. 55, 183. 18. Letter from Olda to Oskar Kokoschka, numbered “26th Letter” (from Mid-September 1949); ZBZ, Nachlass Olda K E 2004. 19. Matthias Munsch, Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne. Die Bedeutung Sigmund Freuds für die Bloomsbury Group und Lytton Stracheys biographisches Schreiben (Marburg: Verlag LiteraturWissenschaft.de., 2004), p. 73. 20. Sigmund Freud, “Zur Geschichte der psychoanalytischen Bewegung (1914),” in: Sigmund Freud: «Selbstdarstellung». Schriften zur Geschichte der Psychoanalyse, ed. Ilse Grubrich-Simitis (Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1971), pp. 141–201, here p. 168. 21. Munsch, Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne, p. 15. 22. Welter, Ernst L. Freud, pp. 114–115, 199. For further discussion on Ernst Freud’s design for émigrés and exiles in London, see Welter’s chapter 3 in this volume. 23. Letter from Herbert Read to Kokoschka dated October 15, 1938, ZBZ, Nachlass O. Kokoschka 365.4. 24. David Cohen, “Herbert Read and psychoanalysis,” in: Art criticism since 1900, ed. Malcolm Gee, Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1993, pp. 164–179, here p. 164. John R. Doheny, “Herbert Read’s use of Sigmund Freud,” in: Herbert Read Reassessed, ed. David Goodway (Liverpool University Press, 1998), pp. 70–82.

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25. Benedict Read, “Herbert Read: On Overview,” in: Herbert Read: A British Vision of World Art, ed. Benedict Read, David Thistlewood (London: Lund Humphries Pub Ltd, 1993), pp. 11–20, 13. 26. Herbert Read, “Psychoanalysis and the Critic,” in: The Criterion 3, 1924– 1925, pp. 214–30. 27. Cohen, Herbert Read and psychoanalysis, p. 166. 28. Herbert Read, Art and Society (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1966), pp. 83, 92. 29. Herbert Read, The Education of Free Men (London: Freedom Press, 1944), p. 29. 30. Cf. typoscript by Kokoschka from the year 1936, ZBZ, Nachlass O. Kokoschka 5.40, fol. 5 and fol. 14–16; Robert Briffault, The Mothers, The Matriarchal Theory of Social Origins, ed. Gordon Rattray Taylor (Reprint: New York: Howard Fertig Publisher, 1993). 31. Camill Hoffmann, “Kokoschkas Bildnisse und Phantasien,” in: Die Dame, vol. 45, no. 3 (1917–1918): pp. 6–7; Camill Hoffmann, “Oskar Kokoschkas Dichtung und Theater,” in: Das Kunstblatt 1, no. 7 (1917): pp. 219–211. 32. Lucy Wasensteiner, “A British Statement against Nazi Policy? The Organisation of Twentieth Century German Art ,” in: Defending ‘degenerate’ art. London 1938. Mit Kandinsky, Liebermann und Nolde gegen Hitler, ed. Lucy Wasensteiner, Martin Faass (Wädenswil am Zürichsee: Nimbus, 2018), pp. 59–66, here p. 61. 33. Zur Biografie von Edith Hoffmann, cf. Régine Bonnefoit, “Obituary. Edith Hoffmann (1907–2016),” in: The Burlington Magazine 158, no. 1357 (2016): pp. 289–290. 34. Edith Hoffmann, Kokoschka, Life and Work, with two essays by Oskar Kokoschka and a foreword by Herbert Read (London, Faber & Faber, 1947). On Kokoschka’s interference in Hoffmann’s manuscript, cf. Régine Bonnefoit, “Kunsthistoriker vom Künstler zensiert – am Beispiel der Kokoschka-Monographie von Edith Hoffmann (1947),” in: Die Biographie—Mode oder Universalie? Zu Geschichte und Konzept einer Gattung in der Kunstgeschichte, ed. Beate Böckem, Olaf Peters, Barbara Schellewald (Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter, 2016), pp. 69–182. 35. This trip to Prague is illustrated by a notebook of Hoffmann’s, owned by Yonna Yapou-Kromholz (Jerusalem). It contains notes of interviews with the artist. 36. Letter from Kokoschka to Edith Hoffmann of April 15, 1943, in Oskar Kokoschka, Briefe III, 1934–1953, ed. Olda Kokoschka, Heinz Spielmann (Düsseldorf: claassen, 1986), p. 118. 37. The letter by Kokoschka to Hoffmann dated November 24, 1937 is published incompletely in Kokoschka, Briefe III , pp. 58–59. The citation

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38.

39.

40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50.

51.

52. 53.

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here was left out there, and is found in the premature legacy of Heinz Spielmann, ZBZ, E 2009, 1934–1937. In a letter dated October 28, 1937 Kokoschka notes that a kidney infection was the reason for his hospital stay. Cf. Kokoschka, Briefe III , p. 55. Typoscript according to tape recordings made by Remigius Netzer in preparation of Kokoschka’s autobiography Mein Leben: Der Weg nach Prag, Kapitel X, 1st version, ZBZ, Nachl. F. Witz 81.13, fol. 14–15. Oskar Kokoschka, “On the Nature of Visions,” in: Hoffmann, Kokoschka, Life and Work, pp. 285–287. Gerhard Kaiser, “Doktor Faust, sind Sie des Teufels? Eine Notiz zu Heinrich Heines Seegespenst,” in: Euphorion. Zeitschrift für Literaturgeschichte 78 (1984): pp. 188–197, here pp. 190–191. Gerald Mackenthun, Grundlagen der Tiefenpsychologie, p. 157. Bonnefoit, Kunsthistoriker vom Künstler zensiert, pp. 175–176. Herbert Read, A concise History of Modern Painting (London: Thames & Hudson, 1959), p. 244. Cohen, Herbert Read and psychoanalysis, pp. 171, 173. Oskar Kokoschka, Spur im Treibsand (Zurich: Atlantis), 1956. Oskar Kokoschka, A sea ringed with visions (London: Thames and Hudson, 1962). Initially, Kokoschka’s sister Berta Patoˇcka-Kokoschka modelled the head in clay and sent it from Prague to Villeneuve. Without letting his sister know, he remodelled his portrait. Cf. Régine Bonnefoit, Ruth Häusler, “Zur Genese der späten Porträts von Oskar Kokoschka,” in: Spur im Treibsand – Oskar Kokoschka neu gesehen. Briefe und Bilder, ed. Régine Bonnefoit, Ruth Häusler (Petersberg: Michael Imhof, 2010), pp. 93–119, here pp. 104–105. J. P. Hodin, Oskar Kokoschka—The Artist and his Time. A Biographical Study (London: Adams & Mackay, 1966), p. XI. Cf. Brief from Hodin to Lionel Benedict Nicolson of March 30, 1965, in which Edith Hoffmann is described as a competitor. Archive collections Edith Hoffmann-Yapou, Oskar Kokoschka Dokumentation Pöchlarn, Permanent loan to the Oskar Kokoschka-Zentrum, University for Applied Arts Vienna. Kokoschka’s estate contains copies of 39 letters and 26 postcards from Kokoschka to Hodin from the time from 1939–1975, ZBZ, Nachl. O. Kokoschka 33.1. Joseph P. Hodin, Oskar Kokoschka. Eine Psychographie (Vienna, Frankfurt, Zurich: Europa Verlag, 1971), p. 16. Joseph P. Hodin, “Herbert Edward Read: The grass roots of art. Lectures on the social aspects of art in an industrial age, New York: Macmillan, 1955,” in: College Art Journal, vol. 15, no. 4 (1956): pp. 372–373;

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54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69.

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76.

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Joseph P. Hodin, “Herbert Edward Read, Henry Moore: A study of his life and work, New York, 1966,” in: The Art Journal, no. 27 (1967): p. 116. Joseph P. Hodin, “Herbert Read—The man and his work, a tribute,” in: The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, no. 23 (1964): pp. 169– 172. Hodin, Oskar Kokoschka, p. 84. Régine Bonnefoit/Ruth Häusler, Zur Genese der späten Porträts, pp. 94– 95. Bonnefoit, Kunsthistoriker vom Künstler zensiert, pp. 169–182, here p. 181. Letter from Oskar Kokoschka to Wilhelm Wartmann of February 15, 1938, Nachl. O. Kokoschka 44. Postcard from Kokoschka to Hodin of April 30, 1963, ZBZ, Nachlass O. Kokoschka 33.1. Hodin, Oskar Kokoschka, p. 36. Hodin, Oskar Kokoschka, pp. 41–42. Letter from Sigmund Freud to C. G. Jung of October 17, 1909, in: Sigmund Freud und C. G. Jung, Briefwechsel, ed. William McGuire, Wolfgang Sauerländer (Frankfurt a. M. 1974), pp. 278–282, here p. 280. Hodin, Psychographie, pp. 42, 84, 86. Hodin, Psychographie, pp. 11–20, 56–96. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 23. Munsch, Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne, p. 14. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 66. Munsch, Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne, p. 245. Sigmund Freud, Eine Kindheitserinnerung des Leonardo da Vinci (London: Imago Publishing, 1943, Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag, 1990), pp. 15, 33. Sigmund Freud, Five Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Leonardo da Vinci, and Other Works, translated from the German under the General Editorship of James Strachey (London: The Hogarth Press, 1957), p. 130. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 68. Anonym, “The three faces of Kokoschka,” in: The Times Literary supplement (June 22, 1967): p. 552. Joseph P. Hodin, “Larenopfer,” in: Bekenntnis zu Kokoschka. Erinnerungen und Deutungen, ed. Joseph P. Hodin (Berlin, Mainz: Florian Kupferberg, 1963), pp. 13–35, here p. 13 and p. 17. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 72. Hodin, Psychographie, pp. 7, 287. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 83. Cf. Gregory Morgan Swer, “Technics and praxis: The Freudian dimensions of Lewis Mumford’s theories of technology,” in: History of the Human Sciences 17, no. 4 (2004), pp. 45–68.

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77. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 87. 78. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 8. On the history of analysis of lines as an expression cf. Régine Bonnefoit, Die Linientheorien von Paul Klee (Peterberg: Michael Imhof, 2009), pp. 90–126. 79. H. J. Jacoby, Analysis of Handwriting (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1939). 80. See biography of Marianne Jacoby in Hodin, Psychographie, p. 288. 81. Julie Neumann, “Eine chirologische Analyse,” in: Hodin, Psychographie, pp. 153–162, here p. 153. 82. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 287. 83. Gustav F. Hartlaub, Felix Weissenfeld, Gestalt und Gestaltung —Das Kunstwerk als Selbstdarstellung des Künstlers (Krefeld: Agis-Verlag, 1958). 84. Felix Weissenfeld, “Kokoschkas Werk als Selbstdarstellung,” in: Hodin, Psychographie, pp. 226–248, here pp. 226, 228. 85. On the biography of Ehrenzweig cf. Psychoanalyse, Kunst und Kreativität. Die Entwicklung der analytischen Kunstpsychologie seit Freud, ed. Hartmut Kraft, (Berlin: Medizinisch Wissenschaftliche Verlagsgesellschaft, 2008), pp. 75, 291. 86. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 272. 87. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 160. 88. Letter from Hodin to Kokoschka of October 23, 1956, ZBZ, Nachl. O. Kokoschka 331.4. 89. Hodin, Psychographie, p. 271. 90. Munsch, Psychoanalyse in der englischen Moderne, p. 154. 91. Sigmund Freud, “Zur Gewinnung des Feuers,” in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 16, 3. Auflage (Frankfurt: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1968), pp. 1–9. 92. Anton Ehrenzweig, “The Origin of the Scientific and Heroic Urge. The Guilt of Prometheus,” in: The International Journal of Psychoanalysis 30, no. 2 (1949): pp. 108–123. Thank you to Elana Shapira for pointing out this essay. 93. Ruth Häusler, “Ausgewählte Briefe aus dem schriftlichen Nachlass von Oskar und Olda Kokoschka und aus Privatbesitz,” in: “Spur im Treibsand”. Oskar Kokoschka neu gesehen. Briefe und Bilder, ed. Régine Bonnefoit, Ruth Häusler (Petersberg 2010), pp. 137–167, here pp. 160– 161. 94. Régine Bonnefoit, “Der ‘apokalyptische’ Prometheus – Neue Quellen zur Deutung von Kokoschkas Deckengemälde Die Prometheus Saga,” in: Max Beckmann. Die Apokalypse. Visionen der Endzeit in Überlieferung und Moderne, ed. Brigitte Salmen (München: J. Gotteswinter, 2010), pp. 70–80, here pp. 75–78. 95. Sigmund Freud, “Das Medusenhaupt – Schriften aus dem Nachlaß,” in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 17, Frankfurt am Main (Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1999), pp. 45–48, here p. 47.

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96. Ehrenzweig, The Origin of the Scientific, pp. 113, 116: “[…] the severed head of the Medusa, the acknowledged symbol of castration, is also covered with serpents. As castration is aggression against the phallus it is understandable that the symbols of castration should contain also strongly phallic elements.” 97. Cf. Article on the iconography of Persephone, in: Der Neue Pauly. Enzyklopädie der Antike, ed. Hubert Cancik, Helmuth Schneider, vol. 9 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2001), column 602. 98. Ehrenzweig, The Origin of the Scientific, p. 117. 99. Oskar Kokoschka. “Zur ‘Via Lucis’,” in: Oskar Kokoschka, Das schriftliche Werk, ed. Heinz Spielmann, vol. 4 (Hamburg: Christians, 1976), pp. 75– 82, here p. 82.

CHAPTER 7

Anna Freud Shaping Child Education and Promoting “Democratic Citizenship” in Britain Michal Shapira

Historians have too rarely looked at psychoanalysts other than Sigmund Freud as social actors in their cultures, leaving the histories of psychoanalytic movements’ influence on their European societies largely uncharted.1 In this chapter, I want to position the second generation of psychoanalysts after Sigmund Freud—specifically some of those who were forced to emigrate from Austria and Germany to Britain—as social actors in the particular political circumstances of the Second World War and its aftermath.2 Hitler’s rise to power and the Nazi occupation of neighboring states threatened the lives of Jewish psychoanalysts and the continuation of psychoanalysis in Europe. During the 1930s, psychoanalysts from Berlin, Budapest, Prague, and Vienna fled the continent to different parts of the world, with London and New York being key destinations.3 As is well known, Sigmund Freud himself fled to London in 1938.4 His daughter,

M. Shapira (B) Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv, Israel e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_7

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Anna Freud, along with other analysts, there joined the already active British Psychoanalytical Society, which included pioneering experts such as Ernest Jones, John Bowlby, D.W. Winnicott, Susan Isaacs, and Melanie Klein.5 This period saw then the creation of an intellectual Diaspora that placed psychoanalysts in high concentration at one side of the prospective fighting forces of World War Two. As the war approached, the worry about the effects of violence and air raids on the civilian population reached a new peak when British journalists, politicians, and state statisticians envisioned mass incidents of public hysteria and long-term psychological disorders. Civilians’ emotions, anxiety, in particular, were now taken seriously by government officials as important to the war effort and in the future return to normal life. As psychoanalysts claimed to be experts of inner emotional dynamics and mental stability, the wartime bombings and the immediate postwar reconstruction and rehabilitation efforts provided them with new opportunities to develop and advance their ideas. Since the 1950s, scholars have been engaged in an ongoing historical debate about the extent of the effects of war on civilian behavior and emotions, the discussion circling around the question of whether or not events of mass hysteria or long-term disorders occurred as was predicted before the war.6 While various scholars offer myriad historical interpretations as to what happened in the war against civilians, it is important to note that they all share a similar methodology. First, common to all of their accounts is an attempt to establish the “true facts” about civilian emotions, to distinguish between “myths” and “realities,” or to assess whether fear and terror on the home front were, in effect, minimal, or substantial. Second, these different scholars often read primary governmental, social, and medical documents on civilian behavior as transparent, accurate testimony to the actualities of war. Consequently, they often take their historical sources at face value, while paying little attention to the process through which experiences and emotions were codified and formulated.7 Thus, rather than looking at the question of whether or not mass panic or long-term mental problems materialized, I offer instead to turn the focus to the problematization of war emotions and to the ways in which these sentiments were conceptualized and shaped by historical powers and cultural-psychological labels.8 It will then become clear that what did emerge during the Second World War were new notions of anxiety and of mental health connected to discussions about civilians in general and children in particular. Psychoanalysts operating in Britain were crucial to this

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Fig. 7.1 Anna Freud, c. 1940 © Freud Museum London

process in which further ties between expertise and violence were created. At a time when the boundaries between the battlefront and the home front were blurring, psychoanalysts linked between a real “war outside” and an emotional “war inside.” They had a profound role in making the understanding of children and the mother–child relationship key to the successful creation of postwar democratic citizenry. During the war, psychoanalysts studied the problems of child evacuees, child refugees, and infants in hostels for difficult children, warning the public and the government about the ill effects of anxiety. After the war, psychoanalytic ideas were further popularized, for example, through radio broadcasts on the BBC reaching millions of people, via countless articles in the press, and through the films of the Tavistock clinic’s Separation Research Unit. They influenced, for example, child hospitalization and juvenile delinquency regulations and the general view of child and adult welfare.9 In what follows I will concentrate on the contribution of Anna Freud (Fig. 7.1) and her staff, consisting mostly of Jewish refugees, to this development. While Anna Freud and her staff offered different accounts

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for the predicaments of native young British Blitz victims and for those of Jewish child survivors of the Holocaust they treated in Britain, the important issue is that in both reports the matters of anxiety and mental health were seen as pressing. Let us start with the first account, looking at the psychoanalytic humanitarian efforts with an eye for the problematization of wartime emotions and for the process that made these sentiments into social concepts calling for expert guidance and management in the postwar period.

Hampstead War Nurseries During the Blitz, Anna Freud and many of the refugees who ended up working with her were considered “enemy aliens,” and were not allowed to leave London as the bombing began.10 Together with Dorothy Burlingham and the help of various organizations, they established the Hampstead War Nurseries in the northern part of the city to provide care for a large number of formally evacuated children, or “infants without families.”11 Anna Freud and her staff were remarkably resourceful in providing for the physical needs of these children during the war, for example by growing vegetables to overcome rationing regulations and by building toys and furniture. Their main interest, however, was in studying the children’s emotional reactions to violence, viewing anxiety, and mental instability as problems of prime concerns. The war created an exceptional occasion for such an exploration12 (Fig. 7.2). Before we look at their main theoretical ideas, it is important to remember that Anna Freud and her colleagues were joining an existing lively debate among experts on the possible impact of war on mental health in Britain. Their work in the Hampstead War Nurseries should be seen in this broader context. Indeed, since the 1930s, when the threat of a new world war became real, attention in Britain gradually shifted from the problem of “shell-shocked” soldiers to that of civilians panicking at the prospect of enemy aerial attack. This change was generated through intense public debate in which hypothetical civilian casualties and the emotions of fear and anxiety were imagined through specific metaphors and threats. As Britons began speculating about “the shape of things to come,” drawing from military theory on aerial bombing to the experiences of the First World War and the Spanish Civil War, fear and anxiety were increasingly seen as the normal reactions to total war.13 It should

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Fig. 7.2 Hampstead War Nurseries, London 1940 © Freud Museum London

be remembered that during the First World War and its immediate aftermath, any display of fear among male soldiers was still stigmatized and seen as a symptom of cowardice or malingering. Toward the end of the 1930s, and as the psychological legacy of the First World War continued to reverberate, the stigma regarding men’s fear gradually faded, especially as the new world war was seen to be directed against a civilian population that included women, elderly and disabled people, and children. While state officials sometimes still believed that the war at home would be won by a resilient civilian population and a stiff-upper-lip attitude in the face of attack, fear and anxiety were simultaneously becoming much more accepted reactions to modern warfare among psychology professionals and beyond.14 During the Blitz, from September 7, 1940 to May 11, 1941, more than 43,000 civilians lost their lives, and some 17,000 died in the remaining years of the war. Almost four million houses were damaged.15

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The Nazi aerial bombing brought mass evacuation from cities and subjected millions of people to terror and destruction. The evacuation experience, seen in the work of one commentator as “a cruel psychological experiment on a large scale,”16 produced extensive (analytic and non-analytic) literature on the effects of this process on children. Differences of class, geography, religion, and upbringing, all contributed to reported difficulties between children and their foster parents.17 Writers talked about different problems of evacuation, yet at the top of the list were enuresis (bed-wetting) and anxiety. Common to nonanalytic writers was the commonsensical, descriptive tone that they took. By contrast, psychoanalysts offered a theoretically “deep” portrayal of inner life and provided new and increasingly popular ways of conceptualizing the dynamics of aggression and anxiety among children separated from their families, while describing the threat those children could pose to democratic society.18 The first wave of evacuation occurred around the time that war was declared in September 1939 when about 3.5 million civilians fled to safer areas in England and Wales; 2 million of them evacuated privately. However, around 1.5 million evacuees used the official government scheme, the majority of whom were schoolchildren or mothers with young children who were also disproportionately from impoverished families. By early 1940, due to the quiet phase of no major hostilities of the “Phony War,” many evacuees returned to their homes. A second, smaller wave of evacuation of about 1.5 million people occurred in the spring and fall of 1940 after the fall of France and once the Blitz started. The third and last evacuation of about 1 million people took place in the summer of 1944 due to the flying bomb attacks. Evacuation, especially its first wave, incited a debate about the successes and failures of existing health and welfare services. It increased expectations for better services for everyone and more state involvement in the future.19 For example, while some still blamed parents and the home as the source of hygiene problems, others—including psychoanalysts— started calling for an enlargement of state responsibility for the welfare of the population and for the betterment of health services. In areas of care for the physical needs of children, the war created a change that had roots in earlier, 1930s developments. But in the case of child mental health the war brought perhaps more innovation than in other areas. The war helped focus attention on existing psychological and psychoanalytic ideas but it also served as an arena for their theoretical development in

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inventive ways. The war produced a greater willingness among officials and others to think in a psychological manner rather than mostly along the class-biased lines about the “bad habits” of the urban working classes. While evacuation contributed to a classist discussion of juvenile delinquency and of theories on the “problem family,” it also helped encourage a growth in child mental-health debates. The use of evacuation hostels and nurseries, some of which were run by psychoanalysts, spurred the development of more progressive institutions for the elderly and mentally ill, and anticipated postwar innovations in “community care.”20 Different psychoanalysts in Britain emphasized the importance of stable family ties and the prevention of anxiety to the mental health of the child as a potential member of democratic society. In March 1940, the journal The New Era in Home and School dedicated a whole issue to the evacuation process and analysts wrote half the articles. Susan Isaacs, for example, characterized the child as prone to anxiety.21 Isaacs claimed that children who were billeted to families of different economic standards faced more problems adapting to new food, clothes, and accents. Yet besides these concerns, Isaacs focused her attention on their internal realities, believing that the separation of the child from parents stirred up in the child intense early unconscious conflicts and anxieties. Here, the external reality of war was connected to the way in which Isaacs viewed the psychoanalytic development of children. She meticulously explained that every child has conflicted feelings of love toward the parents, but also impulses of greed, jealousy, and defiance. Evacuated children, then, might feel they had been sent away from home due to their feelings of hatred and jealousy.22 Winnicott chose to concentrate on the anxieties of mothers, and what he termed “The Deprived Mother.” The process of a mother separating from her children, Winnicott emphasized, has a fantastic element related to her own anxieties and guilt. For example, a mother could say to herself “Yes, of course, take them [the children] away, I was never worthy of them; air raids are not the only danger, it is my own self that fails to provide them with the home they ought to have.”23 During the war, Winnicott had plenty of opportunities to disseminate analytic ideas about anxiety. He gave numerous public lectures, consulted different public bodies as well as the Government Evacuation Scheme in Oxfordshire. There, he helped set up evacuation hostels for “difficult children” who could be “too anxious” to adapt to their foster parents. In these hostels, the concern was twofold: for the anxious children and for the future of

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the democratic regime. The goal of the hostels was to supply a replacement for the family so that the children’s anxiety could be alleviated and they could achieve “social adjustment.”24 To such discussions on air raids and the evacuation process in Britain, Freud and her colleagues made a particular and significant contribution. Indeed, the evacuation process from cities to the countryside was not a smooth one. For different reasons, such as illness or the wishes of working parents to keep their children close to them in London, numerous children were in need of a nursery in the city. Anna Freud and her colleagues offered unique care for such children in Hampstead. In their influential account of their work at the Nurseries, the connections between anxiety, aggression, war, and the child were further refined.25 Their detailed reports written during the nights of air raids provide a rich testimony of psychoanalytic work with children under fire. The Nurseries’ declared goal was to provide homes for children who suffered from air raids, evacuation, or the destruction of their houses, and “whose family life has been broken up temporarily or permanently owing to war conditions.” The staff tried to reestablish for the children what they were said to have lost, that is, “the security of a stable home with its opportunities for individual development.”26 Anxiety, in particular, was a crucial emotion to be explored from the point of view of the child’s inner battles. In contrast to the common view of the child as innocent and gentle, Anna Freud and her staff offered two quite different conclusions: the first suggested that children were not traumatized by exposure to the bombs; the second was that violence is natural to children. Many people, they said, expected that children would receive “traumatic shocks from air raids and would develop abnormal reactions very similar to the traumatic or war neuroses of soldiers in the last war.”27 From the staff observations, however, no signs of “traumatic shock” appeared in these children. Instead, their reports argued that trauma and anxiety in children were dependent on the anxiety demonstrated by their parents, and on whether the children suffered separation from them. Violence and destruction in and of themselves were not foreign or harmful to the children. When put together, the children “will bite each other, pull each other’s hair, and steal each other’s toys without regard for the other child’s happiness.” The problem with violence, then, was not that it traumatized the children, but rather that it was hard to educate the naturally violent children against it while it physically surrounded them.28 The danger was, then,

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that inner and outer reality would be seen as inseparable. Violence outside was repeatedly tied to violence inside. Their psychoanalytic explanations of anxiety among the children further suggested that its cause was not necessarily the air raids themselves. The first type of anxiety described by Freud and her staff was connected to a fear of bombs, but reality was said to only play part of it and the children were quick to forget or ignore the danger. The second type of anxiety appeared in the child who was said to have recently succeeded in overcoming “inner aggression.” When faced with the aggression of external reality this child feared that his or her inner aggressiveness had come to life again. The third kind of anxiety was connected to the general infantile fear of threatening, imagined objects. Infectious anxiety was the fourth type whereby children were said to be most influenced by the anxious reactions of their mothers to the air raids. The fifth type of anxiety was shown in children who lost their fathers in the bombing. The reaction of these children was therefore to the death of their father and not an anxiety strictly connected to the air raids.29 Anxiety deserved its own nomenclature and the war was never simply its only cause. External dangers, they argue, were more easily endured than internal ones. The external reality of war was never just experienced as purely external. War brought together the internal and external, and was, more than anything, an internal problem and an issue experienced psychologically.30 The psychoanalytic records of children’s anxieties at the Nurseries contributed to the debate about the effects of evacuation. Air raids were believed to be, once again, secondary in creating “traumatic psychological effects.” The reports argued: The war acquires comparatively little significance for children so long as it only threatens their lives, disturbs their material comfort, or cuts their food rations. It becomes enormously significant the moment it breaks up family life and uproots the first emotional attachments of the child within the family group. London children, therefore, were on the whole much less upset by bombing than by evacuation to the country as a protection against it.31

According to Anna Freud and her staff, as for Bowlby, Winnicott, and others, most dangerous to the child in times of war was separation from the mother. Due to the “shock of separation,” they argued, children fell ill

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and developed violent reactions. Separation from the fathers with whom contact was fragmented to begin with in most families was experienced as less traumatic.32 Anxiety here was a gendered emotion. Before the start of the war, psychological warnings fueled the radical decision of the government to lead massive civilian evacuation out of cities. Fearing the danger of mass mental casualties due to air bombing, it seemed wiser to mobilize the population in an unprecedented exodus out of zones of danger. Yet here we are faced with the flip side of this psychological logic, as nothing, not even bombings, was seen to be as dangerous as placing the mother–child bond—at the core of emotional and social development in democracy—at risk. Placing evacuees out of harm’s way did not protect them from all the war’s dangers, now seen as internal as well as physical. Such a psychological emphasis was used to criticize the government and its way of handling the evacuation and to call for a change in the reach of local and state services in democracy. Mother–child separation was seen as a threat to democracy since the young child (i.e., the future citizen) might become delinquent, unstable, or unable to harmoniously cooperate with others. Anna Freud and her staff believed that the most important help they provided was in the form of the “right emotional support” according to psychoanalytic child-rearing. By this, they hoped to serve people of diverse social backgrounds beyond the private setting of a clinic and to ensure the development of future “normal” functioning citizens in postwar society. For example, in order to limit the harm of anxiety and separation, the staff developed “artificial families” in the Nurseries; specific workers were assigned to specific children and formed units of approximately four children each.33 The reports of the Nurseries offered a unique conceptualization of the problems of children in total war and a further problematization of the notion of anxiety. The reports illuminate an important chapter in the study of the ways in which war in Britain influenced the development of psychoanalysis as a socially engaged discipline in a specific democratic national context, one that made the question of raising anxious children into “normal” adults an acute one. Psychoanalysts like Anna Freud developed a social role during the war that led to their widened recognition in postwar society.34

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The Bulldogs Bank Project A similar concern with anxiety and mental health and with the possibility of human relationships after the war appeared in the psychoanalytic reports of Anna Freud and her staff on their work with six young Jewish orphans who came to Britain right after the war after they survived the Nazi transit concentration camp of Terezin.35 While these children experienced the war outside of Britain, the psychoanalytic discussion of their problems was seen by contemporaries as part of the general debate about the effects of war on civilians. The six orphans spent about two to three years as inmates of the “Ward for Motherless Children” in Terezin and were cared for—as much as was possible—by inmates in the camp. Soon after their births, these children’s parents were deported to Poland and murdered by Germans. The survival of these children is miraculous given the circumstances and the fact that the murder of Jewish children in Europe during that time was almost total.36 The six children arrived in Britain in August 1945 at a reception camp that was organized by the refugee psychoanalyst Oscar Friedmann37 and the social worker Alice Goldberger.38 A former financial supporter of the Hampstead War Nurseries, Lady Betty Clarke, helped establish a country house called “Bulldogs Bank” in Sussex for the children in order to provide them with opportunity to adjust to a new life. The German refugee sisters Sophie and Gertrud Dann, who also previously worked in the War Nurseries, served as the main staff of the Bulldogs Bank.39 The child survivors, born in Berlin and Vienna, arrived at Terezin when they were less than one year old, and reached the Bulldogs Bank when they were around the age of three. None of the children had known any other life circumstances than those of group settings, remaining ignorant of the meaning of a nuclear family. They also had no experience of life outside a camp or a large institution.40 For the psychoanalytic-oriented staff dedicated to help the children, work with these infants also served as a laboratory for studying emotional well-being after the war. When these children arrived at the Bulldogs Bank their tragicomic behavior toward adults was described by Sophie Dann and Anna Freud as follows: They showed no pleasure in the arrangements which had been made for them and behaved in a wild, restless, and uncontrollably noisy manner […]

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they destroyed all the toys and damaged much of the furniture. Toward the staff they behaved either with cold indifference or with active hostility [… ]. In anger, they would hit the adults, bite or spit. Above all, they would shout, scream, and use bad language.41

In contrast, the children’s positive feelings were centered exclusively within their own group. They had no other wish than to be together and became upset when they were separated from each other, even briefly. When they were together they acted as “a closely knit group of members with equal status, no child assuming leadership for any length of time, but each one exerting a strong influence on the others […].”42 Their unusual emotional dependence on each other was also displayed by the almost complete absence of jealousy, rivalry, and competition, which according to Dann and Freud, usually developed between brothers and sisters from “normal families.” The children were eager for everyone to have his or her own share, shared their possession with pleasure, took care and helped one another, acted with extreme sensitivity and consideration for each other’s attitudes and feelings, and “since adults played no part in their emotional lives at the time, they did not compete with each other for favors or for recognition.”43 Despite their initial uncontrolled aggression toward adults, once in the Bulldogs Bank, the children, it was reported, started to form their first positive relations with adults and showed consideration, helpfulness, and identification with them. Gertrud Dann described how “at first it [the work with the children] looked almost hopeless but after a while we began to make progress with them and they learned to trust us.”44 In addition to various “emotional problems” the children were also said to suffer from anxiety. This, Dann and Freud believed, was only partly due to the fact that the children grew up in an atmosphere laden with fear at Terezin. Dann and Freud claimed that unexpectedly the children showed only the usual variety of individual anxieties “which are the manifest expression of the underlying conflicts and difficulties normal for their ages.” They argued, “Surprisingly enough, these common forms of anxiety were not more noticeable and widespread than with children who grow up under normal conditions; they were, if anything, less in evidence.”45 Since Dann and Freud believed that children are deeply affected by their mothers’ fears and anxieties, their explanation for this “normal level of anxiety” was that the surviving infants, though they lived in closest proximity with their adult guardians, did not have the intimate

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emotional contact with them which provides the path for the contagion of feeling between mother and child. Dann and Freud added that perhaps the fact that the children had never known peaceful surroundings rendered them more indifferent to the horrors happening around them or that possibly the children possessed “strong defenses against anxiety” in their close relationship with each other.46 Emphasizing the importance of maternal care and the mother–child relationship to mental health Dann and Freud agreed that the Bulldogs Bank children were “hypersensitive, restless, aggressive, difficult to handle.” Yet, unlike other contemporary psychoanalysts, Dann and Freud surprisingly concluded that the children were “neither deficient, delinquent nor psychotic. They had found an alternative placement for their libido and, on the strength of this, had mastered some of their anxieties, and developed social attitudes.”47 Thus we have two quite different accounts from the War Nurseries and from the Bulldogs Bank, yet the important thing emphasized here is that in both of them the issues of anxiety and mental health were seen as urgent.

Conclusion Psychoanalytic ideas about anxiety and aggression and the “death-drive” were already developed before the war,48 yet the threat of militarism and the rise of fascism and totalitarian regimes during the 1930s put the question of explaining the needs of “normal” individuals to follow extreme versions of nationalism and racism at the forefront. Total war, the air bombing of civilians, the evacuation of children from cities, family separation, and the horrors of the Holocaust focused attention on the relationship between culture, society, and mental health. The mid-twentieth century, I suggest, was seen as “a new age of anxiety” that witnessed a problematization of this emotion, a process in which psychoanalysts played a crucial part. The ideas advocated by psychoanalysts became fundamental to the thinking about the child and the self during the time of war, and were turned into convention in the postwar era through debates on child hospitalization and juvenile delinquency and among other channels via popular radio transmission on the BBC. The understanding of children and the procedures of insuring stable early development became key in the mid-century to the success of a democratic society. The mental health

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of the individual, seen as determined in childhood, became important, more so than ever before, to the well-being of this regime. Psychoanalysts posited themselves as holding the knowledge to develop and maintain a healthy democratic society of mentally fit citizens.49 Their claims that modern selves have anxieties, aggressions, and mental instabilities that should be studied became more and more widely accepted in circles of official planners and among the educated public. In order to avoid a turn to destructiveness, mass hysteria, and submission to a strong authoritarian leader, planners realized the need to understand the mechanism of mental health, the dynamism of early relationships, and the development of children.50 Psychoanalysts were at the forefront of a contemporary literature that had implications for the newly formed connections between the psychology of individuals and the ability for cooperative life. Their humanitarian projects helped make anxiety and mental health into new social concepts calling for management.

Notes 1. In contrast, psychoanalysts who have studied the theoretical ideas of their predecessors have seldom situated them in a historical context or explored their social impact using archival sources. This is also true for the biographies that are available on these experts. See for example, Suzan van Dijken, John Bowlby, His Early Life: A Biographical Journey into the Roots of Attachment Theory (New York: Free Association Books, 1998); Raymond Dyer, Her Father’s Daughter: The Work of Anna Freud (New York: Aronson, 1983); Brett Kahr, D.W. Winnicott: A Biographical Portrait (Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1996); Robert Rodman, Winnicott: Life and Work (Cambridge, MA: Perseus Pub., 2003). 2. See Gregorio Kohon, “Notes on the History of the Psychoanalytic Movement in Great Britain,” in: idem (ed.), The British School of Psychoanalysis: The Independent Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), pp. 24–50; Pearl King, “Activities of British Psychoanalysts during the Second World War and the Influence of Their Interdisciplinary Collaboration on the Development of Psychoanalysis in Great Britain,” in: International Review of Psycho-Analysis, Vol. 16 (1989), pp. 15–32. This chapter is based on sections from Chapters 1–2 from my book The War Inside: Psychoanalysis, Total War, and the Making of the Democratic Self in Postwar Britain (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) and is written in memory of Esther Shapira (née Falckon) Z"L, my fraternal grandmother, who recently passed away in Israel, and in

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3.

4.

5. 6.

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the memory of her relatives from Thessaloniki, who perished in the Holocaust. Riccardo Steiner, “It is a New Kind of Diaspora,” in: International Review of Psycho-Analysis, Vol. 16 (1989), pp. 35–72. See also Riccardo Steiner, Tradition, Change, Creativity: Repercussions of the New Diaspora on Aspects of British Psychoanalysis (London: Karnac Books, 2000). Cf. Mariano Plotkin, Freud in the Pampas: The Emergence and Development of a Psychoanalytic Culture in Argentina (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001); Eran Rolnik, “Osei Nefashot: Im Freud le’Eretz Yisrael 1918–1948” (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2007); Nathan G. Hale, The Rise and Crisis of Psychoanalysis in the United States: Freud and the Americans, 1917 –1985 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). In January 1938, the British Government circulated a confidential report on leading personalities in Austria. Interestingly, this report mentioned that the Government previously addressed a letter of congratulation to Sigmund Freud for his 80th birthday, yet wished to ensure that no mention of this should appear in the press. National Archives (hereafter NA)/FO/371/22320: Michael Palairet to Mr. Eden, “Leading Personalities in Austria,” (Jan. 20, 1938). See also the Foreign Office Minute for March 19, 1938; Ernest Jones’s telegram regarding the fate of Freud in Vienna and the telegraph of Mr. Pope to the Prime Minister on March 28, 1939 in NA/FO/371/22321: “Fate of Dr. Freud.” Ernest Jones, however, described how when he approached Sir Samuel Hoare, then the Home Secretary, he was very sympathetic to the idea that refuge in England would be offered to Freud, his family, and a number of colleagues. Ernest Jones, “Sigmund Freud 1865–1939,” in: International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, Vol. 21 (1940), p. 3. Due to immigration laws both in Austria and Britain not all of Sigmund Freud’s extended family could be taken with him. He was forced to leave his four elderly sisters in Vienna. They were left behind under the assumption that no one want to hurt four women in their seventies and eighties who had no political affiliation. Eventually, the sisters had all been deported from Vienna by the Nazis and were murdered. Archives of the British Psychoanalytic Society: The Institute of PsychoAnalysis, Reports for the Year Ending June 30, 1937 and 1938. While Richard Titmuss and others claim that no events of mass panic or anxiety occurred during the war, revisionist historians, like Angus Calder, insist that fear, anxiety, and defeatism, while not widespread, were nevertheless more prevalent than previously thought. Questioning the “myth of the Blitz,” different revisionist historians demonstrate that behind an image of national unity existed social divisions of class, gender,

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and race, as well as incidents of black marketing, looting, and juvenile delinquency. Titmuss, Problems of Social Policy (London: HMSO, 1950), pp. 3–23; 322–337; 337–355. Cf. Angus Calder, The People’s War (London: Jonathan Cape, 1969) and his later, more controversial book, Angus Calder, The Myth of the Blitz (London: Jonathan Cape, 1991); Clive Ponting, 1940: Myth and Reality (Chicago: I.R. Dee, 1991); Sonya Rose, Which People’s War? National Identity and Citizenship in Brian 1939–1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). Although these scholars do not declare themselves as revisionists see also Edward Smithies, Crime in Wartime: A Social History of Crime in World War II (London: Allen & Unwin, 1982); Donald Thomas, The Enemy Within: Hucksters, Racketeers, Deserters, and Civilians during the Second World War (New York: New York University Press, 2003). Later, however, a number of historians have returned to a view closer to the earlier optimistic accounts, see Robert Mackay, Halt the Battle: Civilian Morale in Britain during the Second World War (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002); Malcolm Smith, Britain and 1940: History, Myth, and Popular Memory (London: Routledge, 2000). 7. In this same manner a recent article tries to reexamine governmental and medical records and to establish the true facts about civilian emotions during the Second World War. The research of the article is based on a systematic search of all files of the Home Intelligence Division of the Ministry of Information and the intelligence branch of the Ministry of Home Security, as well as records of the War Office, Prime Ministry’s Office, Cabinet Office, Air Ministry, and medical journals. However, not once are these sources discussed as reflecting a specific mode of thought, rather than an empirical reality. See Edgar Jones et al., “Civilian Morale during the Second World War: Responses to Air Raids Re-examined,” in: Social History of Medicine, Vol. 17, No. 3 (2004), pp. 463–479. Cf. Ian Hacking, “How Should We Do the History of Statistics?,” in: Graham Burchell, Colin Gordon, and Peter Miller (eds.), The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality (London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), pp. 181–196. 8. Ian Hacking, Rewriting the Soul: Multiple Personality and the Sciences of Memory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Cf. Paul Lerner, Hysterical Men: War Psychiatry, and the Politics of Trauma in Germany, 1890–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), pp. 9–10. When writing about emotions in history one should not take them for granted as phenomena that required no investigation. Rather, attention should be paid to the ways in which emotions were constituted through certain discursive terms and acquired specific meanings in different cultural contexts. Cf. Joanna Bourke, “Fear and Anxiety: Writing about Emotion

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9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

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in Modern History,” in: History Workshop Journal, No. 55 (2003), pp. 111–133. See also Joan W. Scott, “The Evidence of Experience,” in: Henry Abelove, Michele A. Barale and David M. Halperin (eds.), The Lesbian and Gay Reader (New York: Routledge, 1993), pp. 397–415. Shapira, The War Inside. Other psychoanalysts could and did indeed leave the city, Julia Segal, Melanie Klein (London: SAGE Publications Ltd, 1992), pp. 16–18. Anna Freud and Dorothy Burlingham, Infants without Families and Reports of the Hampstead Nurseries (New York: International Universities Press, 1973), pp. xxiii–xxiv (hereafter RHN); Dyer, Her Father’s Daughter, pp. 147–169. Weiner Library Archives, London, Dann Family Papers (hereafter WLA/DFP): Personal Papers of Sophie Dann, “Two Refugee Sisters in England,” 1070/3/1-20; RNH. The Shape of Things to Come, a 1933 novel by H.G. Wells, contributed to a vision of approaching catastrophe. H.G. Wells, The Shape of Things to Come (London, 1933). This development was a slower one where soldiers, rather than civilians, were concerned. See Joanna Bourke, “Disciplining the Emotions: Fear, Psychiatry and the Second World War,” in: Roger Cooter, Mark Harisson, and Steve Sturdy (eds.), War, Medicine and Modernity (Gloucestershire, 1998), pp. 225–238. Titmuss, Problems, pp. 330–331; 335; 343; Angus Calder, The People’s War: Britain 1939–1945 (London, 1969), pp. 223–227. Katharine M. Wolf, “Evacuation of Children in Wartime,” in: The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 1 (1945), p. 389. See Rose, Which People’s War? Cf. Nikolas Rose, Governing the Soul (London: Routledge, 1999). Titmuss, Problems, pp. 100–110, 355–370; Calder, The People’s War, pp. 35–50; Rose, Which People’s War?; John Macnicol, “The Evacuation of Schoolchildren,” in: H.L. Smith (ed.), War and Social Change: British Society in the Second World War (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1986), pp. 3–31. John Welshman, “Evacuation and Social Policy during the Second World War: Myth and Reality,” in: Twentieth Century British History, Vol. 9, No. 1 (1998), pp. 28–53. Susan Isaacs, “The Uprooted Child,” in: New Era in Home and School, Vol. 21, No. 3 (March 1940), p. 54. Ibid., p. 57. D.W. Winnicott, “The Deprived Mother,” in: New Era in Home and School, Vol. 21, No. 3 (March 1940), p. 64. The article was based on Winnicott’s BBC broadcast from 1939.

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24. D.W. Winnicott and Clare Britton, “The Problem of Homeless Children,” in: Children’s Communities: Experiments in Democratic Living (London, 1944). This article was later submitted to the Government’s Care of Children Committee. 25. RHN, pp. xxiii–xxiv. The findings were available to contemporaries during the war in a different set of publications. 26. RHN, p. xxv. See also Ilse Hellman, From War Babies to Grandmothers: Forth-Eight Years in Psychoanalysis (New York, 1990). 27. RHN, p. 160. 28. RHN, p. 163. 29. RHN, pp. 169–172. 30. Cf. Melanie Klein, Envy and Gratitude (London, 1975), pp. 39–40; Rose, Why War?; Adam Philips, ‘Bombs Away,’ in: History Workshop Journal 45 (1998), pp. 183–198. 31. RHN, pp. 172–173. 32. RHN, p. 185. 33. RHN, pp. 219–222. 34. It is important to note that these psychoanalytic war nurseries were a training school for young nurses, welfare workers, and personnel from voluntary services who later contributed to other institutions in Britain and the world. The reports of the nurseries were published and were circulated widely. Suzanne Stewart-Steinberg also makes claims about Anna Freud and democracy and how her postwar psychoanalytic work with children cultivates a specifically democratic citizenship and subjectivity. Here, my focus was on emphasizing the historical, British context. Suzanne Stewart-Steinberg, Impious Fidelity: Anna Freud, Psychoanalysis, Politics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2012). 35. The work with these Jewish children was first published as Anna Freud and Sophie Dann, “An Experiment in Group Upbringing,” in: The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, Vol. 6 (1951), pp. 127–168. It was also published in Reading in Child Development, W.E. Martin and C.B. Stendler (eds.) (New York: Harcourt, 1954), pp. 404–421. I am using the version published in The Writing of Anna Freud Vol. IV (New York: International Universities Press, 1973), pp. 163–229. 36. Only 11 percent of Jewish children who were alive in 1939 survived the war, and in Nazi-occupied territory after the war began, only 6–7 percent of Jewish children survived. In all, around 1.5 million Jewish children and adolescents were murdered during the Holocaust. Around 150,000 people passed through Terezin on their way to deaths camps, a number that included 15,000 children. As the war ended, around 500 children were found in Terezin, among them the six children under discussion here. Martin Ira Glassner and Robert Krell, And Life Is Changed Forever: Holocaust Childhoods Remembered (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2006), pp. 1–3; Deborah Dwork, Children with a Star (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991).

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37. Friedmann was born in Germany on 1903 and had training as a teacher and a social worker. He helped juvenile delinquents and became the Director of a Borstal in 1932 near Berlin. He and the children he was taken care of were put into a concentration camp. Friedmann was released in 1933 and was made a Director on an Orphanage in Berlin. In 1938 he was asked by the German Jewish authorities to accompany a large group of Jewish children to England. He agreed and went with the intent to return to Germany, but eventually was persuaded to stay in England. Until 1945 he was a social worker at Bloomsbury House and in charge of one of the Jewish Refugees Boy’s Hostels. He then was in charge of the 300 Jewish children in Windermere. After the war, he became responsible of the reception and rehabilitation of 700 Jewish children. He started psychoanalytic training in Berlin after 1933 and had finished it in Britain only in 1948. He was also involved in work done at the Hampstead Clinic-Therapy Center. See D.W. Winnicott, “Oscar Friedmann, 1903–1958,” in: International Review of Psycho-Analysis, Vol. 40 (1959), pp. 247–248. 38. Goldberger was the matron of a home in Britain for children who survived concentration camps. In 1978, when Goldberger was 81, she had a reunion on an ITV’s “This Is Your Life” program with some of the children and others she helped after the war. Before the war, Goldberger was in charge of a center in Berlin for families suffering from the economic depression of the 1930s. See press cuttings and pictures of Goldberger at the WLA: Bio Index G15 and WLA/DFP: Personal Papers of Gertrud Dann, “Gertrud Dann,” 1070/2/1-6. 39. See WLA/DFP: Personal Papers of Gertrud Dann, “Gertrud Dann,” 1070/2/1-6; WLA/DFP: Personal Papers of Sophie Dann, “Sophie Dann,” 1070/3/1-20; WLA/DFP: Personal Papers of Sophie Dann, “A Jewish Family in Augsburg, Bavaria,” 1070/3/1-20. For further theoretical discussions of the Bulldogs Bank project see Leslie Rosenthal, “Remarks on ‘An Experiment in Group Upbringing’”; Beryce W. MacLennan, “Discussion of ‘An Experiment in Group Upbringing’ by Anna Freud and Sophie Dann”; Stephanie Schamess, “Memory, Self and the Peer Group in Six Young Survivors of Terezin”; Edward S. Soo, “Commentary on ‘An Experiment in Group Upbringing’ by Anna Freud and Sophie Dann”; Saul Scheidlinger, “A Historical Note Regarding ‘An Experiment in Group Living,’” all are in Journal of Child and Adolescent Group Therapy, Vol. 9, No. 2 (June 1999), pp. 57–86. 40. Dann and Freud, “An Experiment,” pp. 166–167. 41. Ibid., pp. 168–169. 42. Ibid., p. 171. 43. Ibid., p. 174. 44. WLA/Bio Index G15: (Press cutting) “The Danns’ Desperate Flight to Freedom.” 45. Dann and Freud, “An Experiment,” p. 218.

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46. Ibid., p. 219. Miriam, one of the children, displayed an example of the indifference to horrors in October 1945. When she was asked where Ruth, another child who was taken to a nearby room, went, “Miriam shrugs her shoulders, turn up her hands in a typically Jewish gesture and says ‘Tot’ [‘Dead’],” Ibid., p. 219, n. 21. 47. Ibid., p. 229. Cf. Greenacre, P. “Infant Reactions to Restraint,” in: Clyde Kluckhohn and Henry A. Murray (eds.), Personality (New York: Knopf, 1948); D.T. Burlingham, “The Fantasy of Having a Twin,” in: The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, Vol. 1 (1945), pp. 205–210; D.T. Burlingham, “Twins, Environmental Influences on Development,” in: The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, Vol. 2 (1946), pp. 61–73; D.T. Burlingham, “The Relationship of Twins to Each Other,” in: The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, Vol. 3 (1949), pp. 57–72. 48. Sigmund Freud, “Beyond the Pleasure Principle,” in: The Standard Edition, Vol. XVIII (1920), pp. 1–64. See also Paul Lerner, Hysterical Men: War, Psychiatry, and the Politics of Trauma in Germany, 1890–1930 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), pp. 163–189. 49. Work that used psychoanalysis to connect between psychology, politics, and society before and during the war included: Edward Glover, War, Sadism, and Pacifism: Further Essays of Group Psychology and War (London: Allen & Unwin, 1933); William Brown, War and Peace: Essay in Psychological Analysis (London: A. & C. Black, 1939); Roger Ernle Money-Kyrle, “Towards a Common Aim: Psychoanalytic Contribution to Ethics,” in: British Journal of Medical Psychology, Vol. XX (1944), pp. 105–117; Roger Ernle Money-Kyrle, Psychoanalysis and Politics: A Contribution to the Psychology of Politics and Morals (London: Duckworth, 1951). A discussion of psychology, the unconscious, and the importance of the mother–child bond to later development of democratic citizenship also appeared in the influential book by Labour politician Evan Durbin, Evan Durbin, The Politics of Democratic Socialism (London: Routledge, 1940). See also John Carl Flugel, Man, Morals and Society: A PsychoAnalytical Study (New York: International Universities Press, 1945); D.W. Winnicott, “Some Thoughts on the Meaning of Democracy,” in: Human Relations , Vol. iii (1950), pp. 175–186; Wilfred R. Bion, “Psychiatry at a Time of Crisis,” in: British Journal of Medical Psychology, Vol. XXI (1948), pp. 281–289; H.V. Dicks, “In Search of Our Proper Ethics,” in: British Journal of Medical Psychology XXI (1948), pp. 1–14. 50. Thomson, Mathew, “Before Anti-Psychiatry: Mental Health in Wartime Britain,” in: R. Porter and M. Gijswijt-Hofstra (eds.), Cultures of Psychiatry (Rodopi, 1998), pp. 43–59.

CHAPTER 8

Whose/Which “Freud”? Social Context and Discourse Analysis of the “Controversial Discussions” Mitchell G. Ash

The significance of the “controversial discussions” held at the British PsychoAnalytical Society (BPS) during the 1940s for the history of psychoanalysis is well known, at least to specialists in the field. Ostensibly these discussions focused on issues of psychoanalytic theory and technique related to work with young children. However, as the participants themselves understood, nothing less than the meaning of psychoanalysis itself was at stake. On these issues Freudians led by Anna Freud, many of whom were émigrés from Vienna, clashed with Melanie Klein and her supporters; others sought common ground, or what might be called a third way. In the following remarks, I propose first to sketch the social context of these discussions, in order to enable us to grasp in a preliminary way how the group that engaged in these “conversations” came to be constituted in the first place. The focus then shifts to the discussions themselves, more precisely to the text containing their edited

M. G. Ash (B) University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_8

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transcripts. Here I will try to show very briefly how allusions to “Freud” were employed in varied ways both to enhance the standing and also to inform the positions of the actors. Whether and how at least some of these positionings might be interpreted as efforts to reconstruct Vienna in London will be considered briefly in the conclusion.

Social Context In the space available it is possible only to sketch very broadly three levels of analysis: macro, meso, and micro. At the macro level stands what might well be called the world-historical situation in the 1930s, particularly the response of British governments as well as civil society to the refugee crisis brought about by the Nazi takeover of power in Germany and Austria. Located at the meso level is the institutional politics within the BPS. At the “micro” level I locate the biographical and career circumstances of the émigrés and the British participants. We might call this a Google maps approach, beginning with a wide-angle view and then focusing in more tightly. So let us begin at the macro level: a massive, forced migration of leftwing intellectuals, dismissed civil servants and others of Jewish descent, alongside thousands of others, taking place as it did in the middle of a worldwide economic downturn, posed a serious challenge to the British and also other governments. They responded with shifting policies toward refugees and émigrés from Germany and Austria in general, and toward Jewish refugees from Nazism in particular. The decades-long debate among historians on this issue has always revolved around the tension between humanitarian compassion, economic self-interest, and xenophobia (at times tinged with anti-semitism).1 As Louise London pointed out some time ago, Britain did not at the time possess an asylum law, and did not regard itself as a country of immigration.2 Thus the Home Office possessed no specific policy or even legal guidelines for dealing with such a challenge, and appears to have reacted to the Nazi era crisis along lines already developed in dealing with the European refugee crisis during and after the First World War. In doing so, government officials in Britain, as elsewhere, faced pressure on the one hand from humanitarian aid groups that sprang up to aid refugees, and on the other hand from professional bodies and political groups warning against taking in numerous refugees at a time of serious unemployment in Britain. The Ministry of Labour took a similar position

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from the outset, opposing “any measures involving a perceptible increase in the unemployment figures.”3 With regard to academic refugees, the engagement of what we would now call civil society, manifested through the Academic Assistance Council (AAC), later renamed the Society for the Protection of Science and Learning, has been well documented.4 Yet here as well the Ministry of Labour sought to distinguish between world-famous scientists and “the ‘rank and file’ of refugee academics, who represented ‘a greater threat to British labour’.”5 In practice, what resulted was a collaboration of sorts between government and civil society, in which the government relied on aid organizations (such as the Jewish Refugee Committee and the AAC) to provide supporting documents and organize guarantees of financial support. The absence of a clear legal framework—indeed, the refusal to articulate a clear refugee policy—gave the Home Office room to grant exceptions in specific cases, but after the sudden jump in the numbers of refugees after the Nazi takeover of Austria in March 1938 and the resulting introduction of visas, which had not been universally required for entry before, certain policies became clear: No entry without a visa, no visa without a guarantor prepared to state that the refugee would not become a “public charge.” (This was similar to the American policy that had been in place throughout.) For Jewish refugees Jewish organizations willingly took on the role of organizing guarantors in 1933 and also in 1938.6 Both the Home Office and many aid organizations acted on the assumption that admittance would be temporary, followed later by reemigration. The Home Secretary, Sir Samuel Hoare, made his position consistently clear: In a 1936 lecture, he spoke of “gratitude for all the services that the Jewish intellect [sic!] has rendered to humanity,” but emphasized that “very careful selection” was necessary in order to harvest the “capital in the form of skill, knowledge and foreign technical processes” that the émigrés could provide—capital that could “help to make this country the intellectual center of the world.”7 Hoare maintained this position after March 1938, and even after the pogrom night of November 9, 1938. Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain took a more compassionate position in cabinet, which ultimately led to a (some might say, rather belated) shift in favor of humanitarianism, for which the refugees later expressed their gratitude. But he too was not free of ambivalence: In a letter to his sister Hilda, for example, he wrote: “No doubt Jews arent [sic!] a loveable people; I don’t care about them myself; but

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that (meaning ‘a desire to rob the Jews of their money and a jealousy of their superior cleverness’) is not sufficient to explain the pogrom.”8 The tension between humanitarian motives, self-interest, and antisemitic xenophobia existed also at the meso level, constituted in our case by the BPS. If we ask what may have been specific to the role of the BPS in this situation, perhaps the most important factor was the Society’s small size. With 113 members in 1939, the BPS was a tiny body compared with the physicians’ association or the British Society for Psychology. In these circumstances institutional politics were central, because the contacts with the Home Office needed to arrange for visas to enter Britain lay in the hands of a few key personalities. In the case of the BPS the role of its co-founder and longtime president, Ernest Jones, was pivotal. The most spectacular example of this was, of course, the emigration of Freud himself and his family; Jones’ friendship with Home Secretary Samuel Hoare and Earl de La Warr, Lord Privy Seal, were of central importance in obtaining the necessary exit visas and immigration permits.9 The British government’s seemingly extraordinary gesture of welcome was, of course, quite consistent with Hoare’s announced policy of selectivity among academic and professional émigrés, just described. However, Jones’ role went far beyond this well-known case. As Pearl King has written, Jones had invited German, Austrian, and Hungarian psychoanalysts to come to Britain even before the Nazi era, and had aided them in joining the Society once they had completed their medical training or had themselves recertified in Britain.10 Among the first of these was Melanie Klein, who came to London from Berlin in 1926 and was accepted to membership in the BPS soon afterward. Refugees admitted at Jones’ invitation or with his support after 1933 included Paula Heimann, Käthe (later Kate) Friedlander, Hilde Maas and Walter and Melitta Schmideberg, all from Berlin, as well as Barbara Lantos, who came from Paris in 1935. That Jones could also decide differently is shown by his decision to refuse assistance to Wilhelm Reich in 1933 and Robert Waelder in 1938, both taken in his capacity as President of the International Society for PsychoAnalysis in concert with Anna Freud in her capacity as Secretary-General.11 As the refugee crisis intensified after the (so-called) “Anschluss” and Viennese analysts sought to come in larger numbers, Jones appears to have developed a sort of distribution policy, favoring visa applications of those, such as Franz Cohn, Erwin Stangl or Michael and Alice Balint,

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who agreed to settle outside London (in Bristol and Manchester, respectively), thus reducing competition there and also expanding the reach of psychoanalysis in England.12 Jones made clear that he shared his friend Samuel Hoare’s view of the émigrés in economic terms when he wrote in support of Stangl as “an especially good acquisition” because he was both a psychiatrist and a psychoanalyst.13 Due to a policy permitting lay analysis (under medical supervision) already adopted in 1929, it was also possible to assist refugee lay psychoanalysts like Anna Freud. Despite the limitations just mentioned, the numbers tell a humanitarian tale: 39 émigrés were listed as members of the BPS in 1939, slightly more than one-third of the Society’s membership in that year.14 However, many of the Vienna refugees soon moved on to the United States; of 17 Viennese in the BPS in 1939, only five remained as members in 1944.15 Riccardo Steiner suggests that the social dynamic underlying the “Controversial Discussions” was less a matter of “the Kleinians” versus “the Viennese” than a more subtle alliance of Anna Freud and her remaining Viennese friends with the Berliners Melitta and Walter Schmideberg and Edward Glover versus Klein and her British adherents.16 We come now to the micro level. Space does not permit me to lay out the biographical trajectories of all of the émigrés who came to Britain and later participated in the “Controversial Discussions.” For most of these exiles, refuge in Britain was plainly a kind of salvation, yet also a traumatic experience.17 Viewed in terms of social dynamics, however, it seems clear that the group around Melanie Klein, including British supporters such as the educator Susan Isaacs, whom she had begun to recruit already in the 1920s, quite naturally saw the Viennese, who had arrived so suddenly in 1938 and afterward, as a threat. This defensiveness was accentuated by the fact that Klein’s views, which at first had been well received as pioneering advances in the psychoanalysis of children, had already become controversial by the mid-1930s, as she turned to more intensive discussion of the death instinct and began to assign her theory of the “depressive position” a more central role.18 Doubts concerning Klein’s approach were compounded by personal animosity, for example in the case of Edward Glover, head of the BPS’ Training Committee, and the increasingly obvious alienation of émigré Melitta Schmideberg from her mother Melanie Klein.19 However, the conflict enacted during the “Controversial Discussions” had multiple dimensions.20 Perhaps the central one was the power struggle within the BPS against the predominance of the tiny leadership

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group led by Jones and Glover, head of the Training Committee. Dissatisfaction with the intransparent leadership style of this core group became linked in the 1930s for some members with dissatisfaction with the leadership’s initial response to the refugee crisis, which they deemed insufficient. The émigrés largely kept out of the conflict over the Society’s presidency, but clearly had a stake in the work of the Training Committee, of which Melanie Klein and later also Anna Freud were members. Anna Freud had long been an influential member of the Vienna Society’s Training Committee. The coming of the Viennese brought this simmering pot to a boil. The resulting mix resembles a Gordian knot, in which alliances in the power struggle among the British members of the BPS soon became intertwined with allegiances in the struggle for intellectual predominance, as well as personal loyalties. In such circumstances clear party lines became difficult if not impossible to draw, at least among the British members of the BPS. This was definitely not the case among the émigrés. Klein clearly worked hard to keep her allies under strict control, marshaling her troops rather like a military commander, giving detailed instructions as to strategy and tactics.21 The protocols of the discussions suggest that the Viennese supporters of Anna Freud acted with comparable loyalty, though it is unclear whether Anna Freud organized them as Klein did hers. Unfortunately, it must be added that, despite the effort to maintain a façade of courtesy and a professional tone in the discussions, among at least some of the British participants, elements of xenophobia lay not far below the surface. As James Strachey wrote to Glover in April 1940, for example: “The trouble seems to me to be with extremism on both sides. […] Why should these wretched fascists and communists invade our peaceful compromising island? (bloody foreigners).”22 Such tensions were surely accentuated by very real fears among BPS members, noted by Sylvia Payne, of losing their livelihoods due to the “disintegration” of their private practices during the war; in such circumstances, she noted, “all tolerance is liable to disappear and the struggle becomes principally one for power.”23 Of course gender politics were important here.24 In this context the well-known point bears repeating that psychoanalysis was among the most open to women of the medical or health, or any other professions in this period. Gendered hierarchies nonetheless remained in place; the leadership of the BPS remained in male hands until 1944 (see discussion below).

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And yet the intellectual leaders in this debate, and also their most articulate supporters, were nearly all women. Did this matter? We cannot know whether the conflict would have taken a different form if the principals had been male. We might well ask, however, whether the predominance of women in these debates is reflected in styles of argument. In my view this was generally not the case. All participants were well schooled in scientific, and in some cases philosophical argument; moreover, the émigré women had undergone a double acculturation, as women physicians (and/or psychoanalysts) and as Jews. However, it should be acknowledged that Melanie Klein’s aggressive personal style was noted at the time, and not always favorably. James Strachey employed a gendered metaphor when he castigated Anna Freud in a letter for regarding Psychoanalysis as “a ‘Game Preserve’ belonging to the Freud family.”25 Yet not even this was the whole story; to social historical and microsociological analysis psychological dimensions must be added. Given the fact that the dyad of analyst and analysand lies at the heart of both psychoanalytic therapy and training, in this debate the personal was indeed political, by which of course I mean institutional politics. Of course the controversy over tradition and change, orthodoxy and deviation, is central to the history of psychoanalysis itself, and thus can hardly be confined to the British Society or to this period.26 Nonetheless, the social constellation described here appears to be unique. In addition, and most importantly, the “controversial discussions” began—indeed, perhaps they could only begin—, after Freud’s death in 1939. In a certain sense they may also have been part of an unconscious effort to work through the grief and mourning of his loss. I say “unconscious” because this psychological dimension was only rarely, if at all then obliquely, made explicit in the written records.27 Riccardo Steiner has argued that for the Viennese and also the German exiles a kind of doubled grieving, for the loss of the father figure—leading to identification with the “lost object”—and also of a secure cultural home in Berlin or Vienna, was at work.28 And of course there was also the family dynamic: Anna Freud could and did claim authority at multiple levels, by virtue of being Freud’s daughter (thus next in line to the throne) and also his training analysand, in addition to her intellectual standing as the author of significant theoretical and clinical works on psychoanalytical work with children and, more recently, on ego psychology.29 Finally, we should also note that the social dynamics of the “Controversial Discussions” themselves evolved during the war years. After

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rather heated debates at the first business meetings, great care was taken to develop ground rules for discussion, and a strict division was agreed between “extraordinary business meetings” to discuss organizational issues and “extraordinary scientific sessions.” The meetings were preceded by resolutions submitted by members, taken up in an order decided by the chair, which, by the way, was not always held by Jones. Of course, all this did not work so perfectly in practice, yet the arrangement appears to have served its intended purpose of avoiding a split in the Society. Perhaps more important than such procedural issues were the physical presence or absence of individual parties involved. An unintended impact of Jones’ distribution policy mentioned above was that émigrés and others working outside London were often unable to attend the meetings due to travel restrictions, while refugees who worked in London were at first confined to the city after the outbreak of war for the same reason. Pearl King notes that Melanie Klein and many of her close associates were also absent from London until October 1941, and suggests that until then “the Wednesday Scientific Meetings must have felt like a fortnightly reunion of the ex-Viennese members of the Society, and their attendance at them must have been an important supportive experience for them.”30 We should not forget that the initial meetings in this series took place during the Blitz; at times they were even scheduled at midday, as the protocols state, to avoid the bombing. Later some male refugees, such as Erwin Stengel, were interned as “enemy aliens.”31 The British participants did not all attend regularly, either, as younger ones were called up or volunteered for military service, or became engaged outside London in other ways.

Discourse Analysis---Whose “Freud”? Having sketched out the social historical and institutional scene, we are ready to move to the discourse analysis promised in the title of this chapter. By this I do not mean the analysis of the conditions of say-ability carried out by Michel Foucault and his followers, but rather Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA), the use of which for analyzing historical texts has been pioneered by the sociolinguist Ruth Wodak and others.32 In both approaches power and knowledge claims are intimately linked, albeit in different ways. In CDA, certain key words acquire privileged meanings, and thus legitimatory functions, in the construction and maintenance of

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“we groups.” Wodak speaks of a typology including four kinds of legitimation: (1) by authority, here mainly though not always by the invocation of Freud’s name; (2) by “rationalization,” that is via the instrumentalization of arguments or quotations from authoritative, one might even say, “sacred” (Freudian or Kleinian) texts; (3) by “mythopoesis,” meaning through the creation of a “we group” with the aid of a common origin story; and (4) by invoking either moral values or political allegiances to establish group or subgroup commitments. Given what has already been said about the micro-politics of the British PsychoAnalytic Society, the potential relevance of such an analysis should be clear. Of course such an analysis, if carried out in detail, would go far beyond the scope of this chapter. Nor can I describe here in detail the theoretical and methodological issues posed by child analysis, or the dispute over core principles of psychoanalysis itself, particularly Freud’s schema of (unconscious) intrapsychical development and the death instinct, that were at stake in these discussions. I propose instead to focus on the most contested term in the mix, the name “Freud,” both as a symbolic instrument in the struggle for standing in the debate, and at the same time as a symbol for the content of psychoanalytic theory and technique. For some “Freud” was a bastion to be defended at all costs, while for others the name was a symbolic stepping stone on the way to proceeding beyond supposedly Freudian orthodoxy. With that I now turn to a qualitative, functional analysis of references to “Freud” in the documentation of the “controversial discussions,” based on a small number of selected examples for each of the four types of legitimation just described. Surely it comes as no surprise that legitimation by the authority was the predominant discursive mode for the name “Freud” in these discussions. Indeed, psychoanalysis itself was most often depicted as Freud’s intellectual possession. At the first and second extraordinary business meetings participants made this quite clear by referring to §2 of the BPS statutes and §3 of the IPA statutes. The latter’s first sentence read: “The aim of the Psycho-Analytical Association is the cultivation and furtherance of the psycho-analytic branch of science, founded by Freud.”33 At the Second Extraordinary Business Meeting, March 11, 1942, Walter Schmideberg opened his paper as follows: “Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentleman, In putting forward the resolution ‘that it be re-affirmed that the aim of the Society is to further Freudian psychoanalysis’ I believe I am acting in the

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spirit of my teacher, Professor Sigmund Freud.”34 The evident aim of this remark was to position the speaker as a judge of deviant views. Second, and also frequent, are examples of legitimation by “rationalization” as defined above. This could take positive or negative forms. The positive approach involved the mobilization of quotations from Freud’s writings in support of one’s own position. Negative approaches could involve (1) explications of Freud’s principles of X or Y organized in such a way as to imply that questioning such explications would be regarded as deviations from the core principles themselves, or (2) employing longer quotations from his writings or explications of such passages to show that opponents had misconstrued the claims or arguments cited, or had taken statements of Freud’s out of context. One of many examples of strategy (2) came in Hedwig Hoffer’s critique of Susan Isaacs’ paper on “The Nature and Function of Phantasy,” with which the Extraordinary Scientific Meetings began. Hoffer contended, among other things, that Isaacs left out the middle section of a passage she quoted from Freud’s paper “The Unconscious” (1915), suggesting that Freud was referring to the relation between preconscious and unconscious mental systems rather than the nature of phantasyformation per se, and questioning “whether it is permissible to quote Freud in this manner.”35 In such cases legitimation by argument merged with argument from authority. In the course of the “controversial discussions,” arguments like these took on the flavor of Talmudic dispute, as participants carefully parsed passages quoted in extenso to support their own positions or attack their opponents. At times this could get tricky, for example when Susan Isaacs tried in the paper mentioned above to advance Klein’s and her own “view that unconscious phantasies are the primary content of all mental processes,” while having to acknowledge that Freud himself did not actually use the term: “Freud does not say that the infant has unconscious phantasies. But the capacity to hallucinate is, in my view, either identical with phantasy or the pre-condition for it.”36 We turn now to the third form of legitimation, “mythopoesis”—the effort to establish a “we group” with the aid of a common origin story. Most important in this respect were disputes on the death instinct, in particular on whether by positing it Freud had compromised or even given up the libido theory.

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For Melanie Klein, the introduction of the death instinct in Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920) “revolutionized psychoanalysis and seemed to shake its foundations.” This, along with later works such The Ego and the ID or Freud‘s paper on “Inhibitions, Symptoms and Anxiety” (1926) were for her “not so much a revolution as an evolution” which “initiated a second epoch in the development of psychoanalysis.”37 In contrast, Anna Freud and her supporters continued to regard libido theory as the core of psychoanalytic thought. Much of the conceptual content of the “controversial discussions” thus centered about the issue of what it meant to speak of the “further development” of psychoanalysis. For example, in her response to criticisms of the paper already mentioned, Susan Isaacs stated: “I cannot avoid the impression that some of the contributions to this discussion imply that Freud’s work and his conclusions are never to be developed any further and that no-one is to formulate theories which he (Freud) himself had not yet framed or fully developed. But nothing could be more un-Freudian than such an attitude, which would certainly have horrified him.”38 Here, as elsewhere, Isaacs carefully avoids naming anyone, employing objective-sounding third-person formulations referring to “some of the contributions” instead; yet whom she means is clear enough in context, and must have been well understood at the time. Finally, we come to legitimation by invoking moral values or political allegiances. Much is known about the political and policy positions taken by psychoanalysts in this period, for example on provision of free or low-cost therapy for adults or, in the case of Susan Isaacs and Melanie Klein, for children. However, during the “Controversial Discussions” participants took a different tack, invoking scientific morals, if you will, through claims about Freud’s attitude toward scientific discussion and debate. As Walter Schmideberg put it in the paper already quoted: “Believe me, Freud was neither intolerant nor dogmatic. He was free from any rigidity.”39 Schmideberg‘s claim might seem astonishing to us, given what we know about the bitter battles between Freud and Adler, or Freud and Jung, both of which of course resulted in fundamental splits in the psychoanalytic movement. Indeed, Schmideberg himself alluded to these earlier conflicts, quoting at length from a 1914 paper by Freud in which he described the opposing viewpoint as expressed “in a peculiarly vacillating manner, one moment as quite a minor deviation, which does not justify the fuss that has been made about it, and the next as a new message of salvation, which is to begin a new epoch in psychoanalysis[…]” and adding: “this, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how Freud characterized the

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teaching of Jung thirty years ago – and not as you might perhaps think, Kleinism [sic!] today.”40 Perhaps such assertions are best understood as markers in support of efforts to move beyond Freud. Of course they were also effective debating tactics, since the Anna Freudians could hardly refuse such praise without weakening the discursive power of the name “Freud” as they construed it. Here is where scientific discussion interacted with the power struggle within the BPS, at least implicitly, for example in allusions to “democratic” versus “authoritarian” or even “dictatorial” leadership styles.41 Such references could only have been fraught with ambivalence, since Freud’s leadership of the Vienna Psychoanalytical Society could hardly be described as “democratic.”

Conclusion At the beginning of the eighth discussion of scientific differences, on February 16, 1944, Sylvia Payne remarked from the chair, “that the majority of Members have grown weary of the ‘controversy’. We ourselves understand this feeling, and in large measure share it. In so far as these discussions have taken on the character of a mere ‘controversy’, they are not and cannot be fruitful.”42 The issues of theory and technique that ostensibly lay at the heart of the “Controversial Discussions” were never fully resolved. At the latest, Anna Freud’s decision to absent herself from the debate later in 1944, followed by some of her most loyal supporters, made it clear that substantive consensus was not to be had. Instead, the resolution took the form of an institutional compromise, which in turn became possible only after Glover’s withdrawal from the Society in January 1944 and Jones’ decision to relinquish the presidency in the same year. Under the leadership of Sylvia Payne, who was then elected president of the Society, training at the BPS came to be organized into three groups: the (Anna) Freudians, the Kleinians, and the so-called “middle” group. Parallel to this, Anna Freud and some of her émigré and British followers institutionalized themselves as child therapists independently of the BPS, establishing the Hampstead War Nurseries during the war and the Hampstead Clinic afterward.43 At the same time, other BPS members helped to establish the Tavistock Clinic, also independently of the BPS. Seen in this context, Jones’ biography of Freud, published in three

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volumes during the 1950s, might also be interpreted as a later compensatory move to regain an independent, indeed dominant position, at least in the historiography of psychoanalysis, with the close collaboration of Anna Freud.44 This complex result, in particular the tripartite psychoanalytical training program, has often been presented as a triumph of British tolerance and pragmatism over Continental rigidity and dogmatism. Robert Hinshelwood, however, writes of “the myth of the British compromise,”45 which he attributes to common mourning of the loss of Freud and the resulting awareness of a mission to provide a home to psychoanalysis in the face of Nazi aggression, but also to Anna Freud’s decision ultimately to remain in the BPS and accept the postwar training arrangement—partly at least out of gratitude for the refuge afforded to her and her father. In this interpretation a social process—the melding of refugee German, Austrian, and British psychoanalysts into a single, albeit highly diverse professional society—acquired a mythopoeic discursive representation, a common origin story. However, this came at the cost of downplaying the controversies that had marked the actual origins of the BPS and had recurred throughout its history. As mentioned above, for Riccardo Steiner the vigorous defense of (Anna) Freudian standpoints by the Viennese and Berlin exiles in London after Freud’s death represent a kind of doubled grieving, for the loss of the father figure and also of a secure cultural home in Vienna.46 Given the very small number of Viennese psychoanalysts who remained in Britain, and Hinshelwood’s suggestion cited above that the British members of the Society shared in the grief, it seems doubtful that this could or should be interpreted exclusively as an effort to reconstruct Vienna in London. Ken Robinson suggests that Anna Freud attempted instead to create “a bit of Vienna outside the British Society” at the Hampstead Clinic, in effect establishing Freudian child analysis there.47 The name “Freud” remains fascinatingly malleable to this day, in many ways. To take one example: the term “psychoanalysis,” when employed by feminist thinkers, has meant for some time now only Kleinian and Lacanian theory,48 while Freud, both the man and his theories and therapy, remain objects of denunciation in this literature. Perhaps there is no need to be sorrowful about this discursive malleability. Rather, the never-ending

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changes in the meanings assigned to names like that of Sigmund Freud indicate the cultural power they still hold.

Notes 1. For an overview of the debate, see Sean Kelly, review of Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews 1933–1948, Reviews in History, November 2001. https://www.history.ac.uk/reviews/review/221. Download October 8, 2018. 2. For the following see Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews 1933– 1948: British Immigration Policy, Jewish Refugees , and the Holocaust (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2001), Introduction and Chapter 1. 3. Cit. in London, Whitehall and the Jews , p. 27. 4. See most recently Shula Marks/Paul Weindling/Laura Wintour (eds.), The Defense of Learning: The Plight, Persecution and Placement of Academic Refugees 1930s–1980s (Oxford: Oxford University Press/The British Academy 2011). 5. Interview w/AAC May 26, 1933, cit. in: London, Whitehall and the Jews , p. 49. 6. Home Secretary Hoare cited to a Jewish deputation the need “to discriminate very carefully […] If a flood of the wrong type of immigrants were allowed in there might be serious danger of antisemitic feeling being aroused in this country. The last thing which we wanted here was the creation of a Jewish problem.” (sic!) Otto Schiff, head of the JRC [Jewish Refugee Center], actually agreed with this and the re-introduction of visas, saying that “It was very difficult to get rid of a refugee […], once he had entered and spent a few months in this country.” Both remarks cit. in London, Whitehall and the Jews , p. 61. 7. Samuel Hoare, “The Academic Refugee” (1936), repr. in: The Lecture Recorder, 8 (1939), on p. 201. 8. Chamberlain to Hilda, July 30, 1939, cit. in: London, Whitehall and the Jews , p. 106. 9. For details see inter alia Peter Gay, Sigmund Freud: A Life for Our Time (New York: W. W. Norton 1988), pp. 618–629. 10. Pearl King, “Background and Development of the Freud-Klein controversies in the British Psycho-Analytical Society,” in: The Freud-Klein Controversies 1941–45. Edited by Pearl King/Riccardo Steiner (London/New York: Tavistock Routledge 1991), pp. 9–36. 11. The case of Reich, both a Communist and a dissident analyst, plainly combined ordinary and professional politics. The literature on this incident is quite large. On Reich’s wanderings and the controversies

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14. 15.

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17.

18.

19.

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surrounding him see, e.g., Havard Friis Nilsen, “Widerstand in der Therapie und im Krieg 1933–1945. Die Psychoanalyse vor und während der Besatzung Norwegens durch die Nationalsozialisten,” in: Psychoanalyse in totalitären und autoritären Regimen. Edited by Mitchell G. Ash. Frankfurt/Main: Brandes & Apsel 2008, pp. 176–210. In the case of Waelder Jones appears to have been put off by Waelder’s “arrogance” during an earlier visit in 1935, and wrote to Anna Freud that “his personality does not lend itself easily to assimilation.” Jones to Anna Freud, April 29, 1938, Jones Papers, Archives of the BPS, cit. in: Mitchell G. Ash, “Central European Emigré Psychologists and Psychoanalysts in Britain,” in: Second Chance: Two Centuries of German-Speaking Jews in the United Kingdom. Edited by Werner E. Mosse, et al. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr 1991, pp. 101–120, here: p. 113. Ash, “Central European Émigré Psychologists and Psychoanalysts in Britain.” Ibid. Ibid. This approach was comparable with the one taken by Lawrence Kubie, who had a comparable role in the New York Psychoanalytic Society, though he was not its president. See Edith Kurzweil, “Psychoanalytic Science: From Oedipus to Culture,” in: Forced Migration and Scientific Change: Émigré German-Speaking Scientists and Scholars After 1933. Edited by Mitchell G. Ash/Alfons Söllner (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press 1996), pp. 139–155. Ash, “Central European Emigré Psychologists and Psychoanalysts in Britain,” p. 111. Ken Robinson, “Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through: The Impact of the Controversial Discussions,” in: British Journal of Psychotherapy, 31:1 (2015), pp. 69–85, here: p. 76. Riccardo Steiner, “Background to the Scientific Controversies,” in: The Freud-Klein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner (cit. n. 10), pp. 227– 263, here: p. 237. For ample confirmation in the case of Paula Heimann, who arrived in 1933 destitute and with her marriage at an end, see: Maren Holmes, “Die Emigration von Paula Heimann nach London und ihr Beitrag zur Wiederbelebung der Psychanalyse in der BRD nach 1945,” in: Psychoanalyse und Emigration aus Budapest und Berlin. Edited by Ludger Hermanns/Franziska Henningsen/János Can Togay (Frankfurt/Main: Brandes & Apsel 2013), pp. 157–172. See, e.g., Melanie Klein, “A Contribution to the Psychogenesis of Manic-Depressive States,” in: International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, 16 (1935), pp. 145–174. For an interesting discussion of this relationship in psychoanalytical terms, see Jacqueline Rose, Chapter 6 “War in the Nursery,” in: Why War? Psychoanalysis, Politics and the Return to Melanie Klein (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), pp. 214–220, esp. pp. 216f.

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20. These were laid out with admirable clarity by Pearl King, “Background and Development” (cit. n. 10). 21. See, e.g., Klein’s circular letter to supporters written in preparation for the extraordinary business meetings of the BPS on January 3, 1942, quoted in King, “Background and Development” (cit. n. 10), p. 34, and the still longer letter written in preparation for the scientific discussions on June 27, 1942, reprinted in Steiner, “Background to the Scientific Controversies” (cit. n. 16), pp. 246–248. 22. Strachey to Glover, April 28, 1940, quoted in Phyllis Grosskurth, Melanie Klein: Her World and Her Work (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1987), p. 255. 23. Payne, cit. in The Freud-Klein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner (cit. n. 10), p. 51. 24. In her otherwise carefully differentiated account of the “Controversial Discussions,” Phyllis Grosskurth refers reductively to “warring women.” Phyllis Grosskurth, Melanie Klein, Part V, Section 2, pp. 310ff. 25. Cit. in The Freud-Klein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner (cit. n. 10), p. 257. 26. For multiple examples see Ludger M. Hermanns (ed.), Spaltungen in der Geschichte der Psychoanalyse (Tübingen; edition diskord 1995). 27. An example of such oblique references is the final sentence of Walter Schmideberg’s contribution to the Second Business Meeting, quoting “a letter Freud wrote to a friend twenty-five years ago: ‘Once I am no longer with you, you must stand fast together.’” Cit. in The Freud-Klein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner, p. 87. 28. Steiner, “Background to the Scientific Controversies” (cit. n. 16), p. 237; cf. in detail Riccardo Steiner, “It’s a New Kind of Diaspora…” Explorations in the Sociopolitical Context of Psychoanalysis (New York/London: Karnac Books 2000). 29. Anna Freud, “The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense,” in: The Writings of Anna Freud, vol. II, rev. ed. New York: International Universities Press 1966. First published in English 1937. For a comparison of this daughter–father relationship with that between Melanie Klein and Melitta Schmideberg—who was analyzed by her mother, as Anna Freud was analyzed by her father—see Rose, War in the Nursery (cit. note 19). 30. King, “Background and Development” (cit. n. 10), p. 28. 31. On Stengel’s internment on June 28, 1940 and his release in November, see Stengel to Simpson, November 4, 1940, SPSL Papers. Bodleian Library Oxford, 398/7, cit. in Ash, Central European Emigré Psychologists and Psychoanalysts in Britain, p. 114. 32. Ruth Wodak, personal communication, October 16, 2018. See Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer, “Critical Discourse Analysis: History, Theory,

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34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43.

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45.

46.

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and Methodology,” in: Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis. Edited by Wodak and Meyer. 3rd ed. (London: Sage 2015), pp. 1–32. As quoted by Walter Schmideberg, cit. in The Freud-Klein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner, p. 84. In a later remark at the same session, D. W. Winnicott sent a different message by quoting the same statute in its entirety. As he noted, the text also refers to “the mutual support of the members in all endeavors to acquire and disseminate psychoanalytical knowledge.” Ibid., p. 88. Ibid., p. 84. Cit. in King/Steiner (eds.), The Freud-Klein Controversies, p. 341. Susan Isaacs, “The Nature and Formation of Phantasy,” in: The FreudKlein Controversies. Edited by King/Steiner. here: pp. 276, 278. Emphasis in the original. Klein, cit. in: King/Steiner (eds.), The Freud-Klein Controversies, p. 90. Cit. in ibid., pp. 256f. Schmideberg, cit. in ibid., pp. 84f. Ibid., p. 87. Emphasis Schmideberg. As Jones wrote to Anna Freud: “By nature I believe in aristocratic leadership […]” Jones to Anna Freud, January 21, 1942, cit. in Steiner, “Background to the Scientific Controversies” (cit. n. 16), p. 234. Payne, cit. in: King/Steiner (eds.), The Freud-Klein Controversies, pp. 729f. See Edward Timms, “New Approaches to Child Psychology: From Red Vienna to the Hampstead Nursery,” in: Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation: Refugees from National Socialism in the EnglishSpeaking World. Edited by Edward Timms/Jon Hughes. Vienna/New York: Springer, 2003, pp. 219–240; Nick Midgeley, “Anna Freud: The Hampstead War Nurseries and the Role of the Direct Observation of Children for Psychoanalysis,” in: The International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 88:4 (2007), pp. 939–959. For further discussion of Freud’s Hampstead War Nurseries and the Hampstead Clinic, see Michal Shapira’s chapter in this volume. Ironically, the training curriculum adopted in the so-called Göring Institute in Berlin during the Nazi era also had A, B, and C groups, in this case to distinguish the Freudians, the Jungians, and the Adlerians. Perhaps this points to institutional imperatives at work independently of local or political circumstances. Robert D. Hinshelwood, “Der Mythos vom britischen Kompromiss. Reflexionen über die Meinungsverschiedenheiten in der Britischen Psychoanalytischen Gesellschaft,” in: Spaltungen. Edited by Hermanns (cit. n. 26), pp. 250–265. Steiner, “It’s a New Kind of Diaspora…” (cit. n. 28).

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47. Robinson, “Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through,” p. 77. (cit. n. 15). 48. See, e.g., Nancy J. Chodorow, Feminism and Psychoanalytic Theory (New Haven: Yale University Press 1989).

CHAPTER 9

War Work and Integrated Analysis: Ernst Kris and E.H. Gombrich in Exile Louis Rose

Politics and Integrated Analysis The psychoanalyst Ernst Kris and the art historian E.H. Gombrich belonged to the Viennese generation that witnessed the collapse of the Austrian First Republic. They embarked on their careers after the founding of the republic in 1918 and lived through the rise of antirepublican reaction and the spread of Austro-Fascism under a succession of Christian Social governments. The Christian Social chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss dissolved Parliament in 1933, suppressed the Socialist Party the following year, and excluded Jews from civil service positions, including education. His successor Kurt Schussnigg continued to govern Austria through a coalition of Catholic conservatives and German nationalists. Kris believed it was only a matter of time before Nazism came to power in Austria and that Gombrich, his research assistant, could not risk remaining in Vienna. Gombrich departed permanently for London in 1936. Kris left for England in the summer of 1938, a few months after the Anschluss between Germany and Austria. Throughout

L. Rose (B) Otterbein University, Westerville, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_9

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the 1930s, Kris and Gombrich continued to pursue psychological and art historical research but also began to take up political questions and activities. In exile, the two Viennese scholars joined the Allied war effort as propaganda analysts. They now engaged more deeply with politics as an independent sphere of thought and action. In this brief essay I will discuss how Kris and Gombrich thought about the connections between psychology, image studies, and political engagement. In particular, I will draw attention to their interest in pursuing what was called at the time an “integrated analysis”—an integration of history and psychology, of the humanities and the social sciences, and of scholarship and politics. Their application of integrated analysis helped them to define points of connection and separation between psychological, cultural, and political questions. Just as importantly, their pursuit of integrated research brought them into contact with writers and researchers—exiled, British, and American—who shared their intellectual pursuits, their war work, and their political concerns.

Ernst Kris and E.H. Gombrich in Vienna Kris and Gombrich received their formal education in the Viennese School of art history, Kris in the early 1920s and Gombrich in the early 1930s.1 Immediately following his graduation, Kris became a curator of applied art at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. More importantly, within a few years of taking the museum position, he was introduced to Sigmund Freud. By the late 1920s he had become a leading participant in the Viennese psychoanalytic movement and would play a key role in developing a psychoanalytic ego psychology. In the early 1930s he began research into the psychology of image making and creativity and became editor of the interdisciplinary psychoanalytic journal Imago. He began to focus his study of images on the problem of caricature art. For Kris, caricature provided an ideal case study of Freud’s theory of mind, specifically the roles of the repressed primary process and independent ego functioning in artistic creation. In 1934, in the psychoanalytic journal Imago, Kris published his first essay on caricature. There he introduced the term “regression in the service of the ego” to describe the mechanism of creative work. In the same year of 1934, Kris offered E.H. Gombrich a position as his assistant, specifically to help him with his caricature project. Like Kris, Gombrich possessed an intense interest in psychology. Although never

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drawn to psychoanalysis, he was as strongly committed as Kris to the psychology of art. His chief concern became the study of images as mental constructs or cognitive schemas. For Gombrich, caricature typified image making as the creation of schematic forms. He did not accept Freud’s theory of the role of the repressed in mental life, but he did share with Kris an interest in caricature as a demonstration of the ego’s autonomous activity. Before they left Vienna, Kris and Gombrich completed a book manuscript on the psychology and art of caricature. Caricature artists, they argued, distorted or exaggerated physical features as a means to depict their subject’s inner personality. Relying only on the simplest recognizable physical elements, caricature portraits reduced the personality to a schematic likeness or sketch. In this way, as Freud had explained about jokes, caricature acted as a form of aggression, but aggression channeled toward the task of psychological and moral examination. When portraying members of a social class, cultural institution, government ministry, or political party, caricature served the aim of social criticism and political protest. In the hands of artists such as Honoré Daumier, it became an essential republican art form, a source of humor and critical thought that advanced democratic political culture. A project that began as a study in psychology and cultural history had expanded to include the political analysis of images and image making. The caricature manuscript became the culmination of Kris and Gombrich’s joint research. After the war, Gombrich described it as “model of ‘integration.’”2 Although the caricature manuscript reflected their training in the Vienna School of art history and Kris’s work with psychoanalysis, Kris and Gombrich planned to dedicate the book to the Warburg Institute in London. The Institute had been founded in Hamburg as the Warburg Library. There Aby Warburg and his circle approached the study of art not as a separate discipline but as one field within the wider domain of the psychology and history of image making. In a lecture at the 1912 congress of art historians in Rome, Warburg urged that the study of images become interdisciplinary and international, and he called on art historians to explore image making across scholarly, temporal, and national divides. Warburg described his lecture as “a plea for an extension of the methodological borders of our study of art, in both material and spatial terms”; scholarship, he stated, had to “range freely, with no fear of border guards.”3 Kris maintained continuous contact with the Warburg

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Library, chiefly through his contacts with another Vienna School graduate, Fritz Saxl. During the 1920s, Saxl served as assistant director of the Library, and after Warburg’s death in 1929 he directed the Library in collaboration with Gertrud Bing. Through Saxl, Kris arranged for his assistant Otto Kurz to receive a position with the Library in Hamburg. After Hitler came to power in 1933, the Library moved to London, where it changed its name to the Warburg Institute. During the Thirties, Saxl made regular visits to Vienna, at which times Kris met with him and pressed him to bring Gombrich to London. In 1936, Gombrich left Vienna to become a fellow at the Institute. Kris kept in contact with Saxl until the Anschluss , sending him the names of Jewish academics in immediate need of assistance to escape Vienna. Only in 1938, when Freud moved to London after the Anschluss , would Kris also leave for England. He telegraphed Saxl with his arrival information. In London, it was Kris’s plan to encourage direct communication and intellectual cooperation between the British psychoanalytic community and the Warburg Institute. Just as importantly, Kris planned to carry out research at the Institute on a project tracing the psychology and history of image making across cultures. The images would include dream visions as interpreted by Freud as well as the variety of visual media studied by Warburg. With the outbreak of war, Kris had to abandon the project. The unpublished caricature book remained his, and Gombrich’s, tribute to Warburg’s ideal of a republic of letters, or in Warburg’s words, a scholarship without border guards.

Joining the War Effort The study of caricature in particular and of images in general established the path that Kris and Gombrich followed into war work. In September 1939, immediately after the war began, Kris joined the BBC as a propaganda analyst and assembled one of the first teams to monitor German radio broadcasts. A few months later, on Kris’s recommendation, Gombrich became a member of the BBC monitoring service. When internment of German and Austrian refugees began in 1940, the BBC transferred Kris to Canada, where he helped to organize a new monitoring post. Gombrich was able to continue with war work in England. Kris’s wartime politics reflected his Popular Front consciousness. In September 1940, writing to the BBC from Montreal, he interpreted American public opinion for a colleague. He described the political Right

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as “unconditional isolationists of the old school, which are up to a point, but not totally, amalgamated with the fifth columnists.”4 Of far greater concern was the Wall Street section of isolationism; this section does, at present, not interfere with rearmament. Their whole interest seems to be concentrated in getting Roosevelt out of office. Their intention—‘Appeasement’ and ‘business with New Europe’ [—] is not yet outspoken […] On the whole, these people seem to assume that some kind of peace between a weakened [British] Empire and Hitler might be a good thing.5

Kris worried deeply about the segment of public opinion that remained defeatist in the fight against Hitler, either out of “the belief in his invincibility” or out of “the disillusionment in democratic resistance (France!).”6 Support for the war against fascism came both from rearmament advocates and from the Left, “the unconditioned anti-fascist and those for whom Britain was not an empty word.”7 In December 1940, now writing from the U.S., he expressed support for the appointment of Halifax— a Conservative architect of appeasement—as ambassador to Washington, but he hoped that “somebody with appeal to the labor, [sic] comes with him. The Wall Street racket is overwhelmingly powerful. They are just everywhere.”8 By the end of 1940, Kris had accepted a position with the Graduate Faculty of the New School for Social Research in New York. In collaboration with émigré German sociologist and New School colleague Hans Speier, he continued to monitor and analyze German broadcasts. The two exiled scholars organized the Research Project on Totalitarian Communication, which became the basis for their wartime book, German Radio Propaganda.9 Their project received crucial support from the Rockefeller Foundation’s John Marshall, who linked it to the wartime programs he sponsored at the foundation. In the 1930s, when other members of the Rockefeller Foundation hesitated to offer support to socialists or Jews, Marshall had found ways to funnel assistance to both groups. As war approached, he began to direct funds to programs that would analyze and counter fascist propaganda.10

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John Marshall: Antifascism and the Study of Mass Communication John Marshall had been a scholar of medieval literature at Harvard University. At the time he met Kris, he headed the Rockefeller Foundation’s Humanities Division. He epitomized, in the trajectory of his own career as well as in his work at the foundation, the pursuit of integrated research—both as the integration of scholarly disciplines and as the integration of scholarship and political action. He advanced projects that explored the use of mass media in popular education. With the approach of war, he became increasingly concerned with the abuse of mass communication for business advertising and political propaganda. One of Marshall’s efforts was the Radio Research project. In 1937, he offered the position of project director to the émigré Jewish sociologist, Paul Lazarsfeld, who with Marie Jahoda and Hans Zeisel had co-authored the path-breaking study of unemployed workers and youth in Marienthal, near Vienna.11 Housed institutionally at Princeton University, the Radio Research project applied statistical measures to track audience listening habits, compute the effect of radio shows on their listeners, and compare the impact of radio to that of print media. When the United States entered the war against Hitler, Radio Research devoted itself chiefly to gauging the effectiveness of radio and film as morale-builders both on the home front and within the military services.12 A distinct change also occurred in the personnel of the project. Before the war Lazarsfeld’s staff came from non-academic occupations in marketing and broadcasting, whereas in wartime it drew chiefly from young academicians and graduate fellows.13 The Frankfurt School philosopher Theodor Adorno had been a member of Radio Research prior to the war and received Lazarsfeld’s encouragement to design a study of music played on the radio. As Adorno recalled, he devised his methodology in accord with “critical communications research.”14 He proposed analyzing the content of the communications rather than simply compile a statistical and descriptive record of behavioral and emotive responses to music programming: “I oppose stating and measuring effects without relating them to these ‘stimuli,’ i.e., the objective content to which the consumers in the cultural industry, the radio listeners, react.”15 Marshall decided against funding Adorno’s proposal.16 But he reached a different conclusion regarding the Frankfurt School film critic and socialist scholar, Siegfried Kracauer.

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At the urging of Iris Barry, the curator of the Museum of Modern Art’s Film Library, Marshall supported Kracauer’s proposal to study Nazi wartime film propaganda. He asked that Kracauer coordinate his work with Kris and Speier. Barry supported the idea: “A coordination of the two studies in radio communication and in film communication would thus be effected, which seems desirable in the interest of an integrated content-analysis of totalitarian communication in wartime.”17 Like Barry, Marshall saw the integration of film studies with the Research Project on Totalitarian Communication analytically—as part of a systematic examination of the contents of fascist propaganda. Just as importantly, he also viewed it strategically—as a contribution to developing effective forms of counterpropaganda. One of Marshall’s chief consultants, the Columbia social scientist Robert S. Lynd, urged that the Rockefeller communication projects combat both neutralist sentiment and fascist sympathy within the media and wider population.18 It was Lynd who found Lazarsfeld a position in the National Youth Administration office at the University of Newark so that he could escape Vienna and Lynd who later recommended Lazarsfeld to direct the Radio Research project.19 In 1939, Lynd brought Lazarsfeld to Columbia University, where the Viennese exile received an appointment in the sociology department and where the Radio Research project became incorporated into the new Bureau of Applied Social Research. Within Marshall’s network, Lynd became an inspirational figure. He offered a new model for combining psychology and history, and provided an example of how to integrate scholarly research with war work.

Robert S. Lynd and Margaret Mead: Social Science and War Work In 1929, Robert S. Lynd and his wife Helen Merrell Lynd published Middletown: A Study in Modern American Culture. It provided both a detailed social analysis and a fine-grained literary evocation of a small American city on the eve of the Great Depression. The Lynds explored the cultural lag between the community’s traditional institutions and its rapidly changing social, economic, and psychological realities, a lag that left Middletown—Muncie, Indiana—poorly prepared to confront the Depression era.20 The book offered new principles and methods for integrating several social science disciplines within a single study and combined social scientific research as a whole with humanistic studies.

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A decade later, in 1939, Lynd published Knowledge for What? The Place of Social Science in American Culture. It presented an urgent analysis of the responsibilities that immediately confronted social scientists in the “post-Munich world.”21 As in Middletown, Lynd emphasized the widening and increasingly dysfunctional lag between conventional institutions and socio-political realities, in this case, the gap between academic and professional organizations and the pressing nature of what had now become international, as well as domestic, problems. Social scientists had acquired the means and information to achieve a broader and deeper understanding of those problems and to participate more actively in devising plans to answer them. But whatever the potential within social science, that potential remained unrealized. Specialization, for example, still competed with the increasingly interdependent nature of the social sciences—sociology, anthropology, economics, political science, history, and psychology—and the ongoing need for shared knowledge and methods. As one kind of integrative approach, Lynd proposed “a resolution of the Marx vs. Freud antinomy.”22 As in the Frankfurt School, culture provided the integrative concept and tool: Only as the too-inner drama of Freudianism and the too-externalized drama of Marxism can meet and reenforce [sic] each other on the common ground of the behavior of persons-in-culture can either make its greatest contribution to a workable theory of cultural change.23

Lynd drew attention to the work of Margaret Mead, who approached the study of culture with “a sophisticated analysis of human personality.”24 Equally important, she applied a comparative method in anthropology that conveyed insights into current social questions. For Lynd, what joined the Middletown citizen of the 1920s to the social science professional of the 1930s was the experience of conflict between accepted institutional behavior and values and the urgent demands of new social and political realities. The citizen of the Twenties and the social scientist of the Thirties shared a profound sense of disorientation and disenchantment. The political consequence of that disenchantment was of immediate concern for democracies: In some cases, the disjunctions and contradictions go beyond ambivalence and actually set up a blocked situation from which there seems no line of escape. The harassment of living for the thoughtful citizen of a democracy

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in these post-Munich days derives from the fact that there seems to be literally no way out which intelligence can sanction.25

That despondency expressed itself in the figure of the “disillusioned reformer” who saw long efforts at piecemeal change collapse, or the “dismay and disillusionment” of the political scientist and economist who finally recognized the failure or irrelevance of supposed business selfcorrections and diplomatic understandings.26 Social scientists could at least fight off the sense of despair in themselves and in others by undertaking cooperative researches into broad societal problems and initiating coordinated plans and actions to deal with them. One such problem was how and why fascism had emerged specifically in capitalist societies. In the post-Munich world, such a project might prevent the spread of defeatism. In 1942, with the U.S. in the war, Margaret Mead also analyzed and attempted to combat the sense of disillusion. In Keep Your Powder Dry: An Anthropologist Looks At America, Mead emphasized that defeatism reflected not only an attitude toward the immediate prospects of the war, but also a perception of history. Human beings who saw history as moving in a fixed direction, and who had lost or renounced a sense of control over their personal futures, had already adopted a defeatist mentality: A great many Americans appear to be thinking just like that today, acting as if the whole course of the war—which of course may go right in the end!—were out of our hands, just lunging along by itself, like an engine with the engineer asleep at the throttle.27

Ernst Kris had recognized that Nazi propagandists figured a tendency toward defeatism into their calculations. Mead cited an unpublished paper by Kris in which he explained that Nazi propagandists constructed their message, and the method of its delivery, around their conclusions about how and under what conditions human behavior tended toward the renunciation of responsibility: “how they will behave in crowds; how weariness and certain kinds of light and noise, reiteration and reduplication of lies of sufficient magnitude will affect them … how much hate and hostility is available in human beings.”28 Mead stated the antifascist response in direct and simple terms: “The other way to look at the year 1942 is that it will be, in part at least, what we make it.”29 This statement distilled the message of social scientists such as Marshall, Lynd, Kris, and Gombrich, as well as Mead.

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Integrated Analysis in Britain and the U.S. In his funding application to the Rockefeller Foundation, which included an interview with Marshall, Kris recalled, “I gave them my conditions: That I was not “neutral,” that I would not associate with anybody who had ever been neutral or anti-British at any time of his life, etc.”30 In the interview he explained that any analysis of mass propaganda must penetrate “even to the instructions that underlie it, and definite instructions can safely be taken for granted in the totalitarian countries.”31 As he later wrote in his introduction to German Radio Propaganda, propaganda had to be approached on two levels: as “the images he [the propagandist] has created in the minds of his audience” and as the conscious “configuration” propagandists produced as an instrument of political strategy.32 Interpreting propagandistic images called for an integrated approach— in Kris’s case, one that combined Freudian psychology, Warburg’s image studies, and political analysis. In his work as a propaganda analyst with the BBC in England, Gombrich sought also to define both the psychological construction of propaganda and its political intent. In 1941, he wrote to Kris: The main ‘point’ of my story would be that it is a misconception to think of ‘propaganda’ as of a means to put ‘something’ across—say the idea, that America is an invincible industrial ally or so. It is first and foremost a way of se[e]ing things, an interpretation of events, not of some events but of all events, past, present and future. Everything must fit in and the ‘moral’ of ever[y]thing must always be ‘I told you so’ … [T]he myth to which everything is reduced is, of course, born out of the most simple and primitive mechanism of that kind: projection. That is to say, the ‘stop thieve[s]’ technique which [one] can always enjoy with so much pleasure in German propaganda—(the others strive for world domination, regard Europe as ‘a mere reservoir of slave labour’, play the socialists to dupe the masses, and have stolen the V sign from the Germans who invented it)—has very deep roots in the whole technique.33

Propaganda projected schematic images; it imposed a mode of seeing. To that schema propagandists attached their specific political strategies and intents. In a letter to Kris in August 1943, Gombrich lamented that British universities had no professors who undertook the research that Robert S. Lynd pursued. On Saxl’s recommendation Gombrich had read Knowledge

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for What? He agreed with Lynd’s demand that scholars incorporate the new psychological and sociological sciences into their thinking: “Recently I read some of the essays in Robert Lynd’s ‘Knowledge for What’? (Saxl drew my attention to them) and I found them very stimulating and very ‘American’—are’nt [sic] they?”34 In the same letter, Gombrich informed Kris that within British academia xenophobic attitudes had resurfaced and would persist into postwar society: There is a definite danger of a pseudo fascist reaction here with talk of the kind one hears already ‘the foreigners and Jews stayed behind and took all the cushy jobs etc.’ and though my job is anything but cushy it is difficult for outsiders to see it in this light. In this respect too you are better off as an immigrant in the USA then [sic] we here who are only here on toleration. As you know naturalisation does’nt [sic] make any difference here.35

Kris shared Gombrich’s sense of dislocation and disillusion. But at that moment he saw in popular politics and Popular Front ideas a possible response. He answered Gombrich: As far as the general situation goes the concern of common people about the future is the one hopeful sign I can see. Peace plan[n]ers have as yet not been able to integrate their work and policy makers have failed or avoided to publicize their plans. The concern of the common people however remains the motiv[e] power which will help to overcome inertia and may well guarantee that easy go lucky back to normalcy speakers won[’]t find followers. Their kind is naturally more rampant in this country than in England. Here normalcy means ‘free’ enterprise, anti new deal policy, and in the long run the old mess.36

Like Gombrich, Kris remained profoundly troubled by the very real possibility of a postwar fascist resurgence. Intellectuals with Gombrich’s wartime experience would have important roles to play after the war: “I like to think of the day when people like yourself will be busy debunking the mythology they carefully recorded. Our anti Nazi propaganda must start when the war is won, or we may well see the third world war emerge from the second as the second emerged from the first.”37 In Kris’s view, the Popular Front spirit would remain crucial to postwar recovery.

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Before closing his letter to Gombrich, Kris wanted to explain to him that Lynd’s ideas were not the thoughts of an ordinary American social researcher but those of an engaged intellectual of the Left: Robert Lynd, whom you seem to consider as typical American, is undoubtedly one of the leading if not the leading American sociologist; he is a true leftist, to the left of ordinary Marxists, and is undoubtedly a brilliant man. You many have met him or [will] meet him in England since he is supposed to act there as a[n] OWI [Office of War Information] speaker, as Margaret Mead is doing. She is one of my close friends and again typical only of herself. There are not many of his or her kind around.38

As Kris knew, Lynd and Mead had done more than define a new type of integrative research; they had challenged political defeatism and called into question a disenchanted conception of history.

Integrated Analysis After the War Immediately after the war Kris participated in a broad social science effort to debunk the mythology that he and Gombrich had so carefully recorded as wartime propaganda analysts. The occasion was a conference organized by the Society for the Psychological Study of Social Issues on the theme of “human nature and enduring peace.”39 The problem on which Kris spoke was how to turn mass media away from nationalist propagandizing and toward internationalist education. He warned against employing the medium of mass advertising in that effort. Instead, he advised that world organizations produce new media for the distribution of global information, among the most important of which would be information collected by communication scholars and opinion researchers on the experience of war.40 He had, of course, already come to this conclusion before the war. In the caricature manuscript, he and Gombrich had described how the rise of mass marketing and political propagandizing undermined caricature as a source of democratic education, and as a medium of autonomous observation, thought, and criticism. Advertisers used schematic caricatures to elicit instantaneous recognition of their product. Propagandists employed it to enforce stereotypes, elicit violent nationalist emotions, and stir actual physical violence. Nationalist propagandists did not seek readers or viewers but rather followers, collaborators, or bystanders.

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In the early twentieth century, the integration of social scientific researches meant the sharing and exchange of disciplinary theories and methods. But with the experience of forced exile, the struggle against fascism, and the organization of the Allied war effort, integrated analysis took on wider meanings. In the form pursued by Lynd or Mead, it became a type of thought and action that could create new intellectual and political communities. Those communities crossed borders, shared in war work, and kept persistent guard against the reemergence of fascist and defeatist mentalities. Efforts toward forming such communities—efforts like those of Kris and Gombrich, Marshall and Barry, and Lynd and Mead—sought not only to reduce the distance between scholars from different disciplines but also to bridge the gap between scholarship as a profession and the demands of social and political realities. In today’s world, the goal of overcoming intellectual and political isolation remains one of the crucial moving forces of integrated analysis.

Notes 1. The careers, manuscripts, publications, correspondence, and wartime service of Kris and Gombrich discussed in this essay are explored in detail in my book Psychology, Art, and Antifascism: Ernst Kris, E.H. Gombrich, and the Politics of Caricature (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2016). 2. E.H. Gombrich to Ernst Kris, August 6, 1952, Box 6, Ernst Kris Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Hereafter cited as EK. 3. Aby Warburg, “Italian Art and International Astrology in the Palazzo Schifanoia, Ferrara” (1912), in: The Renewal of Pagan Antiquity: Contributions to the Cultural History of the European Renaissance (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1999), p. 585. 4. Ernst Kris to Mark Abrams, September 5, 1940, Box 2, EK. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Kris to Abrams, December 22, 1940, Box 2, EK. 9. Ernst Kris and Hans Speier, German Radio Propaganda: Report on Home Broadcasts during the War (London: Oxford University Press, 1944). 10. On the New School and the Research Project on Totalitarian Communication, see Brett Gary, The Nervous Liberals: Propaganda Anxieties from World War I to the Cold War (New York: Columbia University Press,

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13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

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1999), and Peter M. Rutkoff and William B. Scott, New School: A History of the New School for Social Research (New York: The Free Press, 1986). On the Marienthal study and the work of Marie Jahoda, see Shapira’s Chapter 10 in this volume. Paul F. Lazarsfeld, “An Episode in the History of Social Research: A Memoir,” in: The Intellectual Migration: Europe and America, 1930– 1960, ed. Donald Fleming and Bernard Bailyn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, Belknap Press, 1969), pp. 304–5, 310–13, 326–31. Ibid., p. 332, n. 86. T. W. Adorno, “Scientific Experiences of a European Scholar in America,” tr. Donald Fleming, in: The Intellectual Migration, p. 343. Italics in the original. Ibid. See Lazarsfeld, “Episode in the History of Social Research,” pp. 323–25. Iris Barry to John Marshall, May 14, 1941, in: David Culbert, “The Rockefeller Foundation, the Museum of Modern Art Film Library, and Siegfried Kracauer, 1941,” in: Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 13, no. 4 (1993): p. 499. News of the Hitler-Stalin Pact disturbed Lynd greatly. See Gary, The Nervous Liberals, pp. 93–94. Lazarsfeld, “Episode in the History of Social Research,” pp. 276, 295. Robert S. Lynd and Helen Merrell Lynd, Middletown: A Study in Modern American Culture (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1929, 1957). In 1935, the Lynds returned to Muncie to study the effects of the Depression. See Robert S. Lynd and Helen Merrell Lynd, Middletown in Transition: A Study in Cultural Conflicts (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1937, 1965). Robert S. Lynd, Knowledge for What? The Place of Social Science in American Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1939, 1948), p. 220. Ibid., p. 41. Ibid. Critics from the Frankfurt School, such as Franz Neumann, welcomed Lynd’s integrative approach but claimed that it placed too great an emphasis on psychological and cultural factors over social processes. See most recently David Kettler and Thomas Wheatland, Learning from Franz L. Neumann: Law, Theory, and the Brute Facts of Political Life (London: Anthem Press, 2019), pp. 212–14. Lynd, Knowledge for What?, p. 158. Ibid., p. 103. Ibid., pp. 111, 123. Margaret Mead, Keep Your Powder Dry: An Anthropologist Looks at America (New York: William Morrow, 1942), p. 159. Ibid., p. 176. For Kris’s wartime articles on propaganda and morale, see Ernst Kris, Selected Papers of Ernst Kris (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1975).

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29. Mead, Keep Your Powder Dry, pp. 159–60. 30. Ernst Kris to John Salt, December 15, 1940, Box 2, EK. 31. John Marshall, Interviews, December 12, 1940, Rockefeller Foundation, Record Group 1.1, Series 200, Sub-series R, Box 260, Folder 3098. Marshall’s report on the interview confirmed Kris’s recollections. 32. Kris and Speier, German Radio Propaganda, pp. 35, 36. 33. Gombrich to Kris, July 23, 1941, Box 6, EK. Underlined in the original. Gombrich revived the analysis of propaganda contained in his letters from 1941 in his Creighton Lecture delivered nearly thirty years later. See Gombrich, “Myth and Reality in German Wartime Broadcasts (1969),” in: Ideals and Idols: Essays on Values in History and in Art (London: Phaidon Press, 1979). 34. Gombrich to Kris, August 16, 1943, Box 6, EK. 35. Ibid. 36. Kris to Gombrich, September 18, [1943], Archive of E.H. Gombrich Estate, at the Warburg Institute Archive, London. © Literary Estate of E. H. Gombrich. 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid. Underlined in the original. 39. The papers delivered at the conference were published in: Human Nature and Enduring Peace, ed. Gardner Murphy (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1945). 40. Ibid., pp. 402–8.

CHAPTER 10

Marie Jahoda Deconstructing Freud Elana Shapira

As a socialist political activist and at the beginning of her career as a social psychologist in the early 1930s, Marie Jahoda came to acknowledge the charismatic role of Sigmund Freud in the Viennese intellectual scene and furthermore became familiar with psychoanalysis. She may have already heard about Freud from her uncle Emil Jahoda, a doctor of medicine, who played cards with him. Yet, Freud would become directly relevant to her education as a psychologist. During her student years in the Psychology Department at the University of Vienna she shared with her fellow students a fascination with him and his theories and, beyond this, she undertook therapy with Heinz Hartmann, a psychoanalyst and a follower of Freud. But not until 1977, after teaching psychology at three universities, in the United States and in Britain, New York University in New York city (1949–1958), Brunel College of Technology in London (1958–1965) and University of Sussex in Brighton (1965–1973), did Jahoda publish a book about Freud titled, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology. While her book was important for how it reconstituted Freud’s lessons during a period of controversy within North American and British discourse on Freud’s relevance and the relationship of psychoanalysis

E. Shapira (B) University of Applied Arts Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_10

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to academic psychology, the interest in this chapter is in her book as a historical document that reveals something about Jahoda’s own identity questions. At the beginning of the book Jahoda raises a critical question about Freud’s legacy in connection with the controversies regarding his biography: is psychoanalysis the idiosyncratic product of a distorted mind, or is it a body of thought which cannot be brushed aside by reference to the troubles of its originator?1

She surfaces the question of Freud’s self-characterization as a discriminated Jewish scientist and his possible authorial bias expressed in his references to antisemitic experiences. This provocation of hers raises further the question how Jahoda positioned herself within the same discipline. As a politically aware, Austrian-Jewish woman professional, who was also an émigré, what was her intention in dissecting Freud in this manner?2

Emigration, Authorial Intent, and Authorship Jahoda’s 1977 book followed her direct engagement with the theories of psychoanalysis after the Second World War while working in New York. This earlier period resulted in her co-authored publication, AntiSemitism and Emotional Disorder: A Psychoanalytic Interpretation (1950) and two essays “Some Notes on the Influence of Psycho-analytic Ideas on American Psychology” (1963) and “The Migration of Psychoanalysis: Its Impact on American Psychology” (1968). In her book Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, Jahoda chose to examine Freud through a paradoxical approach that rekindled debates about Freud the individual, starting with aspects of his biography. She begins by addressing those who questioned Freud’s memory of his parents’ marriage, yet elaborates on a more critical subject that would also be relevant to her, namely Freud’s testimony on the influence antisemitism had on his career and specifically its integration into his theories in The Interpretation of Dreams (1900).3 The debate regarding Freud’s confronting antisemitism critically addressed his possible exaggeration. The following discussion proposes that integral to Jahoda’s authorial intent in this book was a process of re-working her own biography and own sense of belonging to Vienna and, specifically, a meaningful belonging to a Viennese cultural heritage.

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The suggestion is also that her book is relevant as a historical document in itself, revealing through its discourse something about the trajectory Jahoda experienced as an émigré, forced to leave Vienna during the Austro-Fascist period, and then denied return to Vienna/Austria after the Holocaust and the Second World War.4 Her argument as a professor of psychology is that academic psychology was insufficient in its approach and methodology, and that psychoanalysis could redress and, moreover, help develop its deficiencies.5 Her analysis method (identified here as deconstructionist), which was, in her words a “piecemeal” approach to Freud’s legacy, allowed Jahoda to re-appropriate Freud and show her mastery over his writings and the scholarly discourse on him.6 At the same time, Jahoda’s deconstructionist method offered a way out of certain intellectual constraints by disturbing the assumptions regarding the boundaries of psychology as a self-enclosed positivist discipline.7 She addressed psychologists’ resistance to incorporating psychoanalytic methods and suggested they do their own deconstruction to determine for themselves what was valuable in Freud’s legacy. Jahoda’s method is reminiscent of what French philosopher Jacques Derrida laid out in his deconstructionist method; she presented criticism against Freud to simultaneously detect the gaps in Freud’s biography, writings, and theories, and addressed these gaps, yet showed how the deconstructive processes were already occurring in the Freudian (re)sources and that were waiting to be further interpreted and applied.8 Jahoda’s deconstructionist method may have also been inspired by Freud’s analytical approach in The Interpretation of Dreams , where he identifies the gaps between what is said and what is meant to be said, and acknowledges the necessity of recognizing the censorship processes.9 Jahoda tried to understand and lay open Freud’s psychological language. However, the first and rather short part of her piecemeal approach to Freud’s work involves examining his autobiographical accounts, specifically discussing whether antisemitism had as profound impact on him and his career as he claimed. The question arises as to what her aim was in addressing this at the start of her book. Why did she raise questions that echoed the academic debates regarding Freud’s professional authority: “A seemingly unending flood of publications provides contradictory answers: a scientist or a charlatan; […] a curse or a blessing for science and morality.”10 Jahoda’s discussion resurfacing doubts about the extent to which Freud experienced antisemitism was directly related to

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her early career in Vienna and this in turn, it is here suggested, critically influenced her career after emigration.

Vienna and the Question of Belonging In 1924, as a 17 year-old high school student, Jahoda joined a socialist youth organization and this political ideology would become central to her self-identification in Austria. It may have further granted her a certain sense of immunity against threats of antisemitic rhetoric and discrimination and the violent activities of the Catholic-Socialist and Nazi parties.11 It shaped her as a political activist and teacher into the early 1930s and would continue to do so in her early work as a social psychologist. In September 1930, Josef K. Friedjung, a pediatrician and member of the psychoanalytic society, as well as a socialist member of Vienna’s city council, published an article titled, “What does psychoanalysis offer the socialist educator?”12 He encouraged the educator to “know yourself!” in order to, first, better understand children without projections and, second, to offer children an ideal ego as a model of authority. (Freud himself may have set himself as such a model through documenting his self-analysis in his writings, establishing himself as a person of authority within a new science.) According to Friedjung, the child’s relationship with the educator and the formation of a positive and social, ideal ego were crucial for her/ his social relations as well as for preserving democracy.13 Independent of this recommendation Jahoda decided to enter therapy with Freud’s follower Hartmann as a young single mother, in the period following her separation from sociologist Paul Lazarsfeld.14 She had been completing her studies in the University of Vienna’s psychology department under the supervision of the developmental psychologist Charlotte Bühler.15 While Jahoda was writing her dissertation, she was involved in numerous other projects. In 1931, she started working at the Viennese Research Center for Economic Psychology affiliated with the University of Vienna. Most famous research initiated by the founder of the center Lazarsfeld was on the unemployed in Marienthal, a textile factory in Lower Austria that closed in 1930.16 She was an active socialist, and parallel to receiving her teacher’s diploma she also began lecturing.17 Among her intellectual concerns in this period as a social psychologist was the role of women in society. Lectures she gave in the early

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1930s included titles such as “The Historical Conditions in the Relationship between the Sexes in the Proletariat,”18 and “Developmental Stages and Problems in Women Lives.”19 Jahoda’s talks, specifically on the relation between the sexes and women’s work, would resurface in the book Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, with regard to Freud’s theories on femininity. End of 1932, while working at the Gesellschaftund Wirtschaftsmuseum (Museum of Society and Economy), founded by the national economist Otto Neurath, Jahoda was invited by Neurath, a leading member of the Wiener Kreis, an interdisciplinary positivist philosophical circle, to participate in a seminar aimed at translating Freud’s “Massenpsychologie und Ich-Analyse, 1921” (Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego) into a positivist language. The project did not succeed but she appreciated the intellectual challenge.20 In 1933, Jahoda’s co-authored book reporting on the research of the unemployed with Hans Zeisel, Die Arbeitslosen von Marienthal. Ein soziographischer Versuch über die Wirkungen langandauernder Arbeitslosigkeit (later translated The Marienthal: The Sociography of an Unemployed Community), for which Lazarsfeld wrote the introduction, was published. The sociological study was influenced by the academic developmental psychology and its method of recording life-histories. Yet, a critical observation, formulated perhaps in relation to Freud’s argument in his book Das Unbehagen in der Kultur (Civilization and its Discontents) (1930) about “work” as the strongest binding to reality, is how the unemployed have an impaired sense of time as if “they have forgotten how to hurry.”21 Even though psychoanalysis was relevant to Jahoda’s awareness of her own lived experience, when returning the focus to her own specific historical time and situation in Vienna it seems that something in her awareness of psychoanalytical approaches failed to serve her in the midst of a growing antisemitism. The example of Jahoda’s work on the unemployed of Marienthal brings up an interesting case that perhaps highlights the disparity in Jahoda’s early career between how she applied research methodologies and her own critical self-awareness of the social context she was living in, particularly in relation to antisemitism. One of the questions raised in interviews with respondents was whether they would consider changing their conditions to improve their chances at employment.22 Perhaps more than a related and objective question about the unemployed group’s experience, in fact it would have been relevant to the researchers in their inquiry about emigration in a broader social

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context where emigration was a looming reality. With the rise of antisemitism, the authors would have been confronted with public posters promoting Austrian Nazi party slogans that singled out the Jewish population. In the regional states’ elections and in the local Viennese council elections in April 1932, posters had proclaimed such things as: “500,000 unemployed – 400,000 Jews – the way out is very easy! Vote National Socialism.”23 The fact that the Austrian Nazi party had made significant gains in these elections meant that the idea of changing one’s circumstances—through emigration—was a very real proposition. And yet, there is a noted absence of addressing the question of antisemitism in the Marienthal work. At the end of the 1970s, a group of researchers returned to Marienthal to reconsider the documentation of the 1930s interviews and to conduct a new social psychological research, and suggested that the authors repressed the antisemitism they witnessed in the early 1930s; or perhaps Jahoda and her fellow interviewer preferred to dismiss/repress as an irrelevant diversion from the subject at hand/or censored for publication (Jahoda was working half a day alongside the gentile jurist Gertrude Wagner, who worked full days).24 Journalist and sociologist Michael Freund who addressed this issue in the later report concluded that antisemitism was simply unavoidable, since they confronted it themselves more than 40 years later, but it opens questions about Jahoda’s framing of Jewish identity in her later work.25 There is a lingering question about the extent the young social psychologist chose to frame her own psychological practices within an awareness of her social responsibility toward weak sections in society and in relation to her position as a woman professional.26 In addressing the controversy regarding Freud’s biographical account in her book, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, Jahoda tries to contextualize the community of Jewish psychoanalysts historically. Following Allan Janik’s and Stephen Toumlin’s description in Wittgenstein’s Vienna (1973), she gathers that professionals and academics in the early twentieth century formed a close knit community that was “not alienated from, but rather alienated with their whole class.”27 This whole class, to which Freud belonged, was to a large extent Jewish. As she notes, they were “certainly not antisemitic.” Yet, it is here suggested that this reference deserves further critical reflection and that some may have been influenced by and perhaps were even unconsciously repressing, and consequently internalizing, antisemitic rhetoric. This is suggested even in Jahoda’s own report on the unemployed in Marienthal, in a striking

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sentence, and the only one mentioning the word Jew, that alludes to a historically prevalent stereotype: “As far as possible, debts are paid off on that day, and the Ratenjud, as the door-to-door salesman from Vienna is called, comes to arrange terms of payment for his goods.”28 This single reference to traveling salesman as the “installment Jew,” with no critical reflection concerning the meaning of this historical reference, echoes the observations of the later researchers who kept hearing references in their interviews to “the Jew” without mention of names.29 When Jahoda and her colleagues ultimately published Marienthal, the German publisher requested them not to place their names on the book cover because they sounded Jewish.30 This historical anecdote regarding the “erasure” of their names reflects the limitations on Jewish scientists’ claims to professional authorship in this period.31 Therefore, it seems that Jahoda lived for herself what would become integral to her later brief inquiry on Freud: that at the core of his development of an ultimate language of outsiders (or as she would identify it, a language of émigrés), was Freud’s experience of antisemitism. But how did Jahoda’s acute awareness as a political activist and psychologist compare to her Jewish self-awareness at a critical moment in European history, and where did her interest in psychological practice fit in relation to questions of identification in the early 1930s, particularly the echo of the condemnation of psychoanalysis as a “Jewish science”?32 It was only a significant time later, more than three decades after the publication of the Marienthal research, that Jahoda would seem to directly address the context of antisemitism in the 1930, writing this historical reference at the opening of her essay, “The Migration of Psychoanalysis”: In October 1933 psychoanalysis was banned from the Congress of Psychology in Leipzig as a “Jewish Science”; soon after that psychoanalytic literature was burned, and the community of practising psychoanalysts, mostly centered in Berlin, dispersed rapidly to save their lives and their livelihoods.33

Had the politically active social psychologist been caught off guard by Austrian antisemitism in her younger years?34 This is not surprising given that Freud only recorded his own confrontation with antisemitism in his self-analysis early in his career, while neglecting to bring antisemitism into consideration in the analysis of his Jewish patients.35 Referring to the start

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of her own career, therefore, it seems likely that Jahoda’s discussion of Freud’s confrontation with antisemitism in a book that aimed to reframe his legacy and his relevance to academic psychology was partly a coming to terms with her own confrontations with it. When Lazarsfeld left on a Rockefeller grant to New York shortly after their book publication, Jahoda took over his position as the head of the Research Center for Economic Psychology.36 After being arrested in 1936 and sentenced for underground socialist activities during the Austro-Fascist period, Jahoda was forced to leave Austria in September 1937. She was released on the condition that she leave the country.37 Jahoda arrived in Britain and settled in Bristol with her cousin Clara, a doctor of medicine who had also participated in the Marienthal research and had fled Nazi Germany in 1933. Clara Jahoda had to begin her studies again in Britain to reclaim her career.38 Marie Jahoda returned to the subject of unemployment in her first research assignment in South Wales. A year later, Jahoda conducted market research for the Gane furniture firm in Bristol (1938) in a manner that could be identified as cultural anthropology. She pointed to how consumers viewed beauty through the lens of social class and how furniture choice was an important expression of individuality.39 Interviewing mostly women, Jahoda recommended that their opinions be taken more seriously and that they should be catered to with lectures introducing them to new design. She framed this as humanized knowledge, driven by the idea that producers of culture should recognize people’s wishes and needs. Toward the end of the Second World War, Jahoda gave a lecture on the “Psychology of Emigrants” at the Austrian Labour Club in London, making several critical points. She used simple examples to explain “what scientists call the problems of cultural contact, the expected and the unexpected difficulties which confront the individual, his reactions, and the significance of belonging to a group.”40 Jahoda had paid attention to the lessons of psychoanalysis during her early activities as a socialist and teacher in Vienna yet it only became integral to her professional research after the end of the Second World War, upon arriving in New York to reunite with her daughter Lotte, who has been living there with her ex-husband Lazarsfeld (Fig. 10.1).

Émigré Cultural Networks in New York Jahoda’s book Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology sought to encourage psychologists to familiarize themselves with Freud and psychoanalysis in

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Fig. 10.1 Marie Jahoda, Photoseries, 1947/48; © Archiv für die Geschichte der Soziologie in Österreich, Universität Graz, Nachlass Marie Jahoda

order to expand the limitations of experimental methodologies and therefore broaden the scope of treatment within academic psychology. Yet, her interest in Freud’s own question of belonging and how he experienced and gave account of antisemitism seems to have guided some of her considerations as well. At first glance, it seems this interest stood apart from a strict interest in psychological research and practice. The argument here is that as an Austrian émigré, and during a remarkable period of antisemitism and persecution of Jews, what was also integral to Jahoda’s authorial intent was an exploration—perhaps unconscious—of

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her own meaningful belonging to Vienna and specifically her belonging as an Austrian émigré to a Viennese cultural and scientific heritage. It was after the war, too, that she undertook an assignment by the American Joint Committee on antisemitism and prejudice in the United States. The exiled German philosopher and sociologist Max Horkheimer, a leading member of the Frankfurt School, hired Jahoda in cooperation with a group of New York-based psychoanalysts.41 It is stating the obvious that antisemitism, and the Holocaust also, became an urgent matter after the Second World War in the United States.42 At the end of 1945, Jahoda and the psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Nathan Ackerman began checking protocols of psychotherapeutic sessions with patients who showed antisemitic attitudes (though were in therapy for other reasons) and of adolescents who manifested prejudice.43 They addressed how this type of social crisis was caused by a lack of “meaningful group belongingness, unless it is organized around an issue of social prestige.”44 They related the question of social prestige to the formation of a sense of belonging such as in “country clubs” yet devoid of positive content. Their research resulted in their 1950 publication, Anti-Semitism and Emotional Disorder. In a disciplinary scope, the book exemplified the possibilities of a convergence between social psychology and psychoanalysis methods.45 The Viennese Hartmann and Ernst Kris also played a role in the book. Hartmann assisted with the concepts and methodology of the study at an early stage and Kris reviewed the manuscript.46 It is relevant to posit that at this point in Jahoda’s career, she was not only interested in combining social psychology and psychoanalysis but was now using these methodologies to actively confront the phenomenon of antisemitism and, furthermore, the phenomenon of prejudice in general in society. In her 1963 essay, “Some Notes on the Influence of Psycho-analytic Ideas on American Psychology,” in the journal Human Relations , Jahoda referred to the Horkheimer project and included three further publications, among them, “The authoritarian personality.” For Jahoda, the project was a successful example of adapting the psychoanalytic method to psychology. Furthermore, in this instance she clearly saw psychoanalytical methodologies as relevant to detecting social deviancy, specifically pointing to the issue of antisemitism. She notes that all the psychologists concerned in the Horkheimer project had been trained in psychoanalysis, arguing that this expertise was able to surface the causes behind such things as antisemitism and ethnocentrism. According to Jahoda, “the assessment of surface behavior was only the starting-point.” The real task

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was to address the discrepancy between the overt social behavior and the underlying motivation as “one of the major characteristics of the authoritarian character, who often selects anti-Semitism and ethnocentrism as a significant part of his outlook on the world.”47 Jahoda’s recollections of the Viennese and the migration history of psychoanalysis were critical part of her professional and personal perspectives. In her earlier discussed 1968 essay, “Migration of Psychoanalysis”, Jahoda argued that for a variety of reasons the psychoanalysts who fled Central Europe at mid-century were uniquely prepared for the condition of being émigrés or exiles because Central Europe’s academic communities had never fully admitted them. Referring to the hostile climate against psychoanalysis, she argued: “They had, as it were, experienced premature training in the psychological condition of being émigrés, and this must have stood them in good stead when they had to become émigrés in the full sense of the term.”48 Furthermore, she commented that psychoanalysis was able to survive the transition from Central Europe to Britain and the United States after the forced emigration of its mostly Jewish practitioners because for decades they had already marked a presence in international congresses and had, to an extent, globalized their discipline.49 In addition, Jahoda’s identification of psychoanalysis as an “urban profession” contributed, in her mind, to its survival. In this sense, for her, Vienna was intricately bound to its existence: For even though the immigrant group included also German and Hungarian analysts, Vienna had so unquestionably been the European capital of psychoanalysis that they all profited from the extraordinary reputation of that city, and conveyed not only European culture but also the proverbial Viennese charm.50

Jahoda thus associated psychoanalysis with a “closed” intellectual community that relayed what it was to be Viennese and that found its leader in the charismatic Freud. The city of Vienna is also linked with a specifically Jewish intellectual milieu and it was their networks that, in exile, would carry the idea of Vienna and all its correlations abroad. After the Anschluss of Austria to Nazi Germany, she states: “Vienna quickly sank into barbarity. Those who escaped because they were Jews or because of their convictions, or because of both, remained the only symbol of what Vienna had once stood for in the eyes of the world.”51 And indeed it

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was the émigrés that contributed to the preservation of a humanist Viennese ideal, which became integral to their continuous engagement with psychoanalysis in Britain and in the United States. When Jahoda took up the conflict between academic psychology and psychoanalysis in her essay, she approached it in a historical manner. For her, the split between academic psychology and psychoanalysis was an aspect of the “divided realities” of the interwar period in Austrian culture. Vienna was seen as apart from the rest of the country and the two political parties, “the German” and “the international tradition,” were opposed as well.52 A divide was furthermore evidenced in very concrete ways through her doctoral advisor, Charlotte Bühler, and Freud. The two were intellectual antagonists and though they oddly never crossed paths they both lived in the city for a long period. Referring again to Jahoda’s account: This curious situation put university students in psychology, native and American alike, into a quandary. Many wanted to have the best of both worlds, even if that forced them to lead intellectually double lives, ‘fluctuating between the academic and official nutriment and the revolutionary nutriment of Berggasse’ (Freud’s address), as Rudolf Ekstein, who got his Ph.D. at the Vienna and is now in Los Angeles, working at the Psychoanalytic Institute, put it.53

Jahoda’s essay also refers to above mentioned psychoanalyst Heinz Hartmann and psychoanalyst Ernst Kris as creating the “bridge” between [Central European] psychoanalysis and [American] academic psychology.54 Hartmann’s work proved that psychoanalysis was not antithetical to psychology’s experimental method.55

Viennese, Jewish, Psychoanalysis Interestingly, there is at least one instance where Jahoda addresses the possibility of her own bias in Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology. At one point she reexamines and takes issue with Freud’s position regarding women’s characteristics, but capitulates that his concept of adult femininity was very much in keeping with both popular and scientific stereotypes of his time;56 Not only Freud, but physiologists, statisticians, philosophers, and others “went wrong” in their attribution of a biological causality to the feminine while ignoring “cultural and historical constraints in their impact on adult behavior and character.”57 To

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this analysis, Jahoda adds a personal note in the endnotes, acknowledging that her critique, from her position as woman, may have been biased. Furthermore, she believed personal bias, whether constructive or destructive, could itself be examined through logic.58 She also raised the topic of bias in her earlier book, Anti-Semitism and Emotional Disorder. Both she and Ackerman had made a statement defining their own biases as Jewish scientists on the subject of antisemitism. It was their awareness of and admission of bias, they state, that enabled them to check emotional involvement in a study.59 Yet, returning to the subject of Jahoda’s motivation and authorial intent in her book Freud and the Dilemmas it is noteworthy that Jahoda inserted commentary in the text on the question of authorial bias. Jahoda’s research after the Second World War and her invested interest in questions about Freud’s experiences with and references to antisemitism complicate the consideration of her treatment, or lack of treatment, of the antisemitism that ran concurrent to her 1930s social research on the unemployed in Marienthal. She certainly would have been witness to and experienced antisemitism in her own identity as a Jewish inhabitant of interwar Vienna. It is only in her later work that she begins to explore antisemitism within her research questions and then, it is only much later—after publishing her book on Freud—in an autobiographical sketch, that she allowed herself to refer to antisemitism as integral part of her Jewish identification.60 What is suggested here is that it is perhaps precisely because of how she chose to process the Viennese background of the Austrian émigré psychoanalysts in the United States and further Freud’s own experiences of antisemitism at the beginning of Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology that she arrived at a self-awareness about her own identity and her own belonging to categories such as “Viennese,” “Jewish,” “psychoanalysis.” The contention of this chapter is that Jahoda’s book begins by addressing Freud’s claim that his discrimination as a Jew influenced his career and the development of psychoanalytic theory, yet she avoided following through with her inquiry to the extent that it could have shed light on the historical limitations of the “Jewish scientist” cultural stereotype that would have conditioned not just Freud but herself as well. Jahoda herself tried in many ways to surpass this cultural stereotype through her dedication as socialist activist in Austria and as a social psychologist after emigration, dedicated as she was to combating prejudice. Integral to the understanding of Jahoda’s book’s deconstruction

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of Freud is the positioning of her authorial intent in relation to Freud’s legacy and how specifically she comes to terms with cultural stereotypes at the very beginning of her project. Jahoda’s confrontation with the cultural stereotype of Freud as a Viennese Jew/Viennese “Jewish scientist” would be critical to her, in that her (de)construction of him could not be separated from what it meant to be involved in psychoanalysis as an Austrian émigré in Britain and in the United States.

Notes 1. Marie Jahoda, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1977), p. 9. 2. Marie Jahoda was born to Betti nee Propst and Karl Jahoda in 1907. She was registered in the Jewish community. She left the Jewish community at the end of her high-school, age 18, in July 1925 and registered again at the community as a member, age 27, in March 1934 (Vienna’s Jewish Community, Registration Inventory, Birth Registration, no. 150/1907). I thank Irma Wulz from Vienna’s Jewish Community Archives for this information. 3. Jahoda, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, 1977, pp. 5–9. 4. Christian Fleck, “Marie Jahoda – ein Porträt,” in: Marie Jahoda. Lebensgeschichtliche Protokolle der arbeitenden Klassen 1850–1930. Dissertation 1932, edited by Johann Bacher, Waltraud Kannonier-Finster, and Meinrad Ziegler (Innsbruck, Wien, and Bozen: Studien Verlag, 2017), pp. 267– 354, here p. 311. 5. Jahoda, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, 1977, pp. 57–58. See further: Nathan G. Hale, The Rise and Crisis of Psychoanalysis in the United States: Freud and the Americans, 1917 –1985, Freud in America. Vol. II (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 385. 6. “It is, of course, conceivable that, from whatever camp it originates, the piecemeal approach to Freud is the only rational way in which psychology at its current fragmented stage can develop. It may be necessary to wait until several of its many branches have reached the end of their particular line and recognise that they need competence in a broader psychological language before the new conception can become acceptable” (Jahoda, 1977, p. 149). 7. Ian Parker, “Dilemmas of Psychoanalysis and Psychology: Critical Conceptions of Subjectivity in the Work of Marie Jahoda,” in: South African Journal of Psychology, July 2014 (source: https://lra.le.ac.uk/bit

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9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

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stream/2381/32881/2/2014%20SAJP%20dilemmas%20of%20psychoa nalysis%20and%20psychology.pdf, accessed 1.11.2018). Michael Payne, Reading Theory: An Introduction to Lacan, Derrida and Kristeva (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), p. 121. In an interview Marie Jahoda gave in the mid-1990s, she stated that she preferred as literature interpretation, the French-American literary critic Georg Steiner’s exploration of the Greek drama Antigone in which he reveals the heroine’s confrontations with her dead brother, authorities and herself, to the deconstruction theory of Derrida (Stefani Engler und Brigitte Hasenjürgen, “Biographisches Interview mit Marie Jahoda,” in: Marie Jahoda, ‘Ich habe die Welt nicht verändert’. Lebenserinnerungen einer Pionierin der Sozialforschung, edited by Steffani Engler und Brigitte Hasenjürgen [Frankfurt and New York: Campus Verlag, 1997], p. 162). In her book on Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, it is here suggested, Jahoda tries to revive the possibilities of personal and cultural confrontations by applying a deconstructive method. Jahoda, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, 1977, p. 51. Ibid., p. 1. For further discussion revealing also the problematic in the belief that the socialist party granted a sense of security for Jews, see: Eleonore Lappin, “Jüdische Lebenserinnerungen. Rekonstruktionen von jüdischer Kindheit und Jugend im Wien der Zwischenkriegszeit,” in: Wien und die jüdische Erfahrung 1900–1938, Akkulturation – Antisemitismus – Zionismus, edited by Frank Stern und Barbara Eichinger (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2009), pp. 17–38, here p. 29. Josef K. Friedjung, “Was bietet die Psychoanalyse dem sozialistischen Erzieher,” in: Tagblatt, Organ für die Interessen des Werktätigen Volkes, September 18, 1930. Ibid., p. 9. Jahoda was convinced in her young years that she will become one day Austria’s socialist minister for education and therefore thought that studying psychology will be the best preparation for this position (“Aus den Anfängen der Sozialwissenschaftlichen Forschung in Österreich,” in: Das geistige Leben Wiens in der Zwischenkriegszeit Ring- Vorlesung 19. Mai - 20. Juni 1980 im Internationalen Kulturzentrum Wien, edited by P. Heintel, N. Leser, G. Stourzh, and A. Wandruszka [Vienna: Österreichischer Bundesverlag, 1981], pp. 216– 222, here p. 217). Jahoda married Lazarsfeld in 1926. Jahoda, ‘Ich habe die Welt nicht verändert ’, 1997, p. 48. Jahoda’s dissertation was approved by Karl Bühler in January 1932, see: Christian Fleck, “Marie Jahoda – ein Porträt,” p. 285. Yet, in the forward to her dissertation, Jahoda introduces her work in connection with the psychological-biographical system that was developed by Charlotte Bühler

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18.

19.

20.

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(Marie Jahoda, “Anamnesen im Versorgungshaus. Ein Beitrag zur Lebenspsychologie, Dissertation, Universität Wien, 1932,” in: Marie Jahoda. Lebensgeschichtliche Protokolle der arbeitenden Klassen 1850–1930, 2017, pp. 33–34). The different sections of Marienthal textile factory were closed in the frame of months between June 1929 and February 1930. The research began in November 1931 and concluded with the book manuscript in the Summer of 1932. It was organized by Lazarsfeld at the institute in Vienna, yet was managed in Marienthal by Jahoda, and conducted by fifteen young researchers mostly Jews and few Catholics, psychologists and doctors of medicine, and all identified as socialists (Christian Fleck, “Introduction to the Transaction Edition,” in: Marie Jahoda, Paul F. Lazarsfeld, and Hans Zeisel, Marienthal: The Sociography of an Unemployed Community [New Brunswick, USA and London, UK, (orig. publ. 1971) fourth printing, 2009], pp. vii–xl, here pp. xvi–xvii). Christian Fleck, “Marie Jahoda. Lebensnähe der Forschung und Anwendung in der wirkliche Welt” [originally published in Frauen in der Soziologie. Neun Porträts. 1998], Exh. Cat. Marie Jahoda 1907–2001, Pionierin der Sozialforschung, edited by Reinhard Müller (Graz: Archivs für die Geschichte der Soziologie in Österreich, 2002), pp. 5–20, here p. 7. Arbeiter Zeitung, October 30, 1932, p. 9: Unterrichtsorganisation Ottakring, Wurlitzergasse 59, Morgen (Montag) 19 Uhr. Dr. Marie Jahoda-Lazarsfeld: Die geschichtlichen Voraussetzungen im Verhältnis der Geschlechter im Proletariat. Arbeiter Zeitung, November 12, 1932, p. 24: Unterrichtsorganisation Ottakring. Montag 19 Uhr Frauenschulen Wurlitzergasse 59, Dr. Marie Jahoda: Entwicklungsgang und Probleme im Frauenleben. Ater completing writing the book on the unemployed in Marienthal, Jahoda worked during 1932–1933 at the Museum of Society and Economy. Marie Jahoda, “Aus den Anfängen der Sozialwissenschaftlichen Forschung in Österreich,” 1981, p. 217. Also: Marie Jahoda, “Im Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum,” in: Arbeiterbildung in der Zwischenkriegszeit. Otto Neurath – Gerd Arntz, edited by Friedrich Stadler, Vienna: Löcker Verlag, 1982, pp. 43–44. For further reference to this Wiener Kreis’s seminar, see: Rudolf Carnap, Mein Weg in die Philosophie (Stuttgart: Reclam, translated from English by Willy Hochkeppel, 1993), p. 90. Jahoda, Lazarsfeld, and Zeisel, Marienthal, 2009, p. 66. Freud’s refer to work and love as two binding forces: “The communal life of human beings had, therefore, a twofold foundation: the compulsion to work, which was created by external necessity, and the power of love, […]” (Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents , translated by James Strachey, New

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24. 25.

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York and London: W. W. Norton, 1961, p. 48). This was one of the critical results and relevant to political discourse at the time: “Among the conclusions of the Marienthal study, that of the ‘tired community’ was particularly explosive: the resignation, inability to work and overburdened by forced idleness found in a considerable part of the unemployed and the de-politicization of large parts of the unemployed found in the investigation ran in the socialist camp at that time contrary to the popular idea of the unemployed as a revolutionary subject” (Reinhard Müller, im Fokus: Marienthal, https://www.litges.at/etcetera/essay/46-arbeitslos-essay-im-fokus-marienthal-reinhard-muller, accessed 10.10.2019). Jahoda, Lazarsfeld, and Zeisel, Marienthal, 2009, p. 57. Propaganda poster for the NSDAP for the municipal elections in Vienna and in Vienna’s districts, April 24, 1932 (photo reproduced in the homepage: https://www.filmarchiv.at/digitorial/die-stadt-ohne/). In the second chapter describing the history of the village and the current affairs titled “The Industrial Village” Jahoda refers to the cultural and social clubs of the political parties in Marienthal, noting the Social Democratic and the Christian Socialist. At the end she adds that the societies identified with the German Nationalist politics are gradually merging with the recently founded local branch of the National Socialist Party (Jahoda et al. 2009, p. 16). Christian Fleck, introduction to Jahoda et al. Marienthal, 2009, p. xiii. M. Freund, J. Marton, and B. Flos, Marienthal 1930–1980. Rückblick und sozialpsychologische Bestandaufnahme in einer ländlichen Industriegemeinde. Projektleiter: Prof. Dr. Alexander Giese, 1982, pp. 69–72, http://agso.uni-graz.at/marienthal/bibliothek/freund_mic hael_marton_janos_1982/0.htm, accessed 1.11.2018. Reporting on her visit late 1933 to Marienthal after the conclusion of their research, Jahoda confessed to Lazarsfeld, who was now in New York: “During the whole time of our investigation in Marienthal the desire sprouted in every member of the research group for once not to be restricted to the role of the investigator who describes but to organize and to help” (Quoted in: Fleck, introduction to Jahoda et al. Marienthal, 2009, p. xii). Jahoda’s self-aware female perspective is documented at least twice in her text. She observed that the historical development of the organization of the industrial village as set by the industrialist Hermann Todesko (sic) and later by his sons was patriarchal. While mentioning that every child in the village knew Hermann Todesco’s name and his monument in town, Jahoda avoided noting his Jewish identification (Jahoda, Lazarsfeld, and Zeisel, Marienthal, 2009, pp. 12–13). Further she critically pointed out that “The term ‘unemployed’ applies in the strict sense only to the men, for the women are merely unpaid, not really unemployed. […]” (ibid., p. 74). See also: Fleck, “Marie Jahoda. Lebensnähe der Forschung und Anwendung in der wirkliche Welt,” 2002, pp. 8–9.

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27. Jahoda, Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology, 1977, p. 8. 28. Jahoda, Lazersfeld, and Zeisel, Marienthal, 2009, p. 17. 29. Freund and his colleagues were time and again confronted in the discussions with older residents of Marienthal with references to “der Jud” (The Jew), which actually referred to several people namely the previous owners and directors of the factory. See: Michael Freund, 5. Exkurse, 5.1 “Der Jud”, pp. 69–72. 30. Shortly afterwards the book was banned. Die Arbeitslosen von Marienthal. Ein soziographischer Versuch über die Wirkungen langdauernder Arbeitslosigkeit . Mit einem Anhang: Zur Geschichte der Soziographie. Bearbeitet und herausgegeben von der Österreichischen Wirtschaftspsychologischen Forschungsstelle (Leipzig: Verlag von S. Hirzel, 1933). Their book was published in the series of psychological monographs edited by Karl Bühler. 31. In 1933, there were 1000 Deutschvölkisch clubs and associations in Vienna calling for example to boycott Jewish shops and further forbidding their members to consult with Jewish doctors (Edward Timms, “Cultural Parameters Between the Wars: A Reassessment of the Vienna Circles,” in: Interwar Vienna: Culture Between Tradition and Modernity, edited by Deborah Holmes and Lisa Silverman [Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2009], pp. 21–31, here p. 28). Source: Deutscher Geist in Österreich. Ein Handbuch des völkischen Lebens der Ostmark, edited by Karl Wache (Dornbirn, Austria: Verlag C. Burtin, 1933), p. 62. Christian Fleck suggested that the research was part of a socialist project initiated by the politician Otto Bauer and therefore the results were not considered as personal but rather part of collective intellectual property (Fleck, “Marie Jahoda. Lebensnähe der Forschung und Anwendung in der wirkliche Welt,” 2002, p. 9). For an enlightening discussion regarding Jewish professionals consciously choosing to avoid appearing as “Jews” in interwar Austria, see: Lisa, Silverman, Becoming Austrians: Jews and Culture Between the World Wars (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), p. 27. 32. References to Psychoanalysis as a Jewish science has been part of the discourse from the very beginning. Antisemites refer to it as part of the threat posed by Jews against “Aryans” as noted in the book by Herwig Hartner, Erotik und Rasse (Munich, 1925) and published in the Viennese humorist and antisemitic weekly journal Kikeriki for nine weeks, each issue from February 21, 1926 to May 16, 1926). 33. Marie Jahoda, “The Migration of Psychoanalysis: Its Impact on American Psychology,” in: The Intellectual Migration: Europe and America, 1930–1960, edited by Donald Fleming and Bernard Bailyn (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University, 1968), pp. 420–445, here p. 420.

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34. Jahoda claimed she conducted research on antisemitism privately before her arrest in 1936 (transcript of symposium in: Das geistige Leben Wiens in der Zwischenkriegszeit, pp. 144–161, here p. 159). 35. For further critical discussion on the writing of Freud and the experience of antisemitism in Vienna, see: Harold P. Blum, “Antisemitism in the Freud Case Histories,” in: The Jewish World of Sigmund Freud: Essays on Cultural Roots and the Problem of Religious Identity, edited by Arnold D. Richard (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010), pp. 78–95. 36. Fleck notes that Bühler had tried to secure Lazarsfeld a professorship appointment at the university but “failed due to increasing antisemitic mood in academic circles” (Fleck, 2009, p. xxii). See further: Paul F. Lazarsfeld, “An Episode in the History of Social Research: A Memoir,” in: The Intellectual Migration: Europe and America, 1930–1960, edited by Donald Fleming and Bernard Bailyn (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University, 1968), p. 276. See further reference in Rose’s chapter 9 in this anthology. 37. Fleck, “Marie Jahoda – ein Porträt,” 2017, pp. 289–304, After weeks of interrogation in the police station and prison Rossauer Lände, Jahoda was sent to the concentration camp erected by the Austrian fascist government in Wöllersdorf (Pia Schölnberger, Das Anhaltelager Wöllersdorf 1933– 1938. Strukturen – Brüche – Erinnerungen [Vienna: LitVerlag, 2015], p. 271). She was released after the intervention of French socialist politician and three times Prime Minister of France Léon Blum and the head of the Institute of Psychology in London Alexander Farquharson. 38. Jahoda, “Ich habe die Welt nicht verändert,” 1997, p. 64. 39. Marie Jahoda, “The Consumer’s Attitude to Furniture: A Market Research from Material Assembled by Marie Jahoda on Behalf of Messrs. P. E. Gane, Ltd.,” in: The Sociological Review, 38, no. 3, 1946, pp. 205– 246. 40. “Using simple examples she [Jahoda] brilliantly explained what scientists call the problems of cultural contact, the expected and the unexpected difficulties which confront the individual, his reactions, the significance of belonging to a group, and many other points. The audience looked in the mirror and was both amused and stimulated. […]” (London Information of the Austrian Socialists in Great Britain, February 1, 1945, Heft 3, p. 7). 41. Fleck, “Marie Jahoda – ein Porträt,” 2017, pp. 315–316. 42. See Jahoda’s early publications and discussion of her work: Samuel H. Flowerman and Marie Jahoda, “Polls on Antisemitism: How Much Do They Tell Us?” in: Commentary, 1, no. 4, April 1946, pp. 82–86; Samuel H. Flowerman and Marie Jahoda, “Can We Fight Prejudice Scientifically?” in: Commentary 2, no. 6 (December 1946), pp. 583–587.

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43. Jahoda and Ackerman presented their work in a combined meeting of the American Psychiatric Association and the American psychoanalytic Association in New York on May 19, 1947. It was published later: Nathan W. Ackerman (M.D.) and Marie Jahoda (Ph.D.), “The Dynamic Basis of Anti-Semitic Attitudes,” in: The Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 17, no. 2, 1948, pp. 240–260. 44. Nathan W. Ackerman and Marie Jahoda, Anti-Semitism and Emotional Disorder: A Psychoanalytic Interpretation, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1950, p. 90. The patients were identified as Protestant, Catholic, Converted Jew, Jew, Half-Jewish, Negro. The authors further noted the patients’ profession, family stand, and age. 45. In their preface Ackerman and Jahoda refers to collaboration with psychoanalysts, sociologists and social workers. Ibid., pp. xiii–xiv. See further Jahoda’s reference to her early research in the United States, in: Jahoda, “The Migration of Psychoanalysis,” 1968, p. 440. 46. Ackerman and Jahoda, Anti-Semitism and Emotional Disorder, 1950, p. xiv. Jahoda’s early essays with Flowerman in Commentary from 1946, and her work with Ackerman should also be understood as part of her shared together with Hartmann and Kris and these three as part of a larger network of Central European émigré and exiled psychoanalysts in the United States of an urgent and professional agenda of combating prejudice and antisemitism. The first Viennese émigré psychoanalyst to publish on antisemitism was Otto Fenichel, “Psycho-Analysis of Antisemitism,” in: American Imago, I, 1940. Fenichel raised the question “what can the comparison of psychoanalyses of many anti-Semites contribute to an understanding of the social phenomenon of anti-Semitism?” Republished in a modified version by German émigré psychoanalyst Ernst Simmel in his edited volume Anti-Semitism: A Social Disease (New York: International Universities Press, 1946), p. 11. The need of sociology to recognize the importance of psychoanalytic findings to their research was promoted by Hartmann in his essay “Psychoanalysis and Sociology,” in: Psychoanalysis Today, New York, 1945. The need to include sociological terminology in psychoanalytic research of antisemitism was noted in the Simmel anthology by Max Horkheimer in his essay “Sociological Background of the Psychoanalytic Approach” (Horkheimer, in: Anti-Semitism, edited by Simmel, 1946, p. 1). That same year, Ernst Kris published an essay titled “Notes on the Psychology of Prejudice,” in: The English Journal, Chicago, 1946. A year later, a close colleague of Hartmann and Kris, émigré psychoanalyst Rudolph M. Loewenstein published an essay “Historical and Cultural Roots of Anti-Semitism,” in: Psychoanalysis and the Social Sciences, edited by Géza Róheim, New York, 1947. 47. Marie Jahoda, “Some Notes on the Influence of Psycho-Analytic Idea on American Psychology,” in: Human Relations (May 1, 1963), pp. 111– 129, here p. 124.

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54. 55.

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57. 58. 59.

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Marie Jahoda, “The Migration of Psychoanalysis,” 1968, p. 429. Ibid., pp. 429–430. Ibid., p. 430. Ibid. Ibid., p. 422. Ibid., Jahoda’s reference is to Rudolf Ekstein’ text in: James F. T. Bugental (ed.), “Symposium on Karl Bühler’s Contributions to Psychology,” in: Journal of General Psychology, 75 (October 1966), pp. 181–219, here p. 205. For further discussion on Ernst Kris’ research work against fascism after his emigration, see Rose’s chapter 9 in this volume. Ibid., 432. Heinz Hartmann, Ego Psychology and the Problem of Adaptation (New York: International Universities Press, [orig. publ. 1939] 1958). Regarding the role of Hartmann in the debate regarding psychoanalysis as a scientific field, see Hale, The Rise and Crisis of Psychoanalysis in the United States, 1995, p. 336. Jahoda refers to Stephanie Shields, “Functionalism, Darwinism, and the Psychology of Women: A Study in Social Myth,” in: American Psychologist, 30, 1975, pp. 739–754. Jahoda adds “So much agreement on this negative stereotype may, for all one knows, reflect the actual characteristics of women at the time. This is not the issue, however.” (Jahoda, 1977, p. 91). Jahoda, 1977, p. 91. Ibid., p. 174, endnote 29. “Both authors of this study are Jewish. Both believe that anti-Semitism in whatever form it appears is a symptom of social pathology, indicating a form of social disorganization that menaces the stability, if not the very foundation of a culture, even beyond the suffering that it entails for its victims” (Ackerman and Jahoda, Anti-Semitism and Emotional Disorder, 1950, p. 2). Marie Jahoda, “On Being Jewish,” unpublished manuscript 1987/88, and translated to German, “Was heißt es, jüdisch zu sein,” in: Marie Jahoda: Sozialpsychologie der Politik und Kultur. Ausgewählte Schriften, edited and introduction by Christian Fleck, translated from English von H[ans] G[eorg] Zilian (Graz-Wien: Nausner & Nausner, 1994), pp. 252–258, here pp. 254–258.

CHAPTER 11

Hilde Spiel’s Freud: Jews, Exile, and a Viennese Legacy Lisa Silverman

For the prolific, award-winning Viennese writer and journalist Hilde Spiel, who spent the years 1936–1963 in exile before returning to reside in Austria, London was an exciting but also alienating city that offered refuge. By her own account, it never became a place that she could truly call home. As was the case for numerous other Austrian émigré writers and intellectuals, establishing herself in a new language and culture were challenging and vital concerns. Moreover, some had an additional uncomfortable issue to contend with: many of them had not been raised Jewish or perhaps not even acknowledged their family’s Jewish heritage. Now, in their new status as exiles, they found engaging with issues of Jewish self-identification unavoidable. It is this particular aspect of these émigrés exile, I argue, that made Freud’s cultural legacy—both his scientific work as well as his status as a Viennese Jewish celebrity—so useful to Spiel and others as a way to come to terms with the trauma and ambivalences they faced in the United Kingdom. This chapter outlines how Hilde Spiel, in her postwar writing and published interviews, engaged Freud’s legacy

L. Silverman (B) University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Milwaukee, WI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8_11

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and celebrity status as a way to make sense of the experiences she and others faced as émigrés now forced to engage with explicit issues of Jewish difference that they had previously been able to avoid or ignore.

Exile as Illness In 1975, Spiel held a talk in Vienna titled “Psychologie des Exils,” [Psychology of Exile] in which she explicitly referred to the condition of exile as an illness: “Das Exil ist eine Krankheit. Eine Gemütskrankheit, eine Geisteskrankheit, ja zuweilen eine körperliche Krankheit.” [Exile is an illness. A mood disorder, a mental illness, and even sometimes a physical illness.]1 However, in her autobiography, she denies having suffered from it personally. As she emphasized: “I had a different kind of exile from the beginning.”2 This ambivalence about the condition of exile and its effects on her own life characterized much of her postwar writing, mirroring her mixed feelings about her family’s Jewish roots. Born in 1911 to Catholic parents who converted from Judaism, Spiel spent the first two decades of her life in Vienna’s vibrant and cosmopolitan cultural milieu. She attended the renowned and innovative Schwarzwald School, swam for the successful “Austria” team, and spent long afternoons among the literati in the Café Herrenhof. In 1933, she published her first novel, Kati auf der Brücke [Katie on the Bridge], and in 1936, shortly after receiving her doctorate in Vienna, she emigrated to London and married German writer and journalist Peter de Mendelssohn. Although she left two years before Germany’s annexation of Austria in 1938, she nevertheless describes her emigration as a flight from the slow rise of the Ständestaat [corporate state] in which she claimed to have already discerned the kernels of a future Nazi regime.3 Like many of her and her husband’s émigré circle in Great Britain, adopting a new language was of deep concern, not only for feeling at home in their new country, but also for earning a living. Spiel’s son Felix de Mendelssohn, born in London in 1944, recalls how central language was to those in her circle: “One of my most disconcerting reminiscences from the early 1950s is of certain friends and acquaintances of my parents – émigré authors, journalists, theater people – who in their years of estrangement had no longer retained fluent German nor yet managed to attain fluent English.” To him, they seemed “sad and helpless without the tools of their trade.”4 In her autobiography and in later interviews, Spiel highlighted the difficulties émigrés faced. Along with the challenges of

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speaking, understanding, and writing a new language, they were met with hostility as foreigners and potential enemies, and often forced to find new jobs or careers and exist on very little money. After the war began, they worried that friends from home might be the ones dropping the bombs. To top it off, even complaining was off limits since they knew how much better their lives were compared to those they had left behind on the continent. Spiel considered herself lucky to be able to have her parents to join her in London, though sadly not her Jewish grandmother Melanie, who was deported to and died in Theresienstadt. Still, looking after her parents was a source of additional stress, as they arrived in England penniless and without any of their belongings. Spiel’s father was even interned as an enemy alien; after his release, he was not able to find work, and her mother remained deeply lonely and often emotionally overwrought. But Spiel is also careful not to make her life in exile sound too miserable. For example, she also highlights the joys of being in London, emphasizing how being on the brink of poverty didn’t stop her and her husband from taking pleasure in all the city had to offer. As she notes, “As soon as we left our own district, London’s streets seemed truly paved with gold. Again and again, we marveled at the hotels and mansions of Park Lane; the gigantic, venerable department stores of Oxford Street; Picadilly Circus with its statue of Eros, from which invisible threads appeared to radiate in all directions as far as the Antipodes; Mayfair and Belgravia, the abodes of the rich; all the noble Georgian facades, all the expanses of green…”. Even being forced to renew their residential permits every three months with the police did not dampen their enthusiasm for their adopted country. Spiel waxes romantic when she draws connections between London of the present and her Viennese past when she writes: “I, who had been touched in my childhood by the imperial grandeur of old Austria, felt as if I had been taken back to the years before the First World War.”5 She and her husband soon left North London’s enclave of Central European émigrés for Wimbledon in the southwest, where they cultivated British friends and only occasionally returned to partake in Germanspeaking activities. They wrote in English and spoke only English with their children.6 She and her husband became British citizens. With more than a little condescension, she notes that because she had frequent contact with English people and had often travelled to Italy and France, she did not need to rely so heavily on the comforts of home, unlike some others, especially, “people who never would have left if Hitler hadn’t

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thrown them out.” She lauds the Austrian Centre, a London cultural institution set up, “under the honorary patronage of Sigmund Freud and the former ambassador Franckenstein” for providing comfort to other émigrés.7 She writes, “For these people it was a center. They could go there, meet friends, get a scanty meal. Every emigration has such centers.”8 When asked about émigrés who became depressed and suicidal, Spiel notes, “That’s true of people who were not able to assimilate, but instead firmly tied to the place of their birth. People who were thrown out of atmospheres they knew. One has a lot of sympathy and understanding for these people. Except for [Theodor] Kramer I didn’t know anyone who was destroyed by exile. But that emigration slowly killed people physically and psychically, that can’t be denied.”9 In her memoirs and in interviews, she deliberately distances her experiences from the difficulties faced by other émigrés. However, this separation contrasts strongly with her descriptions of exile in her 1975 talk, in which she draws upon her own experiences in order to draw connections to and express sympathy for others. In addition to losing one’s mother tongue, and the practicalities of making a new existence, she discussed, for example, the irresistible urge to compare everything to what was better for us back home (the “bei uns/chez nous” syndrome); she noted the pain of losing the respect and recognition one had earned for one’s professional reputation back home; and finally referred to the deep depression one could fall into from losing faith in one’s own worth, something she likened to Jewish self-hatred: “Analog zum jüdischen Selbsthaß gab es den Selbsthaß der Exulanten.” [Analogous to Jewish self-hatred there was the self-hatred of the exiles.]10 This sympathetic depiction, combined with her denials of personal suffering, suggests her awareness that of the effects of exile—particularly as they related to family, self-identification, memory, childhood, loss, and trauma—were not so easy to discern or understand. It is this awareness that colors her preoccupation with the concept of belonging in her postwar texts. As Hillary Hope Herzog notes, there are “texts in English or in German from every decade of her postwar life in which the question of belonging figures as a central concern.”11 In some cases, Spiel used fiction to work out these issues. Her semi-autobiographical 1965 novel (which appeared first in English as The Darkened Room and later in German as Lisas Zimmer) features two central characters: one an Austrian émigré living in New York who remains deeply attached to Vienna, another a young Latvian woman who successfully integrates into

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American life, although both are ultimately denied happy endings. She also wrote the drama Anna & Anna, performed at the Burgtheater in 1988, which uses a Doppelgänger motif: one Anna remains in Austria on the eve of the Nazi takeover, while the other Anna emigrates to England. Both versions of Anna face doubts about whether to remain in Austria or to leave, and neither has a strong sense of self-identification: “I am neither Jew nor Red. Or maybe a little of both.”12 It seems that fiction allowed Spiel to exceed the limits of her autobiography in order to turn the abstract emotional splitting of self-identification into more concrete characterizations. But Spiel is perhaps most effective in addressing these issues in her prose, in which she included explicit, if somewhat oblique, engagements with Freud’s scientific work as well as his reputation. Spiel never underwent psychoanalysis, nor did she study it. But in her memoirs, she recalls vividly his larger than life reputation, in striking contrast to his small physical presence. She wrote, “I had read his most important works but had graduated in philosophy without ever having been questioned about him. Once, with a thrill of reverence, I saw Freud himself near his summer residence in Khevenhüllerstasse in Pötzleinsdorf, a small gentleman in greenish walking clothes [Wanderanzug], with breeches, and leggings of cloth wound round his legs in strips, like puttees.”13 In an interview published in 1988, she noted: “He looked strange, smaller than I had imagined him, in a green walking suit, somehow moving. He went walking a lot, loved nature, stood there so small but was for us a quite outstanding figure.”14 After his death in London in 1939, she claims that the mystique of Freud’s celebrity was carried on not only in the practice of psychoanalysis, but also with respect to his carefully maintained home environment: “It sounds strange and exaggerated, but here in London that was an unbelievable impression: the room, in which Sigmund Freud lived in Vienna, so absolutely exactly set up and reproduced. The desk with the many small antique statues. Above all Paula Fichtl, when I visited Anna, she was still in the house. She was decades with the family and she told me how for five decades or longer, she daily brushed, cleaned, and washed the cushions of the famous couch. Maybe it was the continuity that moved me so much. These many decades and then the seamless transfer from Austria to the London suburb Hampstead, in which suddenly everything was there again.”15 In a later article, she elaborates further on the details of Freud’s carefully rebuilt consulting room from Berggasse 19 when she describes the

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beautiful old farmer’s cupboards and chests from Upper Austria. She expounds upon Freud’s desk with its antique statues, Turkish rugs, couch adorned with cushions, the walls of books, lovely old drawings, reliefs, and sculptures, and the five vitrines of Freud’s collection of relics from early epochs, “unifying” “all the myths of humanity” “in one room.” For Spiel and many other émigrés who were forced to leave behind the material comforts of their Viennese homes, it was an awe-inspiring, if painful and envy-inducing, contrast. Not only did Freud get to bring “his Vienna” with him into exile, he also had someone to look after his Viennese legacy after he died. Spiel’s reverent description of Freud’s Viennese consulting room belies her own intimate connection with Viennese culture, from which she claimed to distance herself in her London exile.

Mixed Feelings About Freud Spiel’s ambivalences about her exile to Great Britain mirror her mixed feelings about Freud’s legacy and its effects on her life both before and after emigration. When asked directly about her connection to Freud, Spiel deflects, claiming that she had been close to philosopher Moritz Schlick and Karl and Charlotte Bühler, who taught experimental psychology. But she also adds that her mentors were unwittingly indebted to Freud even as they actively opposed his views: “What Bühler, that kindly and trusting man, did not know was that nearly all his assistants were in analysis with one of the great Freudian scholars such as Heinz Hartmann or Siegfried Bernfeld. He was certainly open to discussion, for example allowing the Freudian René Spitz to speak at his seminar, but in his opinion the ‘principles of Freud’s basic assumptions contained in the desire for function and the desire for satisfaction’ were inadequate for the ‘understanding of the fundamental processes of life.’”16 Bühler later became a practicing clinician and an Assistant Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Southern California in the United States, where he and his Jewish wife Charlotte fled in 1938.17 But Spiel balks when she finds out that Charlotte called her husband a “precursor” and “successor” to Freud, claiming that “his insights cannot be compared to Freud’s.”18 And behind every conversation she had with René Spitz, a mentor whom Spiel also admired, “hovered the father figure of Sigmund Freud” even if it only “palely blended into the background.”19 In contrast to his diminutive physical appearance in person, Spiel notes that his intellectual legacy continued to loom large for all intellectuals in Austrian

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exile, even if they maintained a healthy critical distance from his point of view. As she wrote in Vienna’s Golden Autumn, her 1987 homage to the lost cultural and intellectual world of Vienna’s fin-de-siècle: “Indeed the figure of Freud, the grand old sage and prophet enthroned in his large but modestly middle-class apartment in Berggasse, constantly loomed in the distance.”20 Spiel’s feelings about Freud are best understood as deeply intertwined with her—and some other Viennese émigrés—uneasy reckoning with issues of Jewish difference that remained comfortably under the surface in pre-1938 Vienna. Raised Catholic by Jewish parents who converted before she was born, Spiel never felt comfortable being called a “Jewish writer.” In her memoirs she describes pleasant memories of attending Christian festivals, Corpus Christi processions, and celebrating her first communion. She claims never to have noticed antisemitism in the 1920s.21 But she also admits that her father was ashamed at his Jewish origins, and that it set him apart from other Viennese.22 Significantly, she also recalls walking in her childhood together with her father’s mother, Laura Birnbaum, originally from Zurawno (Ukraine). When they passed churches, Spiel would cross herself. But one time her grandmother asked, “ob das sein müsse?” [If that had to be?].23 By including in her autobiography this memory of a mild rebuke from her Jewish grandmother for publicly displaying her Catholic faith, Spiel’s text shows that she actually did know she was subtly different, as well as the fact that her self-identification as a Catholic had its limits. After the war, Spiel and her husband Peter de Mendelssohn liked to say, “Hitler hat uns zu Juden gemacht.” [Hitler turned us into Jews.] She bristled at the thought of others defining her by, as she put it, either the Nazi’s Nuremberg laws or other racist prejudices.24 True to form, she maintains that it was not antisemitism, but rather her distaste for Austrofascism, and its limitations on her job prospects—as well as the murder of her beloved Professor Schlick—that drove her to leave Austria. Yet, at the same time, she brought with her into exile Hans Tietze’s Die Juden Wiens, a history of the Jews of Vienna published in 1933, and she later completed a biography of influential Jewish salonnière Fanny von Arnstein, a book that she would later characterize as her most important publication.25 These personal engagements with Jewish difference help explain her treatment of Freud and his work, as well as the legacy of other prominent figures such as Arnstein, as a specifically Jewish legacy by highlighting their contributions to Viennese intellectual life. On one hand, she

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held both Freud and his work at a distance, although at times she also relied heavily upon both to forge deeper connections to her own past, her own self-identification, and her writing. Her attitude toward her own Jewishness helps explain how she treated Freud and his legacy as a Jewish celebrity. On one hand, she kept him and his legacy at a distance, yet at times she also relied upon him and his work to forge deeper connections to her own past, her own self-identification, and her writing. Her son Felix picked up on this as her method of returning to living in Vienna, a choice that few other émigrés made. As he noted, “She knew for herself that she was unhappy with Vienna, with living in Vienna, but that living away from it would have been far worse, and that there was no solution to this dilemma other than writing about it – in the same way that all other dilemmas of more than a merely daily nature could only genuinely be solved for her by writing.”26 In other words, it is precisely by taking on the role of a critical intellectual—maintaining her reputation as a Grand Dame of Austrian letters, so to speak, that she finds a constant, if uneasy, home for herself within the very same culture that these figures occupied. Spiel’s writing about Freud in the postwar period continues in this oblique fashion. She writes admiringly about Anna Freud, pointing out that she lived almost half of her life in the shadow of her father, akin to the mythical relationship of Antigone and Oedipus, sacrificing much in her selfless love for her father as well as for science, the betterment of humanity, and above all for children, for whom, Spiel notes, Anna Freud “did a world of good” by treating the most psychically damaged among them who arrived in London from the camps after the war, including a group of German-Jewish orphans from Theresiensadt.27 She considers Anna to be Freud’s “unbestrittene Herrin” (undisputed master) after his death: “Antigone has ended her service. Anna takes up the legacy of the father.” She calls Anna Freud the “last great and worldwide recognized lay-analyst, a monolithic witness of early psychoanalysis” and notes, “If Maresfield Gardens 20 will hopefully in the future become a Freud museum, it should in addition to the memory of the creator of psychoanalysis also be dedicated to his great daughter.”28 In contrast, Spiel is somewhat contemptuous of Paula Fichtl, Freud’s loyal housekeeper, who came from the provinces to Vienna where she worked for the Freud family, even going with them to London. Spiel notes that she slept on a bench in Freud’s waiting room, “wie ein getreuer Hund,” (like a loyal dog) which—as she notes sardonically—didn’t lessen

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Paula’s admiration for her employer. She also recounts that in 1980, Fichtl received an Ehrenmedaille für Verdienste um die Republik Österreich (medal of honor for service to the Austrian Republic). Anna Freud had received hers already in 1975, but in the published photograph of Ficht’s receipt of the award, Anna stood beside her and in the caption was mistaken for Freud’s servant29 (Fig. 11.1). By mentioning the irony of this incident, Spiel rebukes Austrians ready to cash in on Freud’s celebrity by consuming Fichtl’s memoir with its mundane details of the family’s everyday life, while they had ignored Freud’s 70th birthday when he still lived in Vienna and allowed the Nazis to drive him out of the city.30 Spiel’s comments about psychoanalysis are perhaps some of the most revealing about these ambivalences. When asked in an interview whether she had ever undergone “eine Lehranalyse” (analysis) she responds somewhat defensively: “I never had the feeling that it would become my

Fig. 11.1 Anna Freud, the Austrian Envoy Heinrich Gleissner and Paula Fichtl. On the occasion of Paula Fichtl being awarded the Medal of Honor for Services to the Republic of Austria on June 20, 1980 (© Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung Vienna)

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profession. I wanted to write. Although I was a very nervous only child with all kinds of problems, I never had the feeling that it was necessary. Actually I overcame things that came up very well. I never had the feeling that I had to correct something psychic in me, or find advice or protection.”31 That her son Felix did end up becoming a psychoanalyst is all the more salient when we recognize that in her 1975 talk “Psychologie des Exils” (Psychology of Exile)—which, she noted wryly, might as well have been called “Psychiatry des Exils” (Psychiatry of Exile)32 —she claimed that exile was an inheritable illness: “Oft tritt sie erst in der zweiten oder dritten Generation zutage, und nicht die Sünden, sondern die Leiden der Väter wirken sich in ihren Kindern und Kindeskindern aus.” [It often first manifests itself in the second or third generation, and not the sins but rather the suffering of the fathers has its effects on the children and grandchildren.]33 In this respect, Spiel suggests that although she may not have suffered from exile, she acknowledges that she may have passed its negative effects on to her own children.

Like Mother, Like Son Both Spiel and her son Felix recognized that part of the legacy of psychoanalysis is how inextricably intertwined it is with Freud’s Jewishness. In a review of Ernest Jones’ biography of Freud, first published in 1953, Spiel highlights how Jones wrote about Freud’s attempts to distance himself from his Jewish students and colleagues on one hand, and his openness to non-Jewish colleagues on the other. She claims that there was a deep reason why the eventual break of Freud’s students with his work, including and especially the Swiss psychoanalyst Jung, had wounded him so deeply. The support and admiration of his non-Jewish students simply meant more to him than that of his Jewish followers Sándor Ferenczi and Karl Abraham. Freud wanted to prove that non-Jewish scientists, too, could come to the same conclusions. In her review, Spiel points out that Jung’s assistant Alphonse Maeder told Ferenczi that the scientific differences between the Viennese and Swiss psychoanalysts stemmed from the fact that the Viennese were Jews and the Swiss were “Aryan.” And she also notes Jones’ contention that, after Jung was only narrowly reelected at the International Congress of Psychoanalysts in Munich, Jung came up to him and said he should have had his vote because: “Ich dachte, Sie sind ein Christ.” [I thought you were a Christian.]34

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But it is Spiel’s son Felix who goes even further than his mother in his own writing, tying together the complex issues brought up by Freud’s legacy, exile, and Jewish self-identification, showing that he is quite attuned to his mother’s ambivalences. For example, in an essay on exiles, in which he demonstrates the range of emotions experienced by Austrian Jewish émigrés, Felix includes a quote from Spiel’s “Psychologie des Exils” in which she states, after describing examples of “Entwurzelten” [dislocated] émigrés in the United States who can never truly be home, that it is only Jews who can experience a true homecoming, to the state of Israel: “das dem ahaverischen Volk jahrtausendelang als schicksalhaft zugedachter, einzig eingeborner Wohnort erschienen war” [which had appeared to the Ahasverian people for millennia as a destined place, the only indigenous place of residence].35 When Spiel wrote this essay, she had no connection to Israel and had by that time already returned to live in Austria. But Felix includes it to point out how one can sense “wie hier eine unterschwellige Verbundenheit, im Sinne einer gemeinsamen Identifizierung, bei aller Ambivalenz, noch vorhanden ist” [that here a subliminal connectedness, in the sense of a common identification, despite all ambivalence, still exists].36 Felix also notes that “The fates of emigration are mainly fates of identity” and points out that Freud used the term “Identität” (identity) only once in all his writings: in a 1926 talk to members of B’nai B’rith, the Jewish service organization, as he spoke of his connection to Judaism. According to Felix, this indicated a clear consciousness of a form of inner identity that stemmed not from a particular belief or sense of national pride, but rather from the “heimlichkeit der gleichen seelischen Konstruktion” [familiarity of having equally constructed souls].37 He points out that the uniqueness of Jewish psychology—to the extent that one can label it as such—can be explained through the interweaving of foundational stories of culture with motives of separation and exile, as traumatic occurrences as well as beneficial awakenings whose effects are only palpable in the second generation. He points out that Freud, whose heirs integrated themselves well in their new homeland and contributed much to its cultural life, recognized the irony of this condition when, from London, Freud joked ironically to his student and friend Max Eitingon in Palestine about his enthusiasm for his new domicile in a letter: “Man ist fast versucht Heil Hitler! zu rufen” [One is almost tempted to yell Heil Hitler!].38

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It is clear that Felix saw parallels between Freud and his mother through their experiences of exile, even noting that any discussions about Freud’s Jewishness tend to unearth more about the author than they do about Freud.39 He cites an interview in which Freud said, “I speak the German language and live in a German cultural circle. I have for so long felt a spiritual relationship as German, until I observed the growth of antisemitism in Germany and Austria. Since then I prefer to think of myself as Jewish.” Felix highlights how Freud makes a virtue from the necessity of discrimination as an ethical imperative: “He was a Jew and wanted at the same time to have a critical distance to Judaism” for his whole life. And yet, Freud didn’t have a trace of “Jewish self-hatred.”40 Finally, Felix also elaborates on the reception of Freud being divided into those who see him on one hand as a universal enlightener, and on the other as carrying a hidden message of traditional Judaism: “That psychoanalysis is a crypto-Jewish teaching is not only a denigration of its anti-Semitic opponents, but also the proud claim from the Jewish side, to reclaim it for themselves and their own tradition.”41 This is a point that his mother did not, or perhaps could not, explicitly recognize, even if her works showed an unconscious admiration for it. As Felix notes, antisemites may have used Freud’s Jewishness and psychoanalysis as a smear, but others—including émigrés—used it as a key to understanding the deeper implications of psychoanalysis’ connections to memory, history, and one’s inner self-understanding. Even Anna Freud, he points out, understood that irony: when she was installed as the Sigmund-FreudProfessor at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem in 1977, she noted that “psychoanalysis is often criticized because its methods are imprecise, because its results can’t be proven through experimentation, because it is un-scientific, even a ‘Jewish science.’ But however one takes these accusations, the last one is also a badge of honor.”42 By the time Spiel returned to Austria for good in 1963, she was already well aware of the negative reaction some of her fellow émigrés had about her choice to return. Perhaps this is why she pointed out that even the well-known celebrity exiles who remained in England had accusatory words for her and other writers when they came to Austria: “Most Central European exiles returned home as early as the fifties. There still remained—for a little while longer, until he returned to settle at Lake Geneva—Oskar Kokoschka, there remained Canetti, Erich Fried, Robert Neumann, our dear friends Georg and Bettina Ehrlich, both artists; and Peter Stadlen, once a wonderful pianist, now turned reviewer, with his

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wife, who had been a student at the Schwarzwald school. They felt they had settled in well in England and did not want to uproot themselves a second time. Others, such as Fritz Thorn, who had lost their nearest relatives in cruel, often unimaginable ways, denied themselves even a visit to their places of origins for a long time, sometimes forever. But even they were unable to banish the places of their childhood, of their youth, entirely from their hearts. Whenever anyone visited us from the continent, great writers and trustworthy informants such as Paul Celan, Ilse Aichinger, Ingeborg Bachmann, they would rush to meet them, to find out how one could live, in Bachmann’s words, ‘among murderers and lunatics.’”43 Through the words of Bachmann, Spiel shows that even returning home did not heal one from the illness of exile. In Vienna’s Golden Autumn, published only three years before her death, Spiel reached a form of acceptance of her uneasy place within Viennese society, documenting herself as one of a number of Austrian intellectuals uneasy with their own Jewish self-identification, yet unwilling to completely deny that Jewishness played a role in their lives and their legacies. She also speaks for herself when she claims that she would have preferred not to have to mention who among of the book’s figures were Jews, since they themselves “would have wanted to be accepted simply as Austrian poets, painters or composers.” But she also recognizes how important it is not to deny their Jewishness, bur rather to “stress the fact that it was due to a unique moment in history, to an unrepeatable symbiosis, that Vienna’s great era came about.”44 Spiel treated the legacy of Freud and psychoanalysis the same way she engaged Jewish difference: respectful, but also ambivalent, cautious, and uneasy. Although she maintained a careful, distanced position of ambivalence about Freud and his legacy, her writings ultimately show that Freud’s teachings about psychoanalysis, the unconscious, and its academic legacy, as well as his celebrity status as a Jewish exile, provided an undeniable, unavoidable backdrop against which Spiel and other émigrés in Great Britain measured their own experiences of displacement and loss.

Notes 1. Hilde Spiel, “Psychologie des Exils,” in: Kleine Schritte: Berichte und Geschichten (Munich: Ellermann, 1976), p. 27. 2. Ingo Hermann, ed., Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame. Gespräch mit Anne Linsel (Göttingen: Lamuv, 1992), p. 109.

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3. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 35. 4. Felix de Mendelssohn, “Afterword,” in: Hilde Spiel, The Dark and the Bright, Memoirs, 1911–1989 (Riverside, CA: Ariadne, 2007), p. 399. 5. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 101. 6. Hilary Hope Herzog, Vienna Is Different (New York: Berghahn, 2011), p. 206. 7. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 122. 8. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, pp. 44–45. 9. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 49. 10. Spiel, “Psychologie des Exils,” p. 37. 11. Herzog, p. 209. 12. Herzog, p. 210. 13. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 89. 14. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 31. 15. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 33. 16. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 55. 17. “Karl Buhler: 1879–1963,” The American Journal of Psychology, p. 77, no. 4 (December 1964), p. 674. 18. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 33. 19. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 89; Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 31. 20. Hilde Spiel, Vienna’s Golden Autumn: 1866–1938 (London: Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, 1987), p. 140. 21. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 33. 22. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 21. 23. Spiel, The Dark and the Bright , p. 23. 24. Interview with Felix de Mendelssohn, March 11, 1993, 8f, cited in Sandra Wiesinger-Stock, Hilde Spiel: Ein Leben ohne Heimat? (Vienna: Verlag für Gesellschaftskritik, 1996), p. 52. 25. Letter from Hilde Spiel to Marion Berghahn, September 21, 1987, Nachlass Hilde Spiel, cited in Waltraud Strickhausen, “‘Fanny von Arnstein oder Die Emanzipation.’ Das jüdische Leitbild der Biographin Hilde Spiel,” in: Hilde Spiel. Weltbürgerin der Literatur, ed. Hans A. Neunzig and Ingrid Schramm (Vienna: Zsolnay, 1999), p. 33. 26. De Mendelssohn, “Afterword,” pp. 401–402. 27. Hermann, Hilde Spiel, die Grande Dame, p. 31. See also Hilde Spiel, “Anna, Die Tochter,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Magazin, January 9, 1981. 28. Spiel, “Anna, Die Tochter.” 29. Spiel, Paula Fichtl, p. 281. 30. Spiel, “Freud – der Abenteurer,” p. 242. While many Viennese newspapers noted Freud’s 70th birthday, some articles criticized Austria for its insufficient recognition of his world-reknowned innovations. See for example, “Ein Berliner Legationsrat – der einzige offizielle Gratulant am 70. Geburtstag Professor Freuds,” Die Stunde, May 26, 1926, p. 5.

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31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

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Name Index

A Abraham, Karl, 53, 68, 226 Ackerman, Nathan, 204, 207, 214, 215 Adler, Alfred, 16, 81, 82, 92, 116, 118, 124, 133, 171 Adorno, Theodor, 184, 192 Aichhorn, August, 17, 34, 39, 41 Aichinger, Ilse, 229 Arnstein, Fanny von, 223 Augenfeld, Felix, 65, 67 B Bachmann, Ingeborg, 229 Bachofen, Johann Jakob, 116, 131, 133 Bahr, Hermann, 11 Baker-Eddy, Mary, 82, 93 Balázs, Béla, 97, 99 Balcon, Michael, 95, 96, 98, 102, 107, 108, 112 Balint, Alice, 164 Balint, Michael, 164 Barry, Iris, 185, 191, 192

Bentley, Nicholas, 111 Berger, Ludwig, 96 Bermann Fischer, Gottfried, 80, 84 Bernays, Minna, 39, 42 Binswanger, Ludwig, 53, 60, 117 Boder, David P., 127 Böhm, Mrs., 72 Bonaparte, Marie, 41, 44, 57, 77, 78 Bowlby, John, 142, 149 Brasch, Lucie. See Freud, Lucie Brecht, Bertolt, 39, 109, 110 Brenon, Herbert, 105, 106 Briffault, Robert, 119, 131, 135 Broch, Hermann, 84 Bühler, Charlotte, 198, 206, 209, 222 Bühler, Karl, 29, 128, 209, 215 Bullitt, William C., 41, 56 Burlingham, Dorothy, 72, 76, 144, 157, 160 Busemann, Adolf, 127 Byron, Lord George Gordon, 102 C Canetti, Elias, 228

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8

261

262

NAME INDEX

Cavalcanti, Alberto, 96 Celan, Paul, 229 Cellier, Frank, 105 Chamberlain, Neville, 163, 174 Chaplin, Charles, 107 Charcot, Jean-Martin, 37, 107 Chomsky, Noam, 21 Christ (biblical), 106, 226 Cohn, Franz, 164 Courant, Curt, 105 Czinner, Paul, 95

D Dann, Gertrud, 151, 152, 159 Dann, Sophie, 151–153, 157–159 Darwin, Charles, 110 del Giudice, Filippo, 96 de Mendelssohn, Felix, 218, 230 selected writings “Functions and consequences of emigration and integration from a psychological perspective” (“Funktionen und Folgen der Auswanderung und der Integration aus Psychologischer Sicht”, 2006), 231 “The Jewish Tradition in Freud’s Work,” (“Die jüdische Tradition in Freuds Werk”, 2006), 231 Derrida, Jacques, 42, 56, 197, 209 Dirsztay, Viktor von, 116 Dollfuss, Engelbert, 179 Dupont, E.A., 95

E Ehrenstein, Albert, 116

“Bachofen and Freud” (Bachofen und Freud, Typescript, 1939), 116, 133 Ehrenzweig, Anton, 129, 131, 132, 138, 139 “The Origin of the Scientific and Heroic Urge. The Guilt of Prometheus” (1949), 130, 138 Ehrlich, Bettina, 228 Ehrlich, Georg, 228 Einstein, Albert, 107, 110 Eitingon, Max, 42, 44, 68, 227 Ekstein, Rudolf, 206 Erickson, Arthur, 73 F Federn, Ernst, 56 Federn, Paul, 20 Fehl, Siegfried, 2, 24, 54 Feichtinger, Johannes, 19, 33, 34 Ferenczi, Sándor, 51, 59, 226 Feuchtwanger, Lion, 106, 110 Fichtl, Paula, 42, 221, 224, 230 Flugel, John Carl, 160 Foucault, Michel, 168 Frank, Josef, 66, 75 Freud, Amalia (née Nathanson), 36 Freud, Anna, 3, 6, 7, 15–17, 19, 20, 22, 24, 25, 27, 31, 34, 44, 58, 66, 72, 74, 76, 91, 142–144, 148–151, 157, 158, 161, 164–167, 170–174, 176, 177, 224, 225, 228 selected writings The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defense (1937), 176 “An Experiment in Group Upbringing” (with Sophie Dann, 1951), 158, 159 Infants without Families: Reports on the Hampstead Nurseries 1939–1945 (with

NAME INDEX

Dorothy Burlingham, 1943), 76 Freud, Emanuel, 36, 37, 43, 48 Freud, Ernst L.[ucie] selected publications and architectural and interior design “The Conquest of Space with the Aid of Electricity.” (with H. Bright, 1936), 76 Ernst L. and Lucie Freud apartment, Regentenstraße 23, Tiergarten, Berlin, 67 Ernst L. and Lucie Freud house, 32 St. John’s Wood Terrace, St. John’s Wood, London, 72 The Letters of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Zweig (editor, 1970), 58, 76 Melanie Klein house and consulting room, 42 Clifton Hill, St. John’s Wood, London, 72 Psychoanalytical Clinic Sanatorium Schloß Tegel, Berlin, 69 Sigmund Freud house and consulting room, 20 Maresfield Gardens, Hampstead, London, 3, 35, 63, 72, 109, 224 Freud, Gabriel, 43, 57 Freud, Jakob, 36, 37, 43, 54 Freud, Lucian, 72 Freud, Lucie (neé Brasch), 64, 72, 74–76 Freud, Martha, 2, 24, 25, 36, 42, 54, 72 Freud, Philipp, 36, 37, 43 Freud, Sigmund, 91

263

selected writings “The Acquisition and Control of Fire” (“Zur Gewinnung des Feuers”, 1914), 130 Beyond the Pleasure Principle (Jenseits des Lustprinzips, 1920), 50, 160, 170 Civilization and its Discontents (Das Unbehagen in der Kultur, 1930), 199, 210 “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego” (Massenpsychologie und Ich-Analyse, 1921), 31, 199 The Interpretation of Dreams (Die Traumdeutung, 1900), 12, 25, 49, 58, 59, 196, 197 Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis (Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse, 1917), 30 Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood (Eine Kindheitserinnerung des Leonardo da Vinci, 1910), 26, 126 “Medusa’s Head” (“Das Medusenhaupt”, 1922), 131 Moses and Monotheism (Der Mann Moses und die monotheistische Religion,1939), 15, 33, 60 “The Moses of Michelangelo” (“Der Moses des Michelangelo”, 1914), 60 Studies on Hysteria (Studien über Hysterie, 1895), 12, 83, 92

264

NAME INDEX

Totem and Taboo (Totem und Tabu, 1912-1913), 51, 116, 117, 126, 134 “On the History of the Psycho-Analytic Movement” (“Zur Geschichte der psychoanalytischen Bewegung”, 1914), 134 “The Uncanny” (“Das Unheimliche”, 1919), 50, 59 Freund, Michael, 200, 211, 212 Friedjung, Joseph K., 198, 209 Friedlaender, Kate (Käthe), 71 Friedmann, Oscar, 151, 159 Fry, Roger, 119 G Gadamer, H.G., 13, 30 Gellner, Ernest, 5, 26 Glover, Edward, 119, 160, 164, 165 Glover, James, 165, 166, 172, 175 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, von, 12, 21, 38, 47, 49, 53, 79, 121 Gombrich, Ernst, 12, 15, 19, 20, 23, 29, 179–182, 187–191, 193 selected writings “Myth and Reality in German Wartime Broadcasts” (1969), 193 “The Principles of Caricature” (with Ernst Kris, 1938) (ref. caricature manuscript), 14, 31 The Story of Art (1950), 14, 30, 31 Greene, Graham, 114 Grenvile, Anthony, 25 Grimm, Jacob, 50, 59 Grimm, Wilhelm, 50, 59 Grinberg, Leon, 17, 21, 32, 34 Grinberg, Rebecca, 17, 21, 32, 34

H Hamburger, Richard, 71 Hartmann, Heinz, 32, 195, 198, 204, 206, 214, 215, 222 Heidegger, Martin, 38, 55 Heimann, Paula, 164 Herland, Leo, 128 Herrmann, Annie (née Marx), 71 Herrmann, Wolfgang, 71 Herzl, Theodor, 46 Hinshelwood, Robert, 172, 173, 177 Hitchcock, Alfred, 102, 105 Hitler, Adolf, 14, 38–40, 45, 55, 98, 102, 118, 125, 141, 182–184, 219 Hoare, Samuel, 155, 163, 164, 174 Hodin, Joseph P., 123–129, 132 selected writings The Dilemma of Being Modern, 1956, 15, 31 Oskar Kokoschka – The Artist and his Time. A Biographical Study (1966), 123, 127, 136 Oskar Kokoschka. A Psychography (Oskar Kokoschka. Eine Psychographie, 1971), 22, 125, 136 Hoffer, Hedwig, 169 Hoffmann, Camill, 119, 135 Hoffmann, Edith, 119, 123, 135, 136 selected writings Kokoschka, Life and Work (1947), 135, 136 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, 11 Hollitscher, Mathilde, 42, 72, 76 Horkheimer, Max, 204, 214 Horthy, Miklós, 96 Huxley, Aldous, 47, 109 Huxley, Julian, 109

NAME INDEX

265

I Isaacs, Susan, 142, 147, 157, 165, 169–171, 176 Isherwood, Christopher, 98, 100–102, 111, 112

84, 89, 90, 94, 142, 155, 164, 165, 167, 172, 226 Jung, Carl, 16, 53, 60, 118, 121, 122, 125, 137, 171, 226 Junge, Alfred, 106

J Jacoby, H.J., 128, 138 Jacoby, Marianne, 128, 138 Jahoda, Marie, 7, 14–16, 19, 20, 26–28, 31, 32, 184, 192, 195, 197–215 selected writings Freud and the Dilemmas of Psychology (1977), 23, 195, 196, 199, 200, 202, 206–209, 212 Marienthal: The Sociography of an Unemployed Community (with Paul F. Lazarsfeld, and Hans Zeisel; Die Arbeitslosen von Marienthal. Ein soziographischer Versuch über die Wirkungen langandauernder Arbeitslosigkeit, 1933), 199, 212 “The Migration of Psychoanalysis: Its Impact on American Psychology” (1968), 196, 201, 212, 214, 215 “Some Notes on the Influence of Psycho-analytic Idea on American Psychology” (1963), 214 Jeanneret, Pierre, 67 Jerome, Jerome K., 102, 105, 106, 112 Jones, Ernest, 5, 14, 18, 24, 41, 43–45, 55, 57, 58, 71, 77, 83,

K Karsch, Joachim, 65 Kerr, Alfred, 108 King, Pearl, 154, 164, 167, 174, 175 Klein, Melanie, 5, 14, 16, 20, 22, 25, 30, 31, 45, 70, 71, 75, 129, 142, 158, 161, 164–167, 170, 171, 175, 176 selected writings “A Contribution to the Psychogenesis of ManicDepressive States” (1935), 175 Kokoschka, Oskar, 7, 9, 14–16, 20, 22, 28, 108, 115–125, 127–137, 139, 228 selected paintings and publications Mein Leben (My Life, 1971), 136 “The Prometheus Saga” (triptych, 1950), 131 A sea ringed with visions (essay, 1962), 121, 122, 136 “Self-Portrait as a Degenerate Artist” (1937), 120 “Totem and Taboo. Thinking exercises of a cynic” (“Totem und Tabu. Denkübungen eines Zynikers,” typescript, 1933), 133 Korda, Alexander, 14, 95, 96, 98 Films The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933), 96, 108

266

NAME INDEX

The Thief of Bagdad (with Ludwig Berger, 1940), 96 Kortner, Fritz, 100, 109 Kracauer, Siegfried, 97, 110, 111, 184, 185, 192 Krampf, Günther, 112 camera work Little Friend (directed by Berthold Viertel, 1934), 98–102, 106, 112 Narkose (directed by Alfred Abel, 1929), 99 Kraus, Karl, 14, 97, 102, 115 author and editor Die Fackel, journal, 97 Kris, Ernst, 7, 12, 14–16, 19–23, 31, 32, 179–185, 187–193, 204, 206, 214, 215 selected writings German Radio Propaganda: Report on Home Broadcasts during the War (with Hans Speier, 1944), 183, 188, 191, 193 “Myth and Reality in German Wartime Broadcasts” (1969), 193 “The Principles of Caricature” (with Ernst Gombrich, 1938) (ref. caricature manuscript), 14, 31 Psychology of Caricature (“Zur Psychologie der Karikatur” 1934), 181 Kristeva, Julia, 6, 26 Krojanker, Gustav, 64, 74 Kurz, Otto, 182 L Lampl-de Groot, Jeanne (Adriana), 68 Lampl, Hans, 68 Lantos, Barbara, 164

Lazarsfeld, Paul F., 184, 185, 198, 199, 202 Le Corbusier, 67 Lehmann, Beatrix, 102 Lehmann, John, 98, 112 Lejeune, C.A., 114 Lobengula, 108 London, Louise, 162, 173 Loos, Adolf, 24, 25, 65, 68, 74, 115 Lothar, Ernst, 23, 98–100, 108, 110, 112, 114 Lueger, Karl, 11, 38, 46 Lynd, Helen Merrell, 185, 192 Lynd, Robert S., 18, 23, 185–192 selected writings Knowledge for What? The Place of Social Science in American Culture (1939), 186, 189, 192 Middletown: A Study in Modern American Culture (with Helen Merrell Lynd, 1929), 185, 186, 192 M Maas, Hilde, 71, 118, 164 Mann, Thomas, 50, 117 Marshall, John, 183–185, 187, 188, 191–193 Marx, Adolf, 71 Marx, Heide, 71 Marx, Karl, 102, 110, 186 McLuhan, Marshall, 74 Mead, Margaret, 186, 187, 190, 191 selected writings Keep Your Powder Dry: An Anthropologist Looks at America (1942), 187, 192, 193 Medusa (mythological), 131, 139 Mendes, Lothar, 95, 96, 106 Films

NAME INDEX

Jew Süss (1934; released as Power in United States), 96, 106 Mesmer, Franz, 82, 107 Michelangelo, Buonarroti, 3, 51 Mikes, George, 111 Miles, Lord Bernard, 73 Moses (biblical), 3, 21, 51–54 Mosse, Gerda, 72 Motesiczky, Marie-Louise von, 8, 27 Münz, Ludwig, 107 Murnau, F.W. Films City Girl (Our Daily Bread) (1930), 97 Four Devils (1928), 97 The Hands of Orlac (1928), 107 Nosferatu (1929), 102 Schloß Vogelöd (screenplay by Viertel, 1921), 97

N Neumann, Erich, 128 Neumann, Franz L., 192 Neumann, Julie, 128, 129, 138 Neurath, Otto, 31, 199, 210

O Oedipus (mythological), 47, 51, 107, 126, 174, 224 Oppenheimer, Joseph Süss, 106

P Park, Robert E., 19, 33 Pascal, Gabriel, 96 Payne, Sylvia, 166, 171, 172 Pilbeam, Nova, 99 Plischke, Ernst, 68 Pollak, Max, 65

267

Pressburger, Imre (Emeric), 95, 96 Priestley, J.B., 109 R Rado, Sandor, 68 Read, Herbert, 18, 117–119, 121–123, 134, 135 selected writings Art and Society (1966), 119, 135 A concise History of Modern Painting (1959), 136 The Education of Free Men (1944), 119, 135 “Psychoanalysis and the Critic” (1924–1925), 118, 135 Reich, Wilhelm, 39, 164, 174 Reinhardt, Max, 96 Reisz, Karel, 97 Reville, Alma, 105 Rhodes, Cecil, 30, 98, 108 Rickman, John, 71 Rietveld, Gerrit, 67 Rolnik, Eran, 13, 30, 155 Rotha, Paul, 111 S Salten, Felix, 11 Saxl, Fritz, 182, 188, 189 Schlick, Moritz, 15, 31, 222, 223 Schmideberg, Melitta, 164, 165, 176 Schmideberg, Walter, 164, 169, 171, 176 Schur, Max, 42, 49, 59 Schussnigg, Kurt, 179 Schwarzwald, Eugenie, 15 Seilern, Count Antoine, 15, 117, 130, 132, 134 Shakespeare, William, 21, 47–49, 51, 86 Shaw, George Bernard, 96, 134

268

NAME INDEX

Silberstein, Eduard, 43, 57, 59 Simmel, Ernst, 69, 214 Speier, Hans, 183, 185, 191, 193 Spiel, Hilde, 7, 9, 14–16, 20, 21, 23, 26, 28, 217–231 selected writings The Dark and the Bright, Memoirs 1911–1989 (Die hellen und die finsteren Zeiten – Erinnerungen 1911–1946, 1989), 230 “Psychology of Exile” (“Psychologie des Exils”, 1976), 218, 226 Vienna’s Golden Autumn: 1866–1938 (1987), 223, 229–231 Spitz, René, 68, 222 Stadlen, Peter, 228 Stangl, Erwin, 164 Stapenhorst, Günther von, 96 Steiner, Riccardo, 24, 155, 164, 167, 173–176 Strachey, James, 58, 92, 118, 137, 166, 210 Strachey, Lytton, 126

T Tansley, Arthur, 46 Thorn, Fritz, 229 Tietze, Hans, 223 Timms, Edward, 4–6, 25, 26, 29, 32, 33, 108, 113, 133, 177, 212 Trubowitz, Lara, 18, 33

U Unger, Wilhelm, 108

V Veidt, Conrad, 95, 96, 105–107, 113

Viertel, Berthold, 7, 14–16, 20–23, 30, 32, 95–98, 100–102, 105, 107–114 Films Die Abenteuer eines Zehnmarkscheines (1926), 97 Die Perücke (1925), 97 Little Friend (1934), 98–102, 106, 112 Nora (1923), 97 The Passing of the Third Floor Back (1935), 98, 102, 106, 107 Rhodes of Africa (1936), 98, 107 Viertel, Salka (née Steuermann), 97

W Wagner, Gertrude, 101, 200 Wälder (Waelder), Robert, 32, 164, 174 Warburg, Aby, 181, 182, 188, 191 Weill, Kurt, 109 Weissenfeld, Felix, 128, 129, 138 Wells, H.G., 35, 54, 109, 157 Winnicott, Donald W., 142, 147, 149, 157–160, 176 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 29 Wodak, Ruth, 168, 176

Z Zeisel, Hans, 184, 199, 210–212 Zweig, Arnold, 2, 24, 33, 40, 41, 44, 46, 56, 72, 76 Zweig, Stefan, 7, 9, 14, 16, 21, 26, 30, 78, 90–94, 99, 108, 112, 117 selected writings

NAME INDEX

Beware of Pity (Ungeduld des Herzens ) (1939), 80, 81, 83 “Eulogy for Sigmund Freud” (“Worte am Sarge Sigmund Freuds”, 1939), 84 Fateful Hours of Mankind (Sternstunden der Menschheit 1927), 85 Mental Healers. Mesmer, Eddy, Freud (Die Heilung

269

durch den Geist. Franz Anton Mesmer – Mary Baker-Eddy – Sigmund Freud, 1931), 82, 83, 87, 93, 94 The World of Yesterday. An Autobiography (Die Welt von Gestern. Erinnerungen eines Europäers, 1942), 21, 78, 87, 88, 90, 94

Subject and Place Index

A Abu Simbel, Egypt (drawing by Körner, Ernst), 3, 63 Academic Assistance Council (AAC), 163, 174 Adolf Loos’ Bauschule, Vienna, 65, 74 Anglomania, 46, 58 Anglophilia, 47 Anschluss (Annexation of Austria to Nazi Germany), 1, 9, 14, 15, 40, 55, 80, 108, 134, 164, 179, 182, 205 Anti-Fascism, 108, 110, 183 Antisemitism, 3, 7, 11, 14, 15, 18, 19, 23, 25, 29, 33, 39, 105, 196, 197, 199–204, 207, 213, 214, 223, 228 Anxiety, 22, 82, 110, 142–155, 171 Appeasement, 98, 183 The Austrian Centre, London, 27, 78, 220 Laterndl theater, London, 9 Austro-Hungary, 2, 21. See also Habsburg Empire

Authoritarian, 80, 119, 154, 172, 204 Authority, 9, 16, 19, 25, 99, 106, 109, 159, 167, 169, 170, 197, 198 Authorship, 6, 7, 9, 14, 16, 17, 23, 25, 196, 201 B Bauwelt, Journal, 74 Belonging, 1, 2, 11, 14, 21, 39, 167, 196, 198, 203, 204, 207, 219, 220 group belonging, 202, 213 Berlin, 14, 21, 25, 40, 55–57, 63–72, 74, 91, 96–98, 101, 102, 118, 119, 122, 128, 133–135, 137, 138, 141, 151, 159, 164, 167, 173, 175, 177, 201 Dahlem, 71 Grunewald, 68, 72 Tegel, 69 Berlin Graphological Society, 128 Biography, 10, 14, 15, 17, 26, 30, 35, 43, 77, 90, 108, 123–127,

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 E. Shapira and D. Finzi (eds.), Freud and the Émigré, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51787-8

271

272

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

138, 154, 162, 165, 172, 196, 197, 200, 207, 218, 223, 226 B’nai B’rith Lodge, Vienna, 227 Bourgeois, 37, 66, 72, 111 Britain, refugee policy, 1, 2, 4–9, 11–18, 20–23, 163 British Broadcast Corporation (BBC), 14, 15, 110, 143, 153, 157, 182, 188 British Empire, 42, 46 British Journal of Medical Psychology, 14, 31, 160 British Psycho-Analytical Society (BPS) “Controversial Discussions”, 22, 161, 165, 167, 169–172, 176 discourse analysis of, 22 leadership of, 166 politics in, 22 Training Committee, 165–166 British Psychological Society, 119 British Synagogue at the London Jewish Hospital, London, 73 Brunel College of Technology (Since 1966, Brunel University London), 195 Budapest, 96, 141, 175 Bukovina, 2 The Bulldogs Bank Project, Bulldogs Bank in Sussex, 22, 151, 159 Burlington Magazine, 118, 119, 134, 135 C Canada, 15, 49, 59, 182 Caricature, 29, 180–182, 190 Catholic Church, 39, 52 Catholicism, 53 Censorship, 29, 197 Central Europe, 13, 28, 32, 33, 78, 95, 98, 175, 176, 205, 206, 214, 219, 228

Characterology, 86, 128 Charisma, 19, 107, 195, 205 Charité hospital, Berlin, 71 Chirology, 128 Columbia University, New York, 185 Corvin Films, Budapest, 96 Critical Discourse Analysis, 168 Cultural anthropology, 202 heritage, 6, 7, 13, 23, 196, 204 producers, 7, 13, 23, 25, 27, 202 renewal, 5, 16, 18 utopia, 12 Cultural networks, 21 emigré cultural networks, 10, 13, 16, 18, 202 Culture, 2, 9–13, 16, 17, 22, 26, 38, 42, 44, 47, 84, 108, 110, 141, 153, 175, 181, 182, 186, 202, 205, 215, 217, 222, 224, 227 Austrian culture, 108, 206 British culture, 2, 4, 14, 18, 24, 33 Czech Republic, 123 D Deconstruction, 197, 207, 209 Democracy, 20, 38, 52, 150, 158, 186, 198 democratic citizenship, 7, 19, 22, 158, 160 Denmark, 41, 48 Diaspora, 1, 3, 95, 142 Discourse, 12, 17, 22, 87, 89, 195, 197, 211, 212 public discourse, 10, 17, 18 racial discourse, 20 scientific discourse, 5 Discrimination, 16, 198, 207, 228 Displacement, 100, 101, 119, 229 Dover, 41 Dr Caligari (Film directed by Robert Wiene, 1920), 107

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

Dreams, 45, 47, 48, 84, 99–102, 107, 110, 115, 116, 182 E Education, 7, 11, 22, 38, 49, 179, 180, 184, 190, 195 Egypt, 3, 50, 51 Émigré, 1, 3–19, 21–23, 25, 27, 28, 30–33, 72, 95, 100, 105, 106, 111, 161–168, 172, 175, 183, 184, 196, 197, 203–208, 214, 217–220, 222–224, 227–229 Exile, 1, 3–13, 15–18, 20–23, 26, 28, 30, 33, 36, 39, 45, 55, 63, 65, 70–74, 78, 80, 84, 86, 88–90, 96, 97, 108–112, 118, 165, 167, 173, 180, 183, 185, 191, 204, 205, 214, 217–220, 222, 223, 226–229 Expressionism, 22, 71, 89, 102, 107, 118, 133 F Fascism, 1, 2, 7, 14, 19, 22, 80, 96, 100, 108, 131, 153, 166, 179, 183, 185, 187, 189, 191, 197, 202, 213, 223 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), USA, 109 First World War, 1, 2, 11, 16, 18, 80, 83, 97, 144, 145, 162, 219 Frankfurt School, 184, 186, 192, 204 Freiberg. See Pˇríbor, Moravia Freier Deutscher Kulturbund (Free German League of Culture), Britain, 108 Freud, in feminist theory, 173 Freud’s legacy, 22, 23, 28, 196, 197, 208, 217, 222, 227 Freud Museum, London, 25, 90, 224

273

Intellectual Hero, 21, 87 Sigmund Freud Archives, Library of Congress, Washington, 24, 36, 54 Sigmund Freud Museum, Sigmund Freud Privatstiftung, Vienna, 59, 76 G Galicia, 2, 36 Gane furniture firm, Bristol, 202 Gartenhausklinik, or Richard Hamburger’s Gartenhausklinik, Berlin, 71 Gaumont, 107 Gaumont-British, 14, 98, 99, 102, 106, 108, 112 Gentiles, 10–12, 15, 200 German Reich, 39 Germany, 1, 2, 7, 14–16, 31, 38, 40, 53, 56, 66, 96, 101, 106, 107, 110, 121, 125, 141, 159, 162, 179, 202, 205, 218, 228 Gesellschaft- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Museum of Society and Economy), 199 Golden Lane Housing competition 1951, 73 Graphology, 128 H Habsburg Empire, 37–38, 45, 50, 81, 99. See also Austro-Hungary Hampstead Clinic, 159, 172, 173, 177 Hampstead War Nurseries, London, 15, 22, 31, 72, 144, 151, 172, 177 Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 228 Heimat . See Homeland Heimlich, 50

274

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

Heritage, 7, 12, 13, 23, 204, 217 Austrian heritage, 13, 17 cultural heritage, 6, 7, 13, 23, 28, 196 Holocaust, 10, 144, 153, 155, 158, 174, 197, 204. See also Terezin Home, 2, 11, 16, 21, 36, 37, 45, 50, 51, 53, 61, 63–68, 70–75, 78, 86, 94, 100, 128, 142, 143, 145–148, 159, 167, 173, 184, 217–222, 224, 227–229 “Heimkehr” (return home), 39 Homeland, 2, 38, 86, 99, 118, 227 Home Office (Britain), 102, 162–164 Hospitality, 39, 40, 42 Humanitarian, 144, 154, 162. See 164-165 “Humanized knowledge”, 6, 10, 17, 26, 202 Human Relations, journal, 160, 204, 214 I Identification, 1, 3, 10, 16, 18, 25, 152, 167, 198, 201, 205, 220, 221, 223, 227. See also Jewish identification Imago. Zeitschrift für Psychoanalytische Psychologie, Ihre Grenzgebiete und Anwendungen, Journal, 51, 60, 77, 94, 123, 180, 214 Imperialism, 98 Integrated analysis, 7, 22, 179, 180, 188, 190, 191 Integration, 19, 22, 180, 181, 184, 185, 191, 196 International Psycho-Analytical Association Congress, 169 International Psychoanalytic Society, 24 Interwar period, 16, 19, 206

J Jewish Jewish child survivors, 22, 144 Jewish difference, 218, 223, 229 Jewish Refugee Committee, 163 Jewish scientist, 196, 201, 207, 208, 226 Jewish self-identification, 3, 217, 227, 229 Jewish identification, 5, 10, 17, 28, 31, 207, 211 Jews, 2, 3, 10–12, 18, 19, 23–25, 33, 36–40, 46, 47, 50, 51, 98, 101, 105, 106, 110, 163, 164, 167, 174, 175, 179, 183, 189, 200, 201, 205, 207–210, 212, 214, 221, 223, 226–229 Ashkenazim, 98 Sephardim, 98 Jung Wien, Young Vienna, 11

K “Kristallnacht”. See Pogrom in November 1938 Kunsthaus Zurich, 124

L Language of émigrés, 11, 201 Laudatio, 84, 85 Liberation, 43, 45, 47, 48, 52, 131 Ligue de l’Autriche vivante, 108 London the Blitz, 144–146, 155, 168 evacuation, 146–150, 153 Hampstead, 35, 109, 117, 118, 148, 221 St. John’s Wood, 63, 70, 72 London Films, 96

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

M Manchester, 37, 43, 44, 46, 49, 57, 134, 156, 157, 165 Mass communication, 184 Melodrama, 111 Memories, 13, 63, 65, 73, 74, 99, 124, 126, 127, 154, 196, 220, 223, 224, 228 Mermaid Theatre, London, 73 Methodology, Psychoanalysis as methodology, 6, 7, 10, 22, 197, 204 Ministry of Labour (Britain), 162, 163 Modernity, 10, 72, 110 Moravia, Czech Republic, 24, 37 Museum of Fine Arts Vienna (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien), 12, 41, 180 Museum of Modern Art, New York, 185, 192 “Mythopoesis”, 169, 170

N Nationalkomitee Freies Deutschland, Soviet Union, 109 National Library of Israel, Jerusalem, 116, 133 National-Socialism, 2 Naturalization, 9 New School for Social Research Research Project on Totalitarian Communication, 15, 183, 185, 191 New York University in New York city, 195

O Ostrava, Czech Republic, 120

275

P Palestine, 41, 44, 46, 227 Paris, 27, 37, 41, 44, 54, 96, 164 Pogrom in November 1938 (so-called “Kristallnacht”), 40 Policlinic for Psychoanalytical Treatment, Berlin, 69 Political activism, 195, 198, 201 Positivism, Philosophy, 31, 197, 199 Possession, 2, 8, 9, 50, 53, 73, 152, 169 Prague, 15, 98, 117, 120, 123, 134–136, 141 Pˇríbor, Czech Republic, 36 Promised Land, 21, 53 Propaganda, 7, 15, 19, 23, 106, 180, 182–185, 188–190, 192, 193, 211 Psychoanalysis, 1, 3–7, 10–13, 15–17, 19–22, 24, 25, 29, 31, 32, 40, 44, 45, 47–49, 53, 54, 65, 67, 69, 73, 78, 79, 82, 83, 87, 89, 90, 110, 116–120, 122, 123, 125, 126, 130, 132–136, 138, 141, 142, 150, 154, 155, 158, 160, 161, 164–167, 169, 171, 173, 175–177, 181, 184 death instinct in, 165, 169–171 ego psychology, 167, 180 Kleinian theory, 173 libido theory, 170, 171 politics of, 11, 19, 22, 53, 160, 166, 167 trauma, traumatic, 4, 13, 165 Psychoanalytical consulting rooms, 61, 63, 67–69 Psychoanalytical movement, 53, 134 Psychology, 12, 14–18, 22, 23, 47, 48, 79–82, 87, 99, 111, 117, 120, 123–129, 142, 145–147, 149, 150, 154, 160, 167,

276

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

180–182, 185, 186, 188, 189, 227 academic psychology, 195–206, 208, 209, 222, 227 psychology of art, 181

R Redemption, 106 Red Vienna, 23, 177 Refugees, 5, 8, 9, 28, 42, 71, 78, 109, 117, 143, 144, 151, 162–167, 168, 172, 173–174, 182 economic refugee, 7, 9 racial refugee, 7 refugees from Galicia and Bukovina during and post First World One, 2 Reichsfluchtsteuer (National Socialist Flight Tax), 41 Reichstag Fire, 102 The Rockefeller Foundation, New York, 184, 188, 192, 193 Rockefeller Foundation research grants in Europe, 183

S Schwarzwald school, Vienna, 15, 218, 229 Second World War, 19, 22, 23, 72, 73, 141, 142, 154, 156, 196, 197, 202, 204, 207 Social context, 22, 161, 162, 199, 200 Socialism, 7, 15, 29, 31, 41, 63, 70, 73, 81, 119, 128, 177, 179, 183, 184, 188, 195, 198, 200, 202, 207, 209–213 Social psychology, 195, 198, 200, 201, 204, 207

Society for the Protection of Science and Learning. See Academic Assistance Council (AAC) Society for the Psychological Study of Social Issues, 190 Sociology, 7, 18, 117, 185, 186, 189, 199, 214 Stereotypes, 16, 190, 201, 206–208, 215 Sussex University in Brighton, 195

T Tavistock Institute, 143, 172 Technische Hochschule Wien (College of Technology, today Technische Universität Wien), 65 Terezin (Theresienstadt Ghetto), 151, 152, 158, 159 Textile factory in Marienthal, Lower Austria, 198, 210 Thames and Hudson Publishing House, 122 Therapy, 5, 6, 12–14, 17, 19, 30, 31, 40, 67, 69, 70, 83, 116, 167, 171, 173, 195, 198, 204 Translation, 4, 13, 21, 23–25, 47, 54, 60, 74–76, 92, 100, 101, 117, 121, 122 The Twentieth Century German Art, exhibition 1938, London, 33, 135

U Unemployed, 184, 198–200, 207, 210, 211

V Vienna, 2, 4, 8, 10–15, 17, 19–23, 37–46, 50, 52, 53, 63, 65, 66, 68, 69, 73, 82, 96–98, 100, 107,

SUBJECT AND PLACE INDEX

116–119, 125, 128, 129, 141, 151, 161, 162, 164, 167, 173, 179–182, 184, 185, 196–199, 201, 204, 207, 218, 221–225, 229 Vienna Psychoanalytical Society, 172 Vienna University, Vienna, 29, 31 art history department, 14, 19, 117, 119, 129, 180, 181 psychology department, 14, 117, 195, 198 Research Center for Economic Psychology, Vienna University, 15, 198, 202 Wiener Kreis (Vienna Circle), Vienna University, 15, 31, 199, 210 “Viennese community”, 17 Visa, 40, 41, 163, 164, 174 Volksbühne theatre (Berlin), 97

277

W The Wandering Jew (Film directed by Maurice Elvey, 1923; remade 1933), 106 Warburg Institute (London), 14, 181, 182, 193 Warburg Library (Hamburg), 181, 182 Wednesday Psychological Society, 11 White-collar workers (Angestellte), 97 Wiener Europa Verlag, 125 Wiener Werkstätte, 110 “Willkommenskultur” (Welcome Culture), 42 X Xenophobia, 162, 164, 166 Y Yiddish, 37