This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia

Title:      Into The Darkness (1940)
Author:     Lothrop Stoddard [1883-1950]
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.:  0300731.txt
Language:   English
Date first posted:          May 2003
Date most recently updated: May 2003

Production notes: Words in italics in the book
                  are enclosed by underscores (_) in this eBook

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this
file.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at
http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Into The Darkness (1940)
Author:     Lothrop Stoddard [1883-1950]




Into The Darkness
Nazi Germany Today




CONTENTS

I. THE SHADOW
II. BERLIN BLACKOUT
III. GETTING ON WITH THE JOB
IV. JUNKETING THROUGH GERMANY
V. THIS DETESTED WAR
VI. VIENNA AND BRATISLAVA
VII. IRON RATIONS
VIII. A BERLIN LADY GOES TO MARKET
IX. THE BATTLE OF THE LAND
X. THE LABOR FRONT
XI. THE ARMY OF THE SPADE
XII: HITLER YOUTH
XIII. WOMEN OF THE THIRD REICH
XIV. BEHIND THE WINTER-HELP
XV. SOCIALIZED HEALTH
XVI. IN A EUGENICS COURT
XVII. I SEE HITLER
XVIII. MID-WINTER BERLIN
XIX. BERLIN TO BUDAPEST
XX. THE PARTY
XXI. THE TOTALITARIAN STATE
XXII. CLOSED DOORS
XXIII. OUT OF THE SHADOW
INDEX




I. THE SHADOW


All Europe is under the shadow of war. It is like an eclipse of the
sun. In the warring nations the darkness is most intense, amounting to
a continuous blackout.  The neutral countries form a sort of twilight
zone, where life is better, yet far from normal.

In nature, an eclipse is a passing phenomenon; awe-inspiring but soon
over. Not so with the war-hidden sun of Europe's civilization. Normal
light and warmth do not return. Ominously, the twilight zone of
neutrality becomes an ever-bleaker gray, while war's blackout grows
more and more intense.

I entered wartime Europe by way of Italy, making the trip from America
on the Italian liner Rex. It was a strange voyage. This huge floating
palace, the pride of Italy's merchant marine, carried only a handful
of passengers. War's automatic blight on pleasure tours, plus our
State Department's ban on ordinary passports, had dammed the travel
flood to the merest trickle. So I sailed from New York on an almost
empty boat.

First Class on the _Rex_ is a miracle of modern luxury.  Yet all that
splendor was lavished upon precisely twenty-five passengers including
myself. Consequently we rattled around in this magnificence like tiny
peas in a mammoth pod. A small group of tables in one corner of the
spacious dining salon; a short row of reclining-chairs on the long
vista of the promenade deck; a pathetic little cluster of seats in the
vast ballroom when it was time for the movies--these were the sole
evidences of community life. Even the ship's company was little in
evidence. Save for the few stewards and deck-hands needed to look
after us, the rest did not appear. Now and then I would roam about for
a long time without seeing a soul. The effect was eery. It was like
being on a ghost ship, "Outward Bound" and driven by unseen hands.

There was not much to be gleaned from my fellow-passengers.  Most of
them were Italians, speaking little English and full of their own
affairs. A pair of American business men were equally preoccupied. For
them, the war was a confounded nuisance. The rapid-fire speech of a
Chilean diplomat bound with his family for a European post was too
much for my Spanish. The most intriguing person aboard was a lone
Japanese who beat everybody at ping-pong but otherwise held himself
aloof.

Back aft, Tourist Class was even more cosmopolitan, with a solitary
American set among a sprinkling of several nationalities, including a
young Iraki Arab returning to Bagdad from a course at the University
of Chicago. He was a fiery nationalist deeply distrustful of all the
European Powers, especially Soviet Russia with its possible designs on
the Middle East. In both Tourist and Third Class were a number of
Germans, mostly women but three of them men of military age.  All were
obviously nervous. They had taken the gamble that the _Rex_ would not
be stopped by the English at Gibraltar, Britain's key to the
Mediterranean. In that event, the men knew that a concentration camp
would be the end of their venturesome attempt to return to the
Fatherland.

Passing the Straits of Gibraltar is always a memorable experience.
This time it was especially impressive.  We entered about
midafternoon. The sky was full of cloud-masses shot with gleams of
watery sunshine.  At one moment a magnificent rainbow spanned the
broad straits like a mammoth suspension-bridge.  On the African shore
the jagged sierras of Morocco were draped in mists. By contrast, the
mountains of Spain were dappled sunlight, their brown slopes tinted
with tender green where the long drought of summer had been tempered
by the first autumn rains.

At length the massive outline of the Rock of Gibraltar came into view.
It got nearer. We forged steadily ahead on our normal course toward
the open Mediterranean beyond. Would the British let us pass?  Nobody
knew but the ship's officers, and they wouldn't tell. Then, when
almost abreast of the Rock, our bow swerved sharply and we swung in
past Europa Point.  The British were going to give us the once-over!

Hastily I climbed to a 'vantage-place on the top deck to view what was
to come, my Japanese fellow-passenger following suit. As the _Rex_
entered Algeciras Bay we could see Gibraltar's outer harbor crowded
with merchant shipping. When we got closer, I could discern by the big
tricolor flags painted on their sides that most of them were Italian.
Seven Italian freighters and three liners, all held for inspection. We
cast anchor near the _Augustus_, a big beauty on the South American
run.

As the anchor chain rattled, my fellow-passenger turned to me with a
bland Oriental smile. "Very interesting," he remarked, pointing to the
impounded shipping. "Do not think Japanese Government let this happen
to our steamers."

We continued to view objectively happenings that did not personally
concern us. Not so the bulk of the ship's company. The sight of those
many impounded ships stirred every Italian aboard. Officers assumed
tight-lipped impassivity and stewards shrugged deprecatingly, but
sailors gathered in muttering knots while passengers became
indignantly vocal, especially as a large naval tender approached us
from shore. It was filled with British bluejackets and officers with
white caps. I also spotted two military constables, which meant that
they were after Germans.

As the tender swung alongside just beneath my 'vantage-point, a young
Italian fellow-passenger strode up and joined us. Since he had already
proclaimed himself an ardent Fascist, I was not surprised when he
relieved his pent-up feelings with all the vigor of his seventeen
years.

"Look at all our ships held in here!" he shouted.  "Isn't it a shame?"

I couldn't resist a mischievous thought. "Just a little pat of the
lion's paw," I put in soothingly.

The tease worked to perfection. He fairly exploded.

"Lions?" he yelled, shaking his fist. "Insolent dogs, I call them.
Just you wait. This war isn't over; it's only begun. Some fine day,
our Duce will give the word.  Then we'll blast that old rock to
smithereens and hand the fragments to our good friend Franco as a
gesture of the friendship between our two Latin nations."

This speech set off a sailor who was painting nearby.  He joined us,
gesticulating with his brush. "I know how the English act," he
growled, "I went through the Ethiopian War. Wouldn't I like to drop
this paint-brush on that So-and-So's head, down there!" That So-and-So
was a young British navy officer standing very erect in the tender's
stern. I shudder to think what might have happened if the sailor had
obeyed that impulse.

By this time most of the British officers had climbed aboard, so I
went below to see what was up. The spacious entrance salon was dotted
with spectators.  Through the open door of the purser's office I could
glimpse two Britishers going over the manifest of the ship's cargo.
Just outside the door, flanked by the constables, stood our three
Germans of military age--stocky men in their thirties or early
forties. They stood impassive.  This stoical pose was perhaps due to
the fact that they had been drinking all the afternoon to quiet their
nerves, so they should have been pleasantly mulled. Presently they
entered the purser's office. The interview was short. Out they came,
and the constables escorted them downstairs to the lower gangway.

I hurried on deck to watch the tender again. It was now dark, but by
our ship's floodlights I could see some cheap suitcases aboard the
tender. Soon a constable climbed down the short rope-ladder; then the
three Germans; then the second constable and the British investigation
officers. The Germans, clad in raincoats, huddled around their scanty
baggage and lit cigarettes.  As the tender chugged away, the young
officer previously menaced by the paint-brush shouted up to us in
crisp British accents: "You can go straight away now!" The ordeal was
over. It had lasted less than four hours. With only mail and a bit of
express cargo, there was no valid reason for detaining us longer. We
were lucky. Some ships with a full loading were held up for days.
Anyhow, we promptly weighed anchor and were off. The twinkling lights
of Gibraltar Town slipped quickly past and vanished behind Europa
Point. The towering heights of the Rock loomed dimly in the sheen of
the moon. Then it, too, sank from sight.

Approaching Italy, the weather turned symbolic. The last night on
board we encountered a violent tempest marked by incessant lightning
and crashing thunder.  With the dawn a great wind came out of the
north, blustering and unseasonably cold. The Bay of Genoa was smartly
whitecapped as the giant Rex slid into the harbor and nosed cautiously
up to her dock.

Historic Genoa, climbing its steep hills against a background of bare
mountains, looked as impressive as ever. Yet there was a strange
something in the picture which I could not at first make out. Then I
realized what it was--an almost Sabbath absence of motion and bustle,
though the date was neither a Sunday nor a holiday. Broad parking
spaces behind the docks were virtually empty of motor cars, while the
streets beyond were devoid of traffic save for trams and horse-drawn
vehicles. Civilian Italy was denied gasoline. The precious fluid had
been impounded for military purposes.

Friends met me at the dock, helped me through customs, and took me to
the nearby railroad station in one of the few ancient taxis still
permitted to run. At the station I checked my baggage as I was leaving
town late that same evening. Apologetically, my friends escorted me to
a tram in order to reach their suburban home some miles out. On the
way I noted big letters painted on almost every deadwall. _Duce! Duce!
Duce_! Such were the triple salutes to Mussolini, endlessly repeated.
Less often came the Fascist motto: _Believe! Obey!  Fight_! Italy
being partly mobilized, I saw many soldiers.

Yet, despite all those exhortations, neither soldiers nor civilians
appeared to be in a martial mood. On the contrary, they seemed
preoccupied, walking for the most part in silence, huddling down into
their clothes against recurrent blasts of the chill mountain wind.
Once beyond the heart of the city, traffic became even thinner.  The
few trucks encountered were run by compressed methane gas. I could
tell this by the big extra cylinders clamped along their sides. They
were like exaggerated copies of the Prestolite tanks I recall from my
early motoring days.

At dinner that evening my friends and their guests talked freely.
"We're just getting over a bad attack of jitters," remarked my
American-born hostess. "You should have been here a month and a half
ago, when the war began, to realize how things were. At first we
feared we were going right in, and expected French bombers over our
heads any hour. You know that from our balcony we can glimpse the
French coast on a clear day."

"The worst feature was the blackouts," added my host. "Thank goodness,
we don't have any more of them. Wait until you get up into Germany.
Then you'll know what I mean."

"The Italian people doesn't want to get into this row," stated a
professional man decisively. "We've been through two wars
already--Ethiopia, Spain. That's enough fighting for a while."

"If we should intervene later," broke in a retired naval officer, "it
will be strictly for Italian interests. And even then we'll get what
we want first. No going in on promises. We don't forget how we got
gypped at Versailles.  That won't happen a second time."

"I must apologize for not serving you real coffee," said my hostess.
"But this _Mokkari_, made from roasted rice, isn't so bad. You know we
can't get coffee from South America any more on a barter basis and we
mustn't lose any gold or foreign exchange in times like these except
for imports vitally needed."

"As a matter of fact," put in a guest, "we could have a small coffee
ration from what we get in from Ethiopia.  But that coffee is very
high grade and brings a fancy price on the world market. So the
Government sells it all abroad to get more foreign exchange."

"We've been systematically learning to do without luxury imports ever
since the League sanctions against us during the Ethiopian War," said
my host. "You'd be surprised to learn how self-sufficient we have
become."

"Autarchy," stated the retired naval officer sententiously, "is a good
idea. Puts a nation on its toes. Makes more work. Stimulates
invention. Of course we can't do it a hundred per cent. But the nearer
we can come to it, the better."

During the railroad journey from Genoa to the German border, my social
contacts were scanty. Fellow-travelers were Italians, and my knowledge
of that tongue is far too sketchy for intelligent conversation.
Still, I found an army officer who spoke French and a business man who
knew German.

The army officer was an optimist, due largely to his faith in
Mussolini. "Our Duce is a smart man," he said emphatically. "He's
keeping us out of that war up north because he knows it isn't our
fight. Not yet, at any rate.  Should conditions change, I'm sure he's
smart enough to pick the right side for us." Ideologies evidently
didn't bother him. In his eyes it was just another war.

The business man was equally unconcerned with ideals but did not share
the officer's optimism. "This is a crazy war," he growled. "I can't
see how the leaders on either side let it happen. They ought to have
had sense enough to make some compromise, knowing as they should what
it will probably mean. If it goes on even two years, business
everywhere will be hopelessly undermined and may be nationalized. If
it lasts as long as the other war, all Europe will be in chaos. Not
organized Communism. Just plain anarchy."

"Won't Italy gain commercially by staying neutral?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes," he shrugged. "We're doing new business already and we'll
get more. But we'll lose all our war-profits and then some in the
post-war deflation." He sighed heavily and looked out of the window at
the autumn landscape flitting by.

A number of Germans boarded the train at Verona. I later found out
that they were vacationists returning from a short trip to Venice.
Typical Hansi tourists they were--the men with round, close-cropped
heads; the women painfully plain, as the North German female of the
species is apt to be.

I presently engaged one of the men in conversation.  He complimented
me on my German and was interested to learn that I was bound his way.
"You'll find things surprisingly normal in Germany, considering it's
wartime," he told me. "Though of course, coming straight from your
peaceful, prosperous America, you won't like some aspects of our life.
Blackouts and foodcards, for instance. Even so, I'm glad to be going
home.  Italy's a lovely country, but it isn't _Gemuetlich_. The
Italians don't like us and make us feel it. At least, the people here
in Northern Italy do. Further south, I'm told they are not so
anti-German."

By this time our train had entered the region formerly called South
Tyrol, annexed to Italy at the close of the World War. Despite two
decades of Italianiza-tion, the basic Germanism of the region was
still visible, from the chalet-like peasant farmsteads to the
crenelated ruins of old castles perched high on crags, where Teutonic
knights once held sway. I had known South Tyrol before 1914 when it
was part of Austria, so I was interested to see what changes had taken
place. Even from my car window I could see abundant evidences of
Italian colonization. All the new buildings were in Italian style, and
Latin faces were numerous among the crowds of Third-Class passengers
who got on and off at every stop. The stations swarmed with soldiers,
police, and Carabinieri in their picturesque black cutaway coats and
big cocked hats. The German tourists viewed all this in heavy silence.
It was clear they did not wish to discuss the painful subject.

As the train wound its way up the mountain-girt valley of the Adige,
the weather grew colder. Long before we reached Bolzano, the ground
was sprinkled with snow--most unusual south of the Brenner in late
October. It was the first chill breath of the hardest winter in a
generation, which war-torn Europe was destined to undergo. The
mountains on either hand were well blanketed with white.

Bolzano (formerly Botzen) is a big town, the provincial capital and
the administrative center. Here, Italianization had evidently made
great strides. Large new factories had been built, manned by Italian
labor. The colonists were housed in great blocks of modern tenements,
forming an entire new quarter. On the walls were inscribed in giant
letters: "Thanks, Duce!" There must be a big garrison, for the old
Austrian barracks had been notably enlarged. They bore Mussolini's
famous statement: "Frontiers are not discussed; they are defended!"

When we had reached Bolzano, the autumn dusk was falling. As we waited
at the station, a gigantic sign on a nearby hill blazed suddenly
forth, in electric light, the Latin word _Dux_. When the train started
its long upward pull to the Brenner Pass, the snowfields on the high
mountains to the north were rosy with the Alpine-glow.

The crest of the historic Brenner Pass is the frontier between Italy
and Germany. It is likewise the dividing-line between peace and war.
To the south lies Italy, armed and watchful but neutral and hence
relatively normal. To the north lies Germany, a land absorbed in a
life-and-death struggle with powerful foes. The traveler entering
Germany plunges into war's grim shadow the instant he passes that
mountain gateway.

I crossed the Brenner at night, so I encountered that most startling
aspect of wartime Germany--the universal blackout. All the way up the
Italian side of the range, towns and villages blazed with electric
light furnished by abundant water-power. Also my train compartment was
brilliantly illuminated. There was thus no preparation for what was
soon to happen.

Shortly before reaching the frontier two members of the German border
police came through the train collecting passports. Being still in
Italy, they were in civilian clothes, their rank indicated solely by
swastika arm bands. They were not an impressive pair. One was small
and thin, with a foxy face. The other, big and burly, had a pasty
complexion and eyes set too close together.

At Brennero, the Italian frontier station where Hitler and Mussolini
were later to meet, the German train-crew came aboard. The new
conductor's first act was to come into my compartment and pull down
the window-shades.  Then in came the official charged with examining
your luggage and taking down your money declaration.  In contrast to
the border police, he was a fine figure of a man--ruddy face, blue
eyes, turned-up blond mustache, and a well-fitting gray uniform. After
a brief and courteous inspection he stated crisply: "Only blue light
allowed." Thereupon the brilliant electric globes in my compartment
were switched off, and there was left merely a tiny crescent of blue
light, far smaller than the emergency bulbs in our subway trains. So
scant was the illumination that it did little more than emphasize the
darkness. Had it not been for a dimmed yellow bulb in the train
corridor, it would have been almost impossible to make my way around.

With nothing to do but sit, I presently tired of my compartment and
prowled down the corridor to find out whether anything was to be seen.
To my great satisfaction I discovered that the windows to the car
doors had no curtains, so I could look out. And Avhat a sight I
beheld! It was full moon, and the moonlight, reflected from new-fallen
snow, made the landscape almost as bright as day. Towering
mountain-peaks on either hand shot far up into the night. The tall
pine and fir trees were bent beneath white loads. Now and then, tiny
hamlets of Tyrolean chalets completed the impression of an endless
Christmas card.

As the train thundered down from the Alpine divide it entered a
widening valley with a swift-flowing little river. Houses became more
frequent, hamlets grew larger. Now and then we passed a sawmill,
apparently at work, since smoke and steam rose from the chimneys.  Yet
nowhere a single light. Only very rarely a faint gleam where some
window was not entirely obscured.  The landscape was as silent and
deserted as though the whole countryside had been depopulated.

At Innsbruck, the first city north of the border, are freight-yards,
and here I could appreciate more fully the thoroughness of German
anti-air raid precautions.  The engines had no headlights--only two
small lanterns giving no more illumination than the oil lamps in front
of our subway trains. In the freight-yards, switch-lights were painted
black except for small cross-slits. Here and there, hooded lights on
tall poles cast a dim blue radiance.  Only on the station platform
were there a few dimmed bulbs--just enough for passengers to see their
way.

>From Innsbruck on I was allowed to raise my window-shade, so I could
sit comfortably in my compartment and view this blacked-out country at
my ease. So extraordinary was the moonlit panorama that I determined
to forego sleep and watch through most of the night. The sacrifice was
well repaid.

As we got into the Munich metropolitan area I could judge still better
the way urban blackouts are maintained.  Munich is a great city, yet
it was almost as dark as the countryside. The main streets and highway
intersections had cross-slitted traffic lights, but since these are
red and green they doubtless do not show much more from the air than
does blue. Furthermore, at this late hour, there was almost no traffic
beyond an occasional truck. No ray of white light anywhere, and except
along the railway no hooded blues. Passing through this great darkened
city, the sense of unnatural silence and emptiness became positively
oppressive.

The streets of Munich presently gave way to open country once more.
The mountains lay far behind, and the plateau of Upper Bavaria,
powdered with snow, stretched away on either hand until lost in frosty
moon-mist.  The monotonous landscape made me doze. Some sixth sense
must have awakened me to another interesting sight. My train was
passing through the Thuringian Hills. They were clothed with
magnificent pine forests, as deep-laden with new-fallen snow as those
of the Tyrolean Alps. Those Thuringian forests grow in rows as regular
as cornfields. The hills are belted with plantings of various heights,
giving a curious patchwork effect. Where a ripe planting has been cut
over, not a trace of slash remains and seedlings have been set out.
Here is forestry carried to the nth degree of efficiency.

Out of the hills and into level country, I dozed off again, not to
awaken until sunrise--a pale, weak-looking late-autumn sun, for North
Germany lies on the latitude of Labrador. The sun was soon hidden by
clouds, while at times the train tore through banks of fog. We were
well into the flat plains of Northern Germany, and a more
uninteresting landscape can hardly be imagined. Houses and factories
are alike built chiefly of dull yellow brick, further dulled by
soft-coal smoke.  The intervening stretches of countryside are equally
unattractive. The soil, though carefully tended, looks thin, much of
it supporting only scrub pine.

At some of the larger stations were sizable groups of soldiers,
perhaps mobilized reservists waiting for troop trains. They were in
field kit, from steel helmets to heavy marching boots coming halfway
to the knee. Incidentally, the present German uniform is not the
"field-gray" of the last war. It is a dull gray-green, unimpressive in
appearance yet blending well with the landscape, which wartime
uniforms should do.

Towns became more frequent, until we were obviously on the outskirts
of a metropolitan area. I was nearing Berlin. Now and then the train
passed extensive freight-yards. Here it was interesting to note the
quantity of captured Polish rolling-stock. Like the German freight
cars, they were painted dull red, but were distinguished by a
stenciled Polish eagle in white with the letters PKP. In most cases
there had been added the significant word DEUTSCH, meaning that the
cars are now German.

At length the train slackened speed and pulled into the vast,
barn-like Anhalter Bahnhof, the central station for trains from the
south. I had arrived in Berlin, Germany's capital and metropolis.




II. BERLIN BLACKOUT


My entry into Berlin was not a cheering one. The train was nearly two
hours late and there was no diner, so I had had nothing except the
traditional cowpunch-er's breakfast--a sip of water and a cigarette.
The chill autumnal air made me shiver as I stepped from the train.
Porters, it seemed, were scarce in wartime Germany, and I was
fortunate to pre-empt one to carry my abundant hand-luggage.

My first job was to get some German money, for I hadn't a pfennig to
my name. You can't legally buy Reichsmarks abroad. What the traveler
does is to take out a letter of credit before he leaves his native
land.  While in Germany he draws on this and gets what is known as
Registered Marks which are much cheaper than the official quotation of
2.4 to the dollar. I bought my letter of credit in New York at the
rate of nearly five to the dollar. That meant a twenty-cent mark--a
saving of almost 100 per. cent. The traveler is supposed to use this
money only for living expenses, and every draft is entered on his
passport as well as on his letter of credit, thus enabling the
authorities to check up on what he has spent when he leaves Germany.
However, the allowance is liberal, and unless his drafts indicate that
he has been buying a good deal, he will have no trouble. Of course,
one gets ordinary currency. The Registered Mark is merely a
bookkeeping phrase.

At one of the bureaus maintained at every large railway station I drew
enough cash to last me for a few days, then my porter found me one of
the few taxis available. Both cab and driver were of ancient vintage,
but they rattled me safely to my hotel. This was the famous Adlon,
situated on Berlin's main avenue, Unter den Linden.

While unpacking I had the pleasure of a telephone call from a German
named Sallett whom I had informed of my coming. I had known him when
he was attached to the German Embassy in Washington. Now he was in the
American Section of the Foreign Office, so I counted on him to start
me right. Since the day was Sunday there was nothing officially to be
done, but he asked me to meet him at lunch for a preliminary chat and
to come to his home for dinner that same evening.

Before keeping my luncheon date, however, I took care to equip myself
with food-cards--those precious bits of paper on which one's very life
depends. Incidentally they are not cards, but blocks of coupons,
reminiscent of the trading-stamps issued by some of our department
stores. The clerk at the desk inscribed my name in a big book and
handed me a week's supply in the shape of little blocks of coupons
variously colored.  Each coupon is good for so many grams of bread,
butter, meat, and other edibles. Every time you eat a meal you must
tear off the various coupons required for each dish, the amount being
printed on the bill of fare. And the waiter must collect them when you
give your order, because he in turn must hand them in to the kitchen
before he can bring you your food. This has nothing to do with price.
In the last analysis, each of these food-coupons is what the Germans
call a _Bezugschein_--an official permit to purchase an article of a
specific kind and quality. Let me illustrate: You want to buy some
meat. Each of your meat coupons entitles you to so many grams. You may
go into an inexpensive restaurant and get the cheapest grade of
sausage or you can go into the best hotel and get a finely cooked
filet mignon. The price will differ enormously, but the number of meat
coupons you hand over is precisely the same.

I needed to take along my food-cards even though I had been invited to
lunch. In Germany, no matter how wealthy your host may be, he has no
more coupons than anyone else and so cannot furnish them for his
guests.  That is true of all meals in hotels or restaurants. It does
not apply when the host invites you to his own home.  He then has to
do all the honors. This severely limits domestic hospitality. In such
cases the guests are usually served fish, game, or some other delicacy
for which food cards are not required.

Dr. Sallett had asked me to lunch with him at the Kaiserhof, a
well-known hotel some distance down the Wilhelmstrasse. It is the Nazi
social headquarters, and when prominent members of the Party come to
Berlin from the provinces they usually stop there. Sallett met me in
the lobby, resplendent in a gray diplomatic uniform cut with the swank
which military tailors know how to attain. Being Sunday, the usual
week-day crowd was lacking in the dining room. Those who were present
seemed to be much of a type--vigorous men, mostly in their thirties or
forties, some of them hard-faced and all with an air of assurance and
authority. Nearly all of them wore the Party emblem, a button about
the size of a half-dollar bearing a red swastika on a white
background.

My first meal in the Third Reich was a distinct success.  As might
have been expected in this pre-eminent Nazi hostelry, the food was
good and the service quick.  The imitation coffee, an _Ersatz_ made of
roasted barley, was banal, but it was remedied by an excellent pony of
old German brandy. Thereafter, my friend Sallett explained to me the
various things I must do in order to get going without loss of time.

When we had parted until evening, I strolled back along the
Wilhelmstrasse to get the feel of my new abode. I noted how the famous
street had architecturally had its face lifted since I was there a
decade before.  Across the broad square from the Kaiserhof stood the
new Chancery, while on the opposite side of the street was the equally
new Ministry for Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda--an institution
I was to know extremely well, since all foreign correspondents fall
under its special jurisdiction. Both buildings typify the new Nazi
architecture--their exteriors severely plain, whatever magnificence
may be within. This is a conscious reaction from the ornate
exaggerations of the old Empire style, which is frowned on as vulgar
and tasteless.

Just beyond the Chancery is the rather modest old eighteenth-century
palace which is Adolf Hitler's official residence. It sets well back
from the street behind a high iron railing. Above its gabled roof
floated a special swastika flag to denote that _Der Fuehrer_ was at
home.  That is the way Germans always speak of him. Very rarely do
they use his name. With a sort of impersonal reverence, he is _Der
Fuehrer_, The Leader, in Teutonic minds.

The railing before the palace has two gates through which motor cars
can enter and leave by a semicircular drive. These gates were guarded
by Security Police, nicknamed Schupos, in green uniforms and visored
black leather hats. Before the entrance to the palace itself stood two
military sentries in field gray. Across the street clustered a large
group of sightseers, gazing silently at their leader's residence. Even
on weekdays one can always find such onlookers from dawn to dusk,
after which loitering on the Wilhelmstrasse is not allowed.

The streets were well filled with Sunday strollers, and since the
misting rain of the forenoon had let up, I thought it a good
opportunity to get a look at the holiday crowds. I therefore walked
for an hour or more up and down Unter den Linden, around the Pariser
Platz, and finally back to my hotel. My outstanding impression of
these wartime Berliners was a thoroughgoing impassivity. They seemed
stolidly casual with expressionless faces. Almost never did I see a
really animated conversation; neither was there laughter or even a
smile.  Twice I dropped briefly into a cafe. In both cases the patrons
sat chatting quietly, and from snatches of talk I overheard the
conversation was wholly about personal or local affairs. Not once did
I catch a discussion of the war or other public matters.

Uniforms naturally abounded. Soldiers, obviously on Sunday liberty,
passed and repassed, sometimes in large groups. They never sauntered
but clumped along at a fair pace, their hobnailed boots clashing
heavily upon the pavement. Most of them had fine physique and all
looked well nourished and generally fit. Now and then I saw a Nazi
storm-trooper clad in brown with a red swastika arm band. More often I
encountered a black-uniformed S.S. man--the Party's _Schutz Staffeln_,
or Elite Guard. Twice I passed groups of Hitler Youth, boys dressed
entirely in dark blue, from cloth hat to baggy ski-trousers tucked
into high boots. There was much punctilious saluting. The soldiers
gave the army salute, a quick touch of the fingers to helmet or forage
cap.  The others gave the stiff-armed Nazi greeting.

The most interesting example of Berlin's impassive popular mood was
the attitude toward the tightly closed British Embassy which is just
around the corner from the Adlon. There it stands, with gilded lions
and unicorns upon its portals. I had rather expected that this
diplomatic seat of the arch-enemy would attract some attention,
especially on a Sunday, when this part of town was thronged with
outside visitors. Yet, though I watched closely for some time, I never
saw a soul give the building more than a passing glance, much less
point to it or demonstrate in any way.

Another surprising thing was how well dressed the people appeared. I
saw many suits and overcoats which had obviously been worn a long
time, but invariably they were tidy and clean. At the moment I thought
this good showing was because everyone was wearing Sunday best, but I
could detect little difference on subsequent days. In fact wherever I
went in Germany the people dressed about the same. Nowhere did I see
ragged, unkempt persons. I was told that the cheaper fabrics, made
largely of wood synthetics mixed with shoddy, absorb dampness quickly,
get heavy, and are hard to dry out. Nevertheless, they look good,
though I doubt the efficacy of their resistance to rain and cold.

One thing those clothes did lack, however, and that was style. The
range of models was small, and they were obviously designed for
service rather than smartness.  Overcoats were mostly of the ulster
type, and that goes for the women too. While I did see a considerable
number of ladies who were well-dressed according to our standards, the
average Berlin female, with her ulsterette or raincoat, her plain felt
hat, her cotton stockings, and her low-heeled shoes, rarely warrants a
second look. I may add that she uses little or no make-up and seldom
has her hair waved. Such beautifying is frowned upon by strict Nazis
as unpatriotic.

My first stroll indicated another thing confirmed by subsequent
observation. This is that Berlin remains what it always was--a city
lacking both color and the indefinable charm of antiquity. Its
architecture is monotonous, and the drab effect is heightened by its
misty northern climate. Most of the autumn season is cloudy with
frequent light rain. Even on so-called clear days the low-hanging sun
shines wanly through a veil of mist.

By this time the early autumn dusk was falling, so I returned to the
Adlon. I did not dress for my evening appointment because in wartime
Germany one rarely wears even a dinner jacket. A double-breasted dark
suit is deemed ample for almost all occasions. My friends the Salletts
lived some distance away from my hotel, but I had ordered a taxi so I
was sure of transportation. The taxi situation is one of the many
drawbacks to life in wartime Berlin. Because of the strict rationing
of gasoline, taxis are scarce even by day and scarcer still at night.
They are supposed to be used only for business or necessity, so
drivers are not allowed to take you to any place of amusement, even to
the opera. Neither do they cruise the streets for fares, so unless you
know a regular cab stand you can almost never pick one up.

The hotel lobby was brilliantly lighted when I descended, but thick
curtains had been drawn across the entrance. I slipped through them to
encounter that most trying of all wartime Berlin's phenomena, the
_Verdunklung_, or blackout. As I emerged through the swing-doors it
hit me literally like a blow in the face. The misting rain had begun
again, and it was dark as a pocket. The broad avenue of Unter den
Linden was a maw of blackness.  Not a street light except the
cross-slitted traffic signals at the nearby corner of the
Wilhelmstrasse. They were hardly needed for the few motor cars and
occasional buses that crawled slowly by. Well might they drive
cautiously, for their headlights were hooded save for a tiny orifice
emitting a dim ray. As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for my taxi,
pedestrians picked their way warily in the inky gloom, sensed rather
than seen.  Some of them wore phosphorescent buttons to avoid
collisions with other passers-by. Others used small electric lamps to
guide their steps, flashing them off quickly and always holding them
pointed downward toward the ground. Any other use of a flashlight is
strictly prohibited.  To turn it upward to read a street sign or find
a house number rates a warning shout from one of the policemen who
seem to be everywhere after dark. Indeed, such action may lead to
arrest and a fifty-mark fine, which at par is about twenty dollars.

I entered my taxi with some trepidation. How was the driver going to
find my friend's address, avoid collisions, or even keep to the
roadway on a night like this? Yet he seemed to know his business, for
he forged steadily onward, with many mysterious turns and twists
through the maze of unseen streets and avenues. As for me, I could not
see even the houses on either hand, though I sensed their looming
presence and marveled at the thought of all the life and light pent in
behind numberless shrouded windows. The only visible objects were
pin-point lights of approaching motor cars and occasional trams or
buses which clattered past like noisy ghosts. They were lit within by
tiny blue bulbs revealing shadow passengers. Wartime Berlin had indeed
become a "city of dreadful night." No description can adequately
convey the depressing, almost paralyzing, effect. It must be _lived_
to be understood.

At length my taxi halted. The driver flashed a light which showed a
couple of doorways quite close together.  "It must be one of those
two," he said, as I got out and paid him.

Fortunately I had with me a flashlight brought from America. It was
small as a fountain pen and could be clipped into my vest pocket. The
sight of it never failed to evoke envious admiration from German
acquaintances.  Heedless of lurking policemen, I flashed its tiny beam
upward at the house number which, as usual, was perched on the tip top
of a high door. It was not the right place. I tried the next door. It
had no number and seemed to be disused. I tried the next house. The
numbers were running the wrong way. Meanwhile the misty drizzle had
increased to a smart downpour.

Feeling utterly helpless, I determined to seek information; so I
pressed the button to the first floor apartment and as the latch
clicked I went inside. As I walked across the hallway the apartment
entrance opened and a pleasant-faced young woman stood in the doorway.
I explained the situation, stating that I was a total stranger. Her
face grew sympathetic, then set in a quick frown.

"You say that taxi man didn't make sure?" she exclaimed.  "Ach, how
stupid! The fellow ought to be reported.  Wait a minute and I'll show
you myself." She disappeared, returning a moment later wearing a
raincoat.

I protested that I could find my way from her directions, but she
would have none of it. "No, no," she insisted.  "Such treatment to a
newly arrived foreigner! I am bound to make up for that driver's
inefficiency."

Together we sallied forth into the pattering rain. On the way she
explained that my friend's apartment house, though listed as on her
street, had its entrance just around the corner on another avenue. She
thought that also very stupid.

Arriving as I did somewhat late, I found the others already there. To
my great pleasure the chief guest was Alexander Kirk, our Charge
d'Affaires in Berlin. He is doing a fine diplomatic job in a most
difficult post. Generally popular, he does not hesitate to speak
plainly when he needs to. And, instead of getting offended, the
Germans seem to like him all the better for it. Some weeks later, Mr.
Kirk won new laurels by vetoing the usual Thanksgiving celebration of
the American colony in a restaurant or hotel. He argued that, when all
Germany was strictly rationed, such public feasting would be in bad
taste. Instead, he invited his fellow-citizens to a private dinner at
his own palatial residence in a fashionable suburb. The Germans
considered that the height of tactful courtesy.

The other two guests were Herr Hewel, one of Hitler's confidential
advisers, and Dr. Otto Schramm, a leading Berlin surgeon. In the
course of the evening, Dr. Schramm told me about a new synthetic fat
which had just been invented. Elaborate experiments were being made to
produce not only a substitute for soap but also an edible compound to
supplement animal fats and vegetable oils. This, he claimed, would
soon remedy blockaded Germany's chief dietary danger, since it could
be produced from chemical constituents abundantly available. The talk
ran late. Fortunately, I was taken back to my hotel in Herr Hewel's
car, which, being an official, he could still use.

Just before reaching the Adlon we encountered a column of huge army
trucks going up Unter den Linden and out through the Brandenburger
Tor. I was afterward told that material and ordnance, routed through
Berlin, are usually moved late at night. There must have been plenty
of activity on that occasion, for long after I had retired I could
hear intermittent rumblings of heavy traffic whose vibrations came to
me even through the Adlon's thick walls.




III. GETTING ON WITH THE JOB


I went to Europe as special correspondent of the North American
Newspaper Alliance, a press syndicate with membership in the United
States, Canada, and other parts of the world. My main field was
Germany, with side-glances elsewhere in Central Europe. Since N.A.N.A.
is a feature service, my job was to study conditions, do interpretive
or local color articles, and get important interviews. I was not
professionally interested in spot news. To do a good job I had to have
an open mind; so I did my best to park my private opinions on this
side of the ocean. And since my return I've tried not to pick them up
again.

An objective attitude was made easier by the fact that the outbreak of
the European War caught me in a place where it meant nothing except
its effect on the price of sugar--Havana, Cuba.

Between a survey I was making with a Washington colleague, H. H.
Stansbury, and the terrific heat I could pay scant attention to
European affairs, which were badly covered in the Havana press.
Everybody was absorbed in local politics. The Batista Government was
getting ready to celebrate the anniversary of its revolutionary
origin, the momentous date being September 4th. So Havana was all
bedizened with flags and bunting, while across the harbor on Morro
Castle and Cabanas Fortress rose huge transparencies bearing the
legends: BATISTA and CUARTO SETIEMBRE electrically blazing forth
o'nights in giant letters of fire.  Then, just before the big party,
Europe had to explode!  Small wonder that it hardly made a dent on
Cuban thinking, except the sugar phase.

However, it made a big dent on my mind. I had already canvassed the
possibility of personally covering the German situation, for which I
had certain qualifications such as an intermittent knowledge of the
country since childhood and a working knowledge of the language.  I
had also followed German events regularly in my studies of foreign
affairs. Therefore as soon as I could wind up my Cuban survey, I
hurried home, reaching New York late in September. Three weeks
afterwards I was on the _Rex_, Europe-bound. I thus arrived on the
scene of action in an objective state of mind.

To get working quickly and efficiently, three things had to be done as
soon as possible. First of all, I must present my credentials and
acquire the permits needed by a foreign correspondent in wartime. Then
I had to establish correct and personally amicable relations with the
officials with whom I would be in contact. Last but not least, I
should get on really friendly terms with the outstanding members of
the foreign press corps--not merely the Americans but those of the
other neutral nationalities stationed in Berlin. An experienced,
capable foreign correspondent is your best source of information.  He
usually knows more and sees clearer than a diplomat of the same
caliber. This is also true of certain long-resident foreign
professional or business men. Furthermore, both they and the
correspondents can talk more freely to you. There are certain things
which members of the diplomatic corps hesitate to discuss unreservedly
with you even in the strictest "off the record."

Fortunately I was able to make a good start on all three lines the
very first day after my arrival in Berlin.  Monday noon found me at
the Foreign Office, half-way down the Wilhelmstrasse, where I was to
attend the foreign press conference held there daily at this hour.
These conferences are usually held in a large oblong room, elaborately
paneled. Down the middle of this chamber runs an enormously long table
covered with green baize. On one side of the table sit a line of
Government officials drawn from both the Foreign Office and the
Propaganda Ministry. One of these men is the Government spokesman for
the day, who makes announcements and answers questions either directly
or through some other official who is a specialist in the particular
matter. On the other side of the table cluster the foreign
correspondents, representing every neutral country in Europe, plus a
few Orientals and a strong contingent of Americans. The average
attendance runs between fifty and seventy, including several women
journalists.

Personal relations between these Government spokesmen and the foreign
correspondents are generally friendly and sometimes cordial. The
officials are intelligent men specially picked for the business of
tactfully handling foreign journalists. The correspondents are, for
the most part, old hands who know how to play the game. So the
conferences, which are conducted in German, usually go off smoothly,
with humorous undertones as a shrewd query is met by an equally shrewd
parry. These bits of repartee are often greeted by a general burst of
laughter.

After the conference that morning I was introduced to the chief
officials, and I likewise met several of our American press delegation
to whom I had been recommended or with whom I was previously
acquainted. The officials were nearly all university men, some with
doctorate degrees. Those in the American Section were well fitted for
their posts. Dr. Sallett, the Foreign Office contact man for
Americans, had lived in the United States for years before he entered
the diplomatic service and had done postgraduate work at Harvard. Dr.
Froelich, head of the Propaganda Ministry's American Bureau, has a
Harvard Law School degree, while his junior colleague, Werner
Asendorf, is a graduate of the University of Oregon. Both these men
have American wives. The head of the entire Foreign Press Section, Dr.
Boehme, is an engaging personality with a quick intelligence and
cynical sense of humor, who has traveled widely in many lands
including the United States. I felt from the first that here were men
who knew us well and with whom one could get along harmoniously.

That same afternoon I attended another foreign press conference, this
time at the Propaganda Ministry. These conferences, likewise held
every week-day, deal more with special topics than with spot news.
Government specialists address the correspondents on current military,
naval, or economic situations, while outstanding figures are produced
for inspection. For instance, when a big aerial battle was fought over
the North Sea, the squadron commander and his flying aces appeared
before the foreign journalists to tell their side of the story and be
questioned.

Before the inevitable blackout ended my first working day in Berlin I
had been duly enrolled in the foreign press corps and had filed my
application for a Press Wireless permit. This is the correspondent's
most important privilege. It enables him to file press despatches to
his newspaper or syndicate, payment guaranteed at the other end.
Furthermore, those despatches go through uncensored. I am sure of
this, both from what I was told and from my own experience. For
instance, I filed a despatch at a small sub-station as late as 6.15
P.M., Berlin Time (12.15 noon, Eastern Standard Time) and it appeared
in all editions of the New York Times next morning. This would have
been impossible if there had been even the short delay which a most
cursory check-up before putting the despatch on the wireless would
have involved.

This brings up one of the most interesting aspects of wartime
Germany--the system of handling foreign journalists. Right at the
start I was told at the Propaganda Ministry just where I stood and
what I could, and could not, write. Military and naval matters were,
of course, severely circumscribed, together with topics such as
sensational rumors obviously tending to discredit the German
Government and give aid and comfort to its enemies. There was a sort
of gentleman's agreement with the correspondent that he would abide by
rules laid down for his guidance. If he overstepped the line and a
despatch, when published in his home paper, contained matter which the
German authorities considered untrue, unfair, or otherwise
unprofessional, the correspondent would be called onto the carpet and
warned to mend his ways. If the offense was flagrant he might be
formally expelled from the foreign press corps, thereby losing his
official status with all its attendant privileges. His professional
usefulness would thus be at an end, and he might as well leave Germany
even though not formally expelled.

This gentlemen's agreement system is equally obvious in the matter of
interviews. When you interview an official personage you are required
to submit your manuscript to the Propaganda Ministry which makes a
German translation and lays it before the person interviewed for his
approval. Obviously, it is necessary for the Government to see to it
that its leading spokesmen are correctly quoted and that statements
made to the interviewer "off the record" are not published. So it
often happens that considerable changes have to be made before the
final draft is O.K.'d. Once approval is given, however, there is no
further check-up and the interview can be filed for the wireless in
the same way as any press despatch. Technically, there is nothing to
prevent your sending the original version. But naturally, if the
published interview does not tally with the draft agreed upon, it will
be clear that you have broken faith, and confidence in your
reliability is destroyed.

The same policy applies to foreign telephone service.  Most Berlin
correspondents of newspapers in European neutral countries have
telephone permits similar to Press Wireless for us Americans. Such
permits enable the European correspondent to telephone his despatches
directly from his Berlin office to his home paper. These talks may be
subject to a double check--by listening in and by transcription on
dictaphone records. However, even when this is done, it is seemingly
to catch such obvious indiscretions as discussion of military matters.
I never heard of a press telephone conversation being broken into or
stopped. Here again the foreign correspondent is called to account
only when a despatch published in his home paper contains something
which German officialdom considers a violation of the rules of the
game.

During my stay in Berlin, the Propaganda Ministry evolved an ingenious
method of expediting press stories sent by mail. All such material
could be turned into a special bureau with the understanding that the
manuscript would be read and mailed within twenty-four hours unless
something objectionable should be discovered.  Being mailed in a
special envelope, it went through without scrutiny by the regular
censors. In case of objection, the correspondent was notified, and
specific changes or eliminations were suggested. Here, as elsewhere,
objections seemed to have been rarely made except for reasons already
explained.

The foreign correspondent can go pretty far in describing current
conditions and general situations. German officialdom seems to have
realized that it is no use trying to stop press stories about matters
which are undeniably true and widely known. Let me cite one instance
from my own experience. I had written a pair of "mailers" describing
in detail the many vexations and hardships which German housewives had
to endure.  They went through the Propaganda Ministry all right, but I
wanted to find out the official reaction to them.  Accordingly, I
tried them out on an official who I was sure had not read them. He
scanned them carefully and handed them back with a slightly wry smile.
"American readers will be apt to think we're in tough shape," he said.
"I really think you left out certain qualifying factors which would
have made the picture less dark.  However," he ended with a shrug,
"what you do say is all true, and I believe you're trying to be fair.
So, under our present policy, we can make no legitimate kick."

Of course, the latitude extended foreign correspondents has its
practical limits. Should a correspondent unearth some unpalatable
information he is more than likely to be told that such a despatch,
even though true and not falling under the ordinary tabus, is
displeasing to the German Government. I know of one such instance
where the offender was plainly told that, if he publicized any more
exceptional discoveries of this kind, he would get into serious
trouble.

There seems also to be distinct discrimination between the latitude
permitted the correspondents of powerful neutrals and those of the
small European countries which fall more or less within Germany's
orbit.  More than once their press representatives said to me: "We
can't write nearly as freely as you Americans. If we did, the German
Government would either crack down on us directly or make strong
diplomatic protests to our own Governments, who in turn might make it
hot for our home papers."

Such things make it abundantly clear that, in its seemingly liberal
attitude toward foreign correspondents, the German Government is
animated by no idealistic motives. Its policy is severely practical.
The shrewd brains which run the Propaganda Ministry have decided that
it pays to treat foreign correspondents well and help them to get
their despatches out with a minimum of red tape and avoidable delay.
Nothing makes a newspaperman more contented than that. But that isn't
the only reason. The very fact that Berlin despatches to the foreign
press sometimes contain items unfavorable to Germany tends to give
public opinion the idea that a Berlin date-line is relatively
reliable, and this in turn aids the German Government in pushing out
its foreign propaganda. Finally, there is no danger that any of those
unfavorable items will leak back to the German public, because they
are not allowed to be printed in any German newspaper.

Nothing can be more startling than the contrast between the respective
treatments of foreign journalists and their German colleagues. The
German press is rigidly controlled. Indeed, German papers print very
little straight news as we understand the term. Every item published
is elaborately scrutinized. I had one illuminating instance of this
when I was invited by the head of a German press syndicate to
contribute a short statement of my impressions of wartime Europe.
Having been assured that I could write what I chose, I stated frankly
that we Americans thought another long war would ruin Europe
economically, no matter which side was victorious. The Propaganda
Ministry promptly vetoed publication, and I was tactfully but firmly
told that such a statement, though quite proper for my fellow
countrymen, was deemed unsuitable for German readers.

When he travels, the foreign correspondent encounters the same
condition of circumscribed freedom as he does in sending his
despatches. Over most of Germany he can travel almost as freely as he
could in peacetime--by train or commercial bus, of course, since
gasoline rationing makes private motor trips impossible. The only
apparent check on his movements is the requirement to turn in his
passport when he registers at a hotel. But there are certain parts of
the Reich which are rigidly barred zones. He cannot go anywhere near
the West-Wall, the fortified belt of territory along the French,
Belgian, and Dutch borders. He cannot visit the fortified coasts of
the North Sea and the Baltic. He cannot enter German-occupied
Poland--at least, he could not during my stay in Germany. He has to
get special permission to enter the Protectorate of Bohemia-Moravia,
and even then he is under such close surveillance that no patriotic
Czech will dare come near him.  Such, briefly, are the conditions
under which the foreign correspondent lives and works in wartime
Germany.  Within limits, he can operate quickly and efficiently.
There are quite a few locked doors, and he had best not try to open
them. But at least he knows where he stands, and the rules of the game
are made clear to him.




IV. JUNKETING THROUGH GERMANY


At the very first press conference I attended at the Propaganda
Ministry we were informed that a trip was being arranged for foreign
correspondents and all who wished to go were asked to register. It was
to be a three-day journey through Central Germany and the northern
Rhineland. Its purpose was to observe the "Inner Front"; how the
peasants and industrial workers were doing their bit to carry on the
war.

"I advise you to come along," said an American colleague with whom I
sat. "I can't vouch for how much they'll show us, but you'll see quite
a bit of the country, and then you'll get to know a good many of the
press corps. That alone should make the trip worth while for you."

Accordingly, the fourth day after my arrival in Berlin found me ready
to take the road again. Noon saw about forty journalists assembled
with light luggage at the Propaganda Ministry. Ours was a cosmopolitan
group, drawn mostly from European lands, together with five Americans,
two Japanese, and an Egyptian with crinkly hair and complexion _cafe
au lait_. A lone Danish lady journalist, rather pretty and on the
bright side of thirty, had ventured to join this phalanx of
masculinity. Having observed her at several press conferences, I
judged her capable of taking care of herself in any circumstances
likely to arise.

We were welcomed by a bevy of officials, some of whom would accompany
us. After a fulsome speech, our itinerary was read out, telling just
where we were going and what we were to see and do. Before starting on
a sightseeing trip, Germans apparently like to have everything worked
out down to the last detail. Good staff work, yet sometimes a bit
trying; since, under no circumstances, can there be the slightest
deviation from the plan prescribed.

After the oratory had ended we were bidden to fall to on several
platters heaped high with sandwiches, which graced the long table
about which we were standing. One of the things you quickly learn in
Germany is to eat whenever eatables come your way. Food restrictions
and uncertainties soon develop in you a sort of psychological hunger
which is never wholly out of your mind. So we did full justice to this
buffet lunch.

Leaving the festive board we descended to the street, where we found
awaiting us two enormous sightseeing buses into which we climbed. We
Americans had kept together, so we were all seated in Bus Number One.
Near me were seated a Belgian, a Dutch, and a Hungarian journalist.
Swinging out by Unter den Linden and thence to Potsdam, we presently
found ourselves on one of the Third Reich's famous motor roads. Mile
on mile the twin ribbons of concrete stretched before us, separated
always by a broad grassy strip. No crossings to look out for, since
all intersecting roads and railways are taken care of by over--or
underpass. Yet this magnificent highway was virtually empty of
traffic.  With all private motoring forbidden, official cars, army
camions or commercial trucks were almost its sole occupants.

Every few miles I noted a combined restaurant and filling-station
tastefully built. About mid-afternoon we stopped at one of them for
another meal. Incipient hunger was assuaged with hot frankfurters and
sauerkraut, cold ham, cheese, and rye bread, washed down with plenty
of schnapps and beer. Before proceeding on our way we were lined up
before one of the buses and had our picture taken. Group photography
is a German specialty, so this was repeated on every noteworthy
occasion.  Subsequently, each of us received the whole collection
mounted in a handsome album, as a souvenir.

As our cavalcade rolled swiftly southwestward, the afternoon waned
into misty twilight, and with the universal blackout we knew that
there would be no bus lights for us. To brighten our spirits, a large
carton in the rear of the bus was opened, revealing a case of brandy.
Our hosts were indeed missing no opportunities to create a favorable
impression. An attendant went up and down the aisle pouring drinks
into paper cups.  Pleased to find it was a good French brand, I
expressed my appreciation to one of the Propaganda Ministry officials
seated across the way. He smiled jovially, then winked, nodded toward
the nearby carton, and whispered: "Slip a bottle into your overcoat
pocket while the going is good." Somebody started a song up ahead.
The brandy was getting to work. My American seat-mate slapped me on
the knee. "Looks like a good junket," he chuckled somewhat cynically.

It was long after dark when our buses rolled through the blacked-out
streets of Weimar and halted before Haus Elefant. The Elephant House
is the name of Weimar's splendid new hotel. I understand it was built
to accommodate the tourist trade to this picturesque old town, but now
there are no tourists. That evening we were given a banquet presided
over by the Gauleiter, or Provincial Governor of Thuringia, and
attended by all the local Nazi notables. I sat next to him at table
and thus had a chance to chat with him.

I liked that Gauleiter. He was very much a self-made man, having
started as a sailor, literally "before the mast" on a windjammer. He
was also self-educated, but he exemplified Lord Bacon's dictum that
much reading maketh a full man, because he had obviously digested his
books. Although sincerely devoted to the Party's program and policies,
he did not parrot them forth in set phrases, as many Nazis do, but
interpreted them with shrewd common sense.

I did not care much, however, for the other local notables. They
looked to me like German equivalents of our own ward politicians. Few
of them could have amounted to much before they landed a Party job.
Even more revealing were their womenfolk, who joined us in the big
hotel lounge for _Ersatz_ coffee and liqueurs after the banquet was
over. Most of them were pretentiously dowdy. They exemplified better
than anything I had yet seen the fact that National Socialism is not
merely a political and economic upheaval but a social revolution as
well. To a very large extent it has brought the lower middle class
into power. To be sure, one finds quite a few aristocrats and
intellectuals in the Nazi regime. Furthermore, there are plenty of
Nazis sprung from peasant or worker stock, some of whom, like the
Weimar Gauleiter, would rise in any society. Yet the lower middle
class seems to be inordinately in evidence.  One does not notice this
so much in Berlin, because the ablest elements in the Party tend to
gravitate to the seat of power. In the provinces the
_Spiessbuergertum_ comes much more to the front.

With our heavy schedule, we rose early and descended to an amazing
breakfast for wartime Germany. I could hardly believe my eyes when
they feasted themselves on plenteous eggs and butter unlimited. We
were the guests of the Propaganda Ministry, so for us food
restrictions were politely waived. One luxury, however, we did not
get--real coffee. That tabu was seemingly unbreakable.

With the inner man thus fortified we climbed into our buses, toured
Weimar briefly to glimpse its historic sights, and took to the
highroad once more. Just outside of town we were delayed by a long
caravan of army trucks, crammed with everything from supplies and
field kitchens to troops and machine-guns. Flanked by convoys of
sputtering motorcycles, they thundered endlessly past. Everything was
slate-gray.

All that morning we motored through the hills and valleys of
Thuringia, a charming countryside dotted with mellow villages and
clean little towns. Peasants and townsfolk alike looked well-fed and
warmly clad.  The many children who waved to our passing were
rosy-cheeked and smiling. The day was unseasonably cold. Snow powdered
even the lower hills.

Shortly after noon we reached the Wartburg. For nearly two hours we
were herded through the historic place like holiday trippers while we
were shown every last detail down to the exact spot on the wall where
Martin Luther's inkstand is supposed to have missed the devil. I got
distinctly bored. I wasn't in Germany for sightseeing, and I knew the
Wartburg of old. I wanted to be shown peasants, farms, dairies,
cold-storage plants--the rural sector of that "Inner Front" we had
heard so much about. But apparently we weren't going to be shown.

I said as much to one of our official guides. He assured me that I
would see peasants that very evening.  It was all nicely arranged. So
we rolled through country growing ever more hilly until darkness
overtook us on the slopes of the Sauerland Mountains. Soon we arrived
at what had originally been a large farmstead, now transformed into an
inn. As we sat down to a bounteous country supper, in walked our
peasants. They were the real articles, all right: sturdy,
weatherbeaten men, washed and dressed up for the occasion yet still
exhaling a faint aroma of livestock. A couple of them were assigned to
each table, and I was fortunate enough to have a fine old fellow for
my right-hand neighbor.  In rural Germany they have a habit of
sandwiching schnapps and beer, which makes a potent combination, and
we soon got on famously. After several rounds, my companion waxed
garrulous and began to air his views on several subjects, including
the war. Before he had got far, however, a young servingman bent down
and muttered in his ear: "Gaffer, you've had a lot to drink.  Bridle
your tongue!" Thereafter he kept to safer topics.

In mid-evening we left our bucolic partners and motored on to a fine
new winter-sports hotel perched on the summit of the range, where we
were to spend the night. Here winter had already come, though it was
only the beginning of November. The ground was well covered with snow,
and more was falling, whipped by a biting wind.

Next morning we were again up bright and early, and after another "off
the record" breakfast our buses plowed through snow-clogged mountain
roads which wound downwards through fine forests until we emerged from
the mountains and struck out into the Westphalian plains. Quaint
timbered-brick farmsteads and villages gave place to industrial towns
until we were fairly into Germany's "black country," the industrial
ganglion of the Rhineland, dotted with factories and murky with coal
smoke. Snow had long since been left behind. The autumn day, as usual,
was cloudy with spits of rain.

We grazed the outskirts of Cologne but got only a distant glimpse of
its twin-towered cathedral. Our destination was Duesseldorf, where we
were promised the most interesting feature of the trip. This was a
luncheon with the workers at the big Henkel Soap Products factory. We
were to hobnob with them at their noon hour, share their food, and
generally get acquainted.  After the meal we and the workers were to
be addressed by none other than Dr. Robert Ley, head of the Labor
Front, the organization which welds all the workers of the Third Reich
into a gigantic whole. A sort of Nazi One Big Union.

With Teutonic punctuality, our buses drew up before the Henkel factory
at precisely the appointed hour. After a brief reception by the
managerial staff we repaired to the dining hall, an enormous place
capable of holding over a thousand people. The workers, about equally
divided between men and women, were already pouring in. They were in
their work clothes; the men in dark overalls, the women mostly in
smocks. They had evidently washed up for lunch, for all looked neat
and clean. Besides, a soap factory ought not to be a very dirty place.

These working folk looked fairly healthy, though few of them had much
color and many had pasty complexions.  They seemed cheerful and smiled
readily. I even noted some surreptitious sky-larking between the young
men and girls. However, it should be remembered that these were
Rhinelanders, folk temperamentally freer and gayer than the stiff,
dour Prussians to the eastward.

We journalists were mixed thoroughly with the workers.  I sat at a
table accommodating some twenty of them. Opposite me were three men:
one a nondescript type, the second a hulking blond giant, the third a
slim, darkish, handsome fellow who looked like a Frenchman. At my left
hand sat a plain-featured woman in middle life; at my right, a chunky
little blonde girl in her late teens.

Hardly were we seated before a bevy of waitresses swept through the
hall bearing large trays laden with plates of thick potato soup. The
next course consisted of pork, red cabbage, and mixed vegetables,
served in miniature platters with separate compartments. Slabs of rye
bread went with the soup. It certainly was a hearty lunch, and well
cooked. The meat gravy was good, and there was plenty of it. I could
not finish all that was set before me.

My neighbors were obviously hungry and attended so strictly to the
business of eating that conversation languished until toward the end
of the meal. The girl beside me smilingly accepted one of my proffered
cigarettes.  Before I had time to invite the men across the table,
each had produced a packet of his own and lit up. I then began asking
a few tactful questions. They told me that this was an average
luncheon, that they were working longer hours than before the war but
were paid a bit extra for overtime, that part of the plant was being
diverted to munitions, and that comparatively few men from the factory
had as yet been called to the colors since so many of them were
skilled workers. This was about all the information I got, since they
were bent on asking me questions about America.  Suddenly a gong
sounded and all eyes turned toward the center of the hall, where a
rotund figure in a blue uniform had mounted one of the tables and was
bowing smilingly to left and right in response to a growing ripple of
applause. He was the great Dr. Ley. His rotund countenance was
wreathed in smiles as he acknowledged the greeting. Then he began
speaking in a loud, rasping voice, addressing the assembled workers as
"Soldiers of the Inner Front" and assuring them that their labors were
as praiseworthy and vital to the conduct of the war as were deeds of
valor on the battlefield.  He then launched into a diatribe against
England and its allegedly diabolical attempt to starve out the German
people, including women and children, by the hunger blockade. A lurid
picture of the terrible starvation years of the last war was followed
by comforting reassurances that the Government had rendered such
privations in the present struggle impossible because of careful
preparations and methodical planning. Foodcards might be annoying, but
there was enough to go around and everyone, rich or poor, was assured
of his or her rightful share. "This time," he shouted, "we all eat out
of the same dishl" He closed with an eloquent appeal to stand beside
their inspired Fuehrer until complete and lasting victory had been
won.

It was a rousing speech, and it seemed to strike home.  Those working
folk listened with rapt attention, at the high points breaking into
applause which was clearly spontaneous. Dr. Ley is obviously a good
psychologist.  He knows his audience. Certainly he was onto his job
that day as head of the Labor Front.

When the speech was over and the workers had returned to their labors
we correspondents were introduced to Dr. Ley and were then shown
around the factory buildings in the usual detail. Needless to say, we
did not see the munitions section to which my luncheon companion had
casually alluded.

It was mid-afternoon when we reached our hotel, one of the best in the
city. With nothing officially scheduled until dinnertime, a number of
us strolled about town.  One of my acquaintances had a severe head
cold and needed to buy some handkerchiefs. He could not buy ordinary
cotton or linen ones, because that required a local clothing card.
However, he finally found some expensive silk handkerchiefs which were
"card-free," because they were _Luxuswaren_--luxury goods.

The dinner that night turned out to be a big banquet, with an
excellent menu and vintage wines. Again the local Nazi notables were
present, and they averaged better in appearance than those at Weimar.
All but the Gauleiter. He was a distinctly sinister-looking type;
hard-faced, with a cruel eye and a still crueler mouth.  A sadist, if
I ever saw one. I can imagine how unpopular he must be among the
good-natured, kindly Duesseldorfers.

The banquet was a lengthy affair, interspersed with speeches.
Parenthetically, the German method of sandwiching food and speech
seems to me a good idea; much better than our way of gobbling the
entire menu and then sitting back to endure a long series of orations
in a state of mingled repletion and boredom.

>From the banquet room we descended to the blacked-out street where, by
the aid of electric torches, we got into our darkened buses and went
some distance to witness a special entertainment given in our honor by
the local organizations of _Kraft durch Freude_--Strength Through Joy.
Later on I shall describe this characteristic institution of the Third
Reich in some detail.

Enough to say here that it is an elaborate system designed to brighten
the lives of the working classes in various ways.

The program that evening, put on entirely by "local talent," included
choruses, group-gymnastics, and vaudeville turns, most of the latter
being pretty amateurish.  The high spot in the program was a military
band, which was really thrilling in its spirit and fire.

Next morning we could take things easy, since our train back to Berlin
did not leave until noon. I therefore ordered breakfast served in my
room, and received not merely eggs but a whole platter of cold meats
as well. The Propaganda Ministry was evidently determined to make our
trip enjoyable to the very end!

Our homeward journey was uneventful. We had a special car, but the
stern realities of life were brought back to us when we went into the
diner and had once more to use our food-cards to obtain a meager and
expensive lunch. The train did not reach Berlin until after dark. It
was a misty evening. When I emerged from the station, I literally
could not see my hand before my face. Not a taxi was to be had, and I
was far from my hotel, so I would have to go by subway. The Berlin
subway system is a complicated network which needs some knowing before
you can find your way about, and I had quite forgotten the
combination, especially as several new lines had been built since I
was last there years before. Fortunately a colleague was going my way
and came to my rescue.

As I walked up the flights of steps from the subway, leaving behind me
a brilliantly lighted station redolent of modernity's inventive
genius, and barged into primeval darkness, it seemed to me symbolic of
what this war was doing to European civilization. This, I reflected,
was no local blackout. It stretched like a vast pall over three great
nations and might soon spread to other lands as well. "Where, and
when, and how would it end?" I reflected as I picked my way through
the gloom and finally stumbled into the lobby of the Adlon.




V. THIS DETESTED WAR


The Germans detest this war. That was the ever-deepening impression I
got throughout my stay in the Third Reich. Wherever I went, it was the
same story.  Public opinion in Berlin about the war tallied with what
I found in my travels through West-Central Germany as far as the
Rhineland and the North Sea Coast, and through South Germany to
Vienna. This attitude is shared by Nazis and non-Nazis. On this point
there is no difference between them.

Yet we should clearly understand the reason for this agreement. It is
not founded on moral opposition to war as such. In the Third Reich,
pacifism is akin to treason. Such genuine pacifists as may still exist
there outside of concentration camps are so carefully camouflaged
that, like Arctic hares in winter, they cannot be detected against the
landscape.

German aversion to the present war, therefore, though general and
genuine, is due to strictly practical reasons. What maddens the
Germans is that they are obliged to fight desperately in order to keep
what they now hold. During the past three years they have marched with
giant strides toward the realization of one of their oldest
dreams--the domination of Central Europe. Long before Hitler was even
heard of, _Mittel-Europa_ was a phrase to conjure with. Rightly or
wrongly, most Germans believe that hegemony over mid-Europe is
necessary for their national future. As often happens in such cases,
they have "rationalized" their desire until they have come to think it
their just due. So whatever is done to achieve this goal seems to
Germans quite right and proper.

Embattled Poland was the last local obstacle to _Mittel-Europa_. By a
series of amazing diplomatic victories, Adolf Hitler had taken all the
other hurdles without firing a shot. This led the average German to
believe that the Fuehrer would complete the process without recourse
to arms. Like Al Smith, he said: "Look at the record!" In German eyes,
the Anglo-French guarantee to Poland was wholly uncalled-for. Why,
they asked, should Britain and France stick their noses into what was
none of their business? Most Germans did not believe that the Western
Powers would risk a general war over Poland. The German people was
thus psychologically unprepared for what actually happened.

When they found themselves suddenly plunged into a decisive struggle
with the Western Powers, Germans were torn between two emotions:
disgust at what they considered a stupidly needless war, and fear for
the consequences which it might involve. All sorts of persons I talked
with stigmatized the war as a tragic blunder.  Some of them went so
far as to criticize their Government for having acted too
precipitately. They thought the war could have been avoided by
cleverer diplomacy. But those very persons approved of the end sought,
no matter how sharply they disapproved of the means. Even ardent
Nazis, who claimed that Hitler had taken the only possible course and
who professed perfect confidence in ultimate victory, revealed the
same underlying mood of regretful irritation. "Think of it," they
would explain, "here we were busy making over our country, and now we
have to lay aside most of our fine reconstruction plans to go and
fight it out with those damned Englishmen!"

In this respect, Germany's attitude can perhaps best be compared to
that of the big winner in a poker game who was just raking in the
chips when somebody kicked over the table.

Yet, needless or not, the great war was here! That was the grim
reality which suddenly confronted the German people. And they seem to
have been literally stunned. At first they just couldn't believe it
was true.  From all I could gather, their attitude during the first
month or so was that of a man in a nightmare who tries to wake up and
find it is only a bad dream. The amazingly quick military decision in
Poland produced, not so much popular jubilation over the victories
themselves, but rather a belief that Poland's rapid collapse would
cause Britain and France to accept the situation, and that the war in
the West would therefore soon be over.

That was the prevailing mood when I entered Germany toward the end of
October, 1939. Almost everyone I talked to, from hotel waiters and
chambermaids to chance acquaintances in restaurants and cafes, asked
me if I didn't think the war would end soon. And they didn't need any
tactful prodding. They usually raised the question themselves early in
the conversation.

Another irksome feature in German eyes was that, as time passed and
nothing much happened in a military way, the war tended to become a
bore. No one could get very excited over intermittent land skirmishes,
a few airplane dog-fights, or an occasional submarine exploit.
Meanwhile the numberless irritations of a strictly rationed life went
steadily on. People in the cities hadn't any too much to eat, and they
had to fuss with their multitudinous food-cards every time they bought
a meal or went marketing. They certainly had none too much to wear,
yet to get that little they must go through the rigamarole of
clothing-cards and _Bezugscheine_.  Practically everything could be
bought only in limited amounts, and many things could not be bought at
all. Social life had been disrupted or distorted by the general
blackout. While as yet there was little acute suffering, everyday life
was full of minor irritants and nothing was quite normal.

The result of all this was a depressing mental atmosphere.  People
were obviously uneasy, dully unhappy, and uncertain about the future.
At first I thought this indicated really bad morale and I began to
wonder whether the German people might not soon crack under the
strain.

Presently, however, I revised my opinion. For one thing, I recalled
from past experience that Germans have always been complainers. They
seem to enjoy having what the English call a "grouse"--with Berliners
perhaps the biggest grousers of the lot. The Germans have a slang word
for this sort of thing. They call it _meckering_, which means the
ill-natured bleating of a billy-goat. Indeed, a long-term American
resident of Berlin told me that he considered _meckering_ a healthy
sign; it is when the German says nothing that you must look out for
trouble.

Another thing I noted was that, with every passing week, the Germans
were putting aside their wishful thinking for a quick peace and were
mentally accepting the stern reality that they were in for what would
probably be a long and bitter struggle. Despite surface appearances,
therefore, it became clear to me that the German people was not in
what the French call a "defeatist" mood. Not once did I hear a single
German, high or low, rich or poor, suggest even in the most
confidential talk that the Reich should throw up the sponge and accept
peace terms in accordance with British and French war aims. To give up
Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Austria, for example, seems to most
Germans quite impossible. By gaining control over those lands, the
Germans believe they have got what they have long wanted--an
unshakable economic and political supremacy in Central Europe. Since
Britain and France challenge that supremacy and seek to overthrow it,
the attack must be met and broken, no matter how long the job may last
or how painful it may become.  That, in a nutshell, was the basic
popular mood which I saw ripen and harden under my eyes.

England was regarded as the arch-enemy. There seemed to be almost no
hostility towards the French, who were looked upon as Britain's
cat's-paws and dupes.  Popular hostility toward Britain, however, grew
visibly more intense from day to day. In part, this was undoubtedly
due to the violent diatribes in the press and in public utterances of
official spokesmen; in part it was a natural and inevitable reaction
against the country which was held responsible for all the discomforts
of the wartime present and the dangers of the future. But, during my
stay in Germany, this anti-British trend seemed to be a dour anger
rather than flaming emotion.  People did not go around shouting Gott
strafe England!  as was done in the last war; neither was anything
written similar to Lissauer's _Hymn of Hate_. Popular hysteria was
notably absent.

Indeed, the whole war-psychology of the German people today seems to
be quite different from that of a quarter-century ago. Kaiser Wilhelm
loved military glitter and trappings; his army was the Empire's
Exhibit A, and writers like Bernhardi glorified war as a healthful
exercise to keep a people fit or even as a "biological necessity." So,
when real war came in 1914, the Germans went into it with jubilation.
And, for the first year or two, they kept up this hysterically
romantic mood.

You find nothing like that spirit in Germany today.  Bitter memories
of the last war and the chronic misfortunes which ensued have cured
the present generation of the war-heroics in which their fathers so
liberally indulged. To be sure, the average German seems ready to
fight and die for what he believes to be his rightful place in the
world. However, he doesn't sentimentalize over it. He's usually
hard-boiled on the subject. It's just a dirty chore that, if needs be,
must be done.

That seemed to suit the Nazi Government, which made no attempt to whip
up popular emotion by either military or Party displays. During all
the months I was in Berlin or other cities, I never saw any of those
big parades with blaring bands and dress uniforms which we are apt to
associate with wartime. The only marching soldiers I saw were
occasional platoons of infantry going to change guard where sentries
were posted. And the German soldier, in his lead-colored steel helmet,
his slate-green clothes, and his clumping high boots, is a severely
practical person. I should think it would be hard for the most
sentimental Teuton to work up much of a thrill over this
matter-of-fact fighting man.

Another noteworthy point is that the Government made no attempt to
ease the people into the war by tactful stages. Quite the reverse.
Nazi spokesmen tell you frankly that they cracked down hard from the
start and made things just about as tough as the civilian population
could bear. Indeed, they say that severe rationing of food and
clothing from the very beginning was done not merely to avert present
waste and ensure future supplies; it was done also to make people
realize that they were in a life-and-death struggle for which no
sacrifice was too great.

This was stiff medicine for a people as stunned, depressed, and
jittery as the Germans certainly were during the first two months of
the war. I do not recall any other Government which has prescribed a
course of treatment so drastic, under similar circumstances.
Flag-waving and assorted heroics are the orthodox formula.

I was therefore deeply interested to discuss this original method with
the man who carried it out. He was no less a person than Dr. Paul
Joseph Goebbels, head of the vast propaganda machine which is perhaps
the most outstanding feature of the Third Reich.

This lithe, brunet Rhinelander, with his agile mind, cynical humor,
and telling gestures, is an excellent person to interview. He is
mentally on his toes every instant, and he is full of what the
journalist calls "good lines." He got one of them off early in our
conversation when he stigmatized the British blockade of Germany by
exclaiming: "It's high time that forty million people stopped
dictating to eighty million when they should have a cup of coffee!" As
Dr. Goebbels warmed to his subject, his words flowed with the
smoothness of a well-oiled machine.

"Mr. Minister," I began, broaching the subject uppermost in my mind,
"the thing that strikes me most since I've been in Germany this time
is the great difference between the popular mood now and in the last
war. No hurrahs, parades, bands, and flowers like in 1914."

"That's right," he shot back quickly, "and the reason is very simple.
In 1914 the German people didn't know what it was all about. They had
no clear war aim. Some French iron mines! A bit of Belgium! _Gott
strafe England_!  Slogans and phrases! That's no way to wage a war.
And our rulers then couldn't make them understand.  They were an
aristocratic caste, out of touch with the people."

"And now?" I put in.

"Now?" he countered. "We National Socialists are men of the people. We
know how our fellow-citizens think and how to make them understand.
But, really, the British have done it for us. They've given us our war
aim by forcing the war on us."

"Meaning what?" I asked.

"Meaning this," he replied. "We made it clear to the British that we
didn't want to disturb their empire. We carefully kept our hands off
sore spots like India and Ireland. Why, we even offered to give them a
military guarantee of their empire's integrity. But we made it clear
that, in return, they were to keep their hands off our sphere of
interest--Central Europe. Well, they wouldn't have it that way.
They're trying to crush us.  So, this time, every German knows what
it's all about."

"And that's why they're so quiet about it?" I asked.

"Exactly," nodded Dr. Goebbels with a quick smile.  "We Germans don't
like this war. We think it's needless--silly.  But, since England
feels that way, we see it's got to be gone through with. The average
German feels like a man with a chronic toothache--the sooner it's out,
the better. And he doesn't need brass bands and flowers to get it over
with. That's where our aristocrats went wrong last time. They forgot
old Bismarck's saying that hurrah-patriotism isn't like pickled
herring that you can put up in barrels and store away for years.
Listen! If I wanted to get the German people emotionally steamed up, I
could do it in twenty-four hours. But they don't need it--they don't
want it."

"Then, psychologically--" I began.

Dr. Goebbels cut in with a sweeping gesture. "Psychologically," he
answered, "we are way ahead. Last time, I admit, it was very
different. Then, at the crucial moment, both France and England
produced great men--Clemenceau and Lloyd George, both men of the
people. If we on our side could have produced a Bismarck or a Hitler,
we should have won. This time, we have the right men and the others
haven't. We National Socialists understand profoundly that it is the
human being who counts--not just material resources. England is
socially unsound. She is a colossus with feet of clay.  Furthermore,
England has a negative, defensive war aim. This time, it's the British
who talk in vague phrases like 'aggression.' What does it mean to
Tommy in the trenches to tell him he's fighting 'aggressors'?"

"Would you mind enlarging on that a bit, Mr. Minister?" I asked.

"Certainly not," he answered. "The more you examine British war aims,
the more negative they appear.  The English admit they have nothing
tangible to get out of this war but that they have a lot to lose. We,
on the other hand, have very little to lose and a lot to win.  Here we
Germans are--eighty million of us, all together.  And right next to us
is our sphere of influence in Central Europe--everything under one
roof. Sooner or later, we massed Germans are bound to get what we
need. The British, on the contrary, are spread all over the map. They
draw their resources from the four corners of the earth. Their empire
is too dispersed, too artificial. They're bound to lose in the long
run."

"Then the British Empire--" I began.

"Please understand," broke in Dr. Goebbels. "We had no designs upon
it. We showed this clearly when we made the naval treaty with England
limiting our fleet to one-third their size. In face of that fact, any
responsible German who might have meditated an attack upon the British
Empire would have been guilty of criminal madness. It is only now,
when England forces us to a life-and-death struggle, that we hit back
in every possible manner. All we asked was that England regard us,
too, as a great nation with its own special sphere. After all, nations
should be treated on their merits, for what they are. Live and let
live was our motto toward England. It is the British who would not
have it that way."

"The English," I remarked, "seem to believe that this is a struggle
between democracy and dictatorship."

"Dictatorship!" shot back Dr. Goebbels scornfully.  "Isn't the
National Socialist Party essentially the German people? Aren't its
leaders men of the people? How silly to imagine that this can be what
the English call dictatorship! What we today have in Germany is not a
dictatorship but rather a political discipline forced upon us by the
pressure of circumstances. However, since we have it, why shouldn't we
take advantage of the fact?"

"Just what do you mean by that, Mr. Minister?" I queried.

"I'll give you an example," answered Dr. Goebbels.  "Take the
difference between the way we and the English handle radio. We don't
let our people listen to foreign broadcasts; the English do. Why
should we permit our people to be disturbed by foreign propaganda?  Of
course we broadcast in English, and the English people are legally
permitted to listen in. I understand lots of them do. And can you
imagine what is one of the chief discussions about it across the
Channel? It is, whether our German announcer has an Oxford or a
Cambridge accent! In my opinion, when a people in the midst of a
life-and-death struggle indulge in such frivolous arguments, it
doesn't look well for them."

"Then, Mr. Minister," I asked, "you don't think there is much
likelihood that history will repeat itself?"

Dr. Goebbels' dark eyes lighted. "History never repeats itself," he
exclaimed with a sweeping gesture.

"History is like a spiral--and we believe that, since the last war, we
have made an ascending turn while Britain has made a descending one.
Today, we have a national unity, discipline, and leadership vastly
superior to that of 1914, and even more superior to anything which
England has as yet produced. The rightful claims of the German people
were thwarted a generation ago.  They cannot be denied a second time."

So saying, the world-famous Minister of Popular Enlightenment and
Propaganda rose briskly from his chair and gave me a vigorous
handshake. One last look at the slim, dynamic figure and his spacious
office hung with historic portraits, and the interview was over. I had
got "the dope," all right, from headquarters. And the more one studies
the text of that interview, the more revealing it becomes--in many
ways! It certainly was propaganda of the Goebbels brand.




VI. VIENNA AND BRATISLAVA


About a fortnight after my arrival in Germany I had an opportunity to
secure two worth-while interviews away from Berlin. The first was with
General Loehr, Commander-in-Chief of the Air-Arm at Vienna.  The
second was with Father Joseph Tiso, newly elected President of the
equally new Slovak Republic, at his capital, Bratislava. Neither had
as yet been interviewed by an American journalist.

Since I was to be the guest of the Air Ministry, an army transport
plane had been placed at my disposal.

Accordingly, I motored out to Berlin's main airport, accompanied by a
major of the Air-Arm who was to be with me on the journey. A
pleasant-faced Hanoverian in his mid-forties, he proved to be an
agreeable companion.

The tri-motored, slate-gray plane took off on schedule, and we soon
rose above the ground-haze into the clear air of a crisp autumn
morning. Flying at about 2,000 feet, we skimmed swiftly over the flat
plains of North Germany--an endless patchwork of forest and farmland,
interspersed with lakes and dotted with villages or towns. The sky was
cloudless until we approached the Bohemian Mountains, when we
encountered a billowing wave of white pouring like a giant cataract
onto the Saxon plain. Rising steeply above this cloud-sea, we lost
sight of earth during most of our flight over Bohemia. Only now and
then did I catch a glimpse of the Protectorate through a rift in the
white veil. I had a quick sight of Prague. Its palace-citadel looked
like a toy castle. The river Moldau was a silvery ribbon winding
across the landscape.

As we neared the hilly border between Bohemia and Austria, the
cloud-belt beneath us was again unbroken, though a few mountain
summits rose like dark islets above a white sea. On the outskirts of
Vienna the clouds thinned and the pilot could see his way to a smooth
landing. Greeted cordially by airport officials, the Major and I
motored to our hotel, a quaint hostelry named the Erzherzog Karl, on
the Kaerntner Strasse. We were in the heart of old Vienna, a city I am
always glad to see. I knew it in its glory before the Great War, when
it was the capital of the vanished Habsburg Empire. I knew it again in
the dark post-war days, when hunger and despair stalked its shabby
streets. Now I was to see it in a new guise--demoted to a provincial
center of the Third Reich.

Curious to sense the feel of the place, I wandered about town all that
afternoon and evening, sizing up the street crowds, revisiting old
haunts, and dropping into an occasional cafe. In their general
appearance the people looked similar to those in Berlin. I saw no
ragged or starving persons, neither was I accosted by beggars. But the
old Viennese spirit was gone. The mental atmosphere was one of tired
resignation to whatever might be in store.

However, the Viennese did not have the stiff stolidity of the
Berliners. They still smiled easily and entered quickly into friendly
conversation. The most notable difference was in the women, who have
retained some of their former chic despite the cramping limitations of
hard times and clothing-cards. My biggest surprise was when I saw
perfectly respectable women and girls in a leading cafe casually take
out their lipsticks and freshen their make-up.

Bright and early next morning the Major and I went to the
_Hauptkommando_, a huge, dingy old building rising to the height of
seven stories. Here I met the military censor who was to pass on my
interviews and give me permission to get them on the wireless for
transmission to America. He was a tall, slender man, obviously
Austrian, as were the other officers to whom I was introduced. The
necessary formalities having been completed, I motored to Air
Headquarters not far away, where General Loehr awaited me.

The General received me in a large office equipped with an exceedingly
long conference table. This came in handy for a panoramic series of
air photographs which stretched its entire length. With these the
General illustrated his story of the great air attack which he had
commanded during the Polish campaign. In vigorous middle life, with
graying-dark hair and an agreeable voice, he is typically Austrian in
both appearance and manner. An airman since youth, his recent exploits
in Poland are the climax of a brilliant professional career.

With soldierly promptness, General Loehr wasted no time starting the
interview. His dynamic forefinger swept over the photographic panorama
that lay on the conference table. "Picture to yourself," said he, "a
thousand troop trains jammed along a sixty-kilometer stretch of
railway under mass-attack by bombing planes." Taken from a great
height, the photos were in miniature, but with a magnifying glass I
could spot the trains, singly or in bunches along the right-of-way, or
filling sidings and freight-yards. Now and then I noted squadrons of
bombers at lower altitudes than the photographing plane and could spot
their work by puffs of smoke where bombs exploded with deadly accuracy
over the double-track railroad line.

The General went on to describe the terrific disorganization wrought
by this mass air attack upon the Polish army retreating from the Posen
front to form a new line before Warsaw--soldiers leaping to the tracks
from troop trains and losing their formations; horses and guns forced
from freight cars, with no unloading platforms. This harassed army was
still full of fight and tried to attack, but it so lacked
co-ordination that the bravest efforts were vain. To make matters
worse, the telephone and telegraph lines, which in Poland follow
railroads rather than highways, were likewise shattered by bombing, so
communication was destroyed. Loehr also showed me aerial glimpses of
the countryside dotted with Polish soldiery breaking up into small
groups.

Asked to give what he considered the reasons for his quick victory
over the Polish air force which preceded the bombing of the army, just
related, Loehr replied substantially as follows: The German air force
had as its primary aim the destruction of Polish air power--if
possible on the ground. So the very first day of the war all
practicable airfields were assailed. On that fateful first of
September the weather was very bad for flying.  This made the task a
hard one, but the Poles were not expecting a general air attack in
such weather and were thus caught unprepared. Loehr attributed much of
his success to blind-flying excellence, which he claimed was a German
specialty. Caught unprepared, the Polish airfields were terribly
mauled. To give one instance, twenty-five planes in one hangar at
Cracow were destroyed by a single bomb. This first attack was followed
by a second that same day. Again the Poles were unprepared, because
they did not think the German bombers could reload and refuel so soon.
They were thus caught salvaging their damaged planes and fighting
airfield fires.

This initial German success was not without its price.

Loehr frankly admitted heavy losses in these first attacks--losses
which might have been troublesome if they had kept up. But the vast
damage the Germans inflicted had so weakened the Polish air force
that, only two days after war broke out, it was incapable of further
concerted action, and Germany had obtained command of the air.
Thereafter Polish air activity was limited to sporadic counterattacks
by small squadrons or single planes. Only after the Polish air power
was thus broken did the German Air-Arm turn its attention to the
railways and ground forces.

Loehr stated that in this campaign Germany's initial air preponderance
was not so great as commonly imagined abroad. At the start, he had
only about one-third numerical advantage. This was less than the
Allied lead over the Germans on the West Front during the World War,
where the Allies never attained real command of the air. The General
closed the interview with expressions of polite regret that he could
not invite me to the luncheon he had planned for me, because he had
been suddenly ordered to fly for a conference at Berlin.

I spent the afternoon writing out my interview and transcribing it in
semi-code for the wireless--a technical job which always takes some
time. The obliging censor passed it with a couple of minor changes,
and I saw the interview safely on its way across the ocean, returning
to my hotel just in time to meet friends with whom I was to spend the
evening. We dined at _The Three Hussars_, a cozy little restaurant
long famous for its food and wines. The wines were still up to par,
but the food had sadly deteriorated from the old days. In fat-short
wartime Germany, really good cooking is as unlikely as bricks made
without straw.

During dinner we discussed the local situation. Both my host and his
wife were members of the Party and thus enthusiastically in favor of
_Anschluss_. They admitted, however, that Austria's inclusion into the
Third Reich had produced many economic difficulties. Much of Vienna's
local industry had been luxury products for foreign markets. This had
greatly suffered since annexation, owing to several factors such as
difficulty of obtaining raw materials through lack of foreign
exchange, competing German lines, and the boycott of German goods (now
extended to Austrian goods) in foreign lands, notably in the United
States. He himself had suffered through the closing of a factory of
which he had been manager. Controlled by German interests, it had been
closed after Anschluss as uneconomical.  Things had been pretty bad
until the outbreak of war, when the increase of employment on war work
coupled with army mobilization had relieved the labor situation.  He
believed that, on the long pull, Austria would benefit economically by
Anschluss, but she was going through a trying transition period.

That evening we went to one of the best-known music halls, where we
saw a typical Viennese program, full of skits and jokes--many of them
sharp knocks at current conditions. I expressed my surprise and said I
did not think such latitude would be tolerated in Berlin.  My hostess
laughingly assured me that the Viennese must have their satirical
jokes. It was an historic tradition, and the German authorities had
been persuaded that they had best not sit on this characteristic
Austrian safety-valve.

Another surprising matter was the number of officers and soldiers
sitting together in gay parties throughout the audience. I had already
noted instances of this in North Germany, but not to the same extent.
Recalling as I did the rigid caste lines in both the old Imperial Army
and the small professional _Reichswehr_ established after the World
War, it took me some time to get used to these evidences of social
fraternization. The new trend is due to two causes. In the first
place, it is part of the Nazi philosophy to break down class and caste
distinctions, and weld the whole nation into a conscious
_Gemeinschaft_--an almost mystical communion, as contrasted with the
rest of the world. In such a socialized nationhood, the traditional
caste barriers, first between officers and soldiers, secondly between
army and civilians, are obviously out of line. The present German army
is undoubtedly more of a _Volksheer_--a People's Army, than it ever
was before. This new tendency is also furthered by the fact that with
better education, specialization, and technical training of the
rank-and-file, officers and men are more nearly on the same plane.
The old Imperial Army, unmechanized and made up so largely of peasant
lads commanded by Junker squires, was a vastly different institution.

Yet, despite all social changes, military discipline and authority do
not seem to have suffered. No matter how friendly men and officers may
be off duty, the heel-clicking and stiff saluting on duty are as
punctilious as they ever were in the old days.

Next morning, the Major and I set off by military car to get my
interview with the new Slovak President.  The little Republic of
Slovakia, so recently carved from the former Czechoslovakia, is
technically an independent state, though actually it is a German
Protectorate.  The fiction of sovereignty is carried out in every
detail.  The Major and I had both sent our passports to the Slovak
Consulate in Vienna to obtain visas for our one-day trip in a
"foreign" land.

The fine weather of the past two days had given place to heavy clouds
and spitting rain. Once out of Vienna, there was little to see except
marsh and sodden fields as we motored down the Danube valley. To pass
the time, I entered into conversation with our military chauffeur, who
was an unusual type--a man with an air of good breeding enhanced by
slender hands and dark, well-cut features. I was surprised to learn
that he was a German from the Caucasus, one of the few survivors of a
flourishing colony established there long ago under the Czars but
wiped out by the Bolsheviks in the Russian Revolution.  Escaping as a
boy, he had wandered in many countries, returning at last to the
ancestral Fatherland which he had never previously seen. Incidentally,
it is curious how often one encounters in Germany such persons come
home from the Teutonic _diaspora_. Besides Austrian Adolf Hitler, four
of the top-flight Nazi leaders were born abroad--Wilhelm Bohle in
Britain, Alfred Rosenberg in Russia, Rudolf Hess in Egypt, and Walther
Darre in the Argentine.

>From Vienna to Bratislava is only an hour's quick run by motor car.
For a national capital, Bratislava is most unhandily situated. It lies
on the north bank of the Danube. On the south bank stretches the
German Reich, while a few miles downstream is the Hungarian border.
Bratislava is thus wedged narrowly between two foreign nations. Still,
it's the only city in Slovakia, so there's no second choice. The rest
of the little country is a jumble of mountains inhabited by a
primitive and pious peasantry. When I called on the Minister of
Foreign Affairs that same afternoon, his office windows looked out
across the river directly at alien soil. Certainly a unique situation.

We arrived at the international bridge about noon.  The usual
formalities of passport and customs inspection were gone through with
on the German side, plus money control. Although we were to be out of
the Reich only a few hours, we had to leave our marks behind and thus
quit German soil with no money except a little loose change.
Fortunately we were to be the guests of the German Minister, so we did
not have to go to the bother of getting Slovak currency. Incidentally,
it was lucky we made the trip when we did. That very night Adolf
Hitler was to have his narrow escape from being blown up by the bomb
explosion in Munich which killed or wounded so many of his old
companions-in-arms.  Thereafter, for some days, I understand that
every frontier of the Reich was almost hermetically sealed.

Crossing the massive bridge over the muddy Danube, our car came to a
halt at the Slovak customs control.  This did not take long, and we
were soon motoring through the town on our way to the German Military
Mission, where we were to check in. The people on the streets of
Bratislava were distinctly Slavic in type, with broad faces and high
cheekbones. Slovakia has a small army of its own, so I saw a few
soldiers. They still wore the regulation Czechoslovak uniform, which
is so like the American that they looked strangely similar to our own
doughboys. All the business signs were in Slovak.  The street signs
were in both Slovak and German.

The Germans were apparently trying to avoid publicly ruffling Slovak
sensibilities. The iron hand seems to be covered by a well-padded
glove. Their Military Mission is inconspicuously tucked away in a
modest villa on a side street; so is the Legation, to which we soon
drove in order to meet the Reich's diplomatic representative. In fact,
it is too small to house the Minister and his numerous family. He is
therefore obliged to live at Bratislava's one hotel.

The Minister is a clever man, as he has to be to fill so responsible a
post. He is also a jovial soul, as I soon discovered when we began to
swap jokes. Before long we adjourned to the hotel for lunch. That meal
was an eye-opener to me. Slovakia is a neutral land which grows a
surplus of foodstuffs, so rationing is unknown.  What a joy it was to
tuck into a Wiener Schnitzel with sour cream gravy, backed by
vegetables with a good butter base! A momentary fly in the ointment
appeared when a message was brought to our table that President Tiso
might be unable to see me as arranged because he was closeted with
Parliamentary leaders putting the last licks on Slovakia's new legal
code. My face must have shown some dismay, but the Minister put a
reassuring hand on my arm. "Don't worry," he smiled, "I'll get right
on the phone and persuade him." Soon he was back. As he sat down, he
remarked with a sly wink: "He's persuaded."

Accordingly, late afternoon found me hurrying from a call on the
Foreign Minister to keep my rendezvous with Slovakia's clerical
President. The newspapermen in Berlin had already told me that the
reverend gentleman was a pretty tough political operator--more holy
than righteous, as the saying goes. So I was curious.

The interview took place under conditions typical of this _al fresco_
republic. Since the President's official residence is not yet ready,
his temporary office is on the second floor of an apartment house. Two
stolid Slovak sentries at the house entrance alone marked it off from
other buildings in the block. In response to our summons a small boy
opened the house door. I climbed a flight of stone stairs, rang a
bell, and was promptly ushered into the Presence.

The President was equally informal but by no means so unimpressive.
Father Tiso is a big man--big head, broad face, broad shoulders,
massive body, and legs like tree trunks. A typical peasant even in his
black clerical garb, he is visibly rooted in the soil.

The many persons of Slovak origin in my native land naturally came to
mind, so my first question was what message he had for them. The
answer came quickly in a deep rich voice: "Tell my Slovak brothers in
the United States that all goes well here; that we have peace again
now that the Polish War is over; that order prevails, and that our new
state will work out its national evolution by its own inner strength.
I beg the Slovaks in America not to believe the many rumors I know to
be current there about our situation. They simply aren't true."

"You mean, Mr. President," I queried, "reports that Slovakia is merely
a puppet state of the Reich?"

Father Tiso smiled calmly. "How long have you been in this country?"
he asked in turn.

"About six hours," I admitted rather ruefully.

"All right," he shot back quickly. "Stay here a week and travel
through Slovakia. Then you'll learn the answer yourself."

That seemed to settle that, so I tried a new tack.  "How do Slovakia's
aims and ideals differ from the former Czechoslovakia, of which it
formed a part?"

"Our aim," began President Tiso deliberately, "is the perfecting of
Slovak nationality. Czechoslovakia was founded on the fiction of a
Czechoslovak nation without the hyphen--that precious hyphen which we
were promised from the first as an equal member of a dual nation. The
Czechs gave us nothing to say. They claimed we were merely backward
Czechs, whereas there are deep cultural differences between us. We
have our own history, language, art, music, folk-songs. For centuries
we defended this cultural heritage against foreign rulers. And on
those deep-laid foundations we propose to build our own national
life."

"What sort of life?" I countered. "Let's take the practical angle.
Will your economic development be individualistic business, peasant
equality, or national socialism?"

Again the President replied slowly. "It is true that today we are
mainly a land of peasants. But the rapid increase of our population
makes the development of industry an urgent necessity. However, we
intend that industry shall serve the good of the whole nation--not
merely its own good. So I may say that our economic aim is our special
type of national socialism based on Christian principles and
practices. We know that capital must be allowed to earn a fair return.
But we intend that the worker shall have a fair livelihood, with
security against unemployment and unmerited poverty.  The Government
will interfere in industry to correct--but not to direct."

I turned to politics. "Isn't it true," I asked, "that you have some
non-Slovak national minorities, especially Hungarians and Germans? How
will you handle them?"

"We assure them cultural liberty," said the President.  "They will
have the right to their own language, education, and Parliamentary
representation proportionate to their electoral voting strength."

"Well, what about the Slovak majority?" I queried.  "How does it stand
politically?"

"There is only one Slovak party in Parliament," answered President
Tiso. "This is the National Party, until recently headed by our
revered leader, the late Father Hlinka. In the recent elections, the
Slovaks were unanimous, and the next elections will be five years
hence. There is nothing in the Constitution to prevent the formation
of new parties. But there aren't any others just now."

So saying, this clerical President rose to indicate that he must
return to his task of building a nation. "A clever man," I thought to
myself. "He knows all the words."

When I left the presidential apartment, night had fallen. But, in
neutral Bratislava, night was normal.  There was no blackout. How gay
I felt to walk, even in a chill rain, along well-lighted streets with
cheery shop-window displays and glimpses of folk dining or drinking
comfortably in restaurants and cafes! You learn to prize the simplest
amenities of peacetime when you have lost them for a while, even
though that apparent peace may cloak an iron repression.




VII. IRON RATIONS


No intelligent foreigner can be in Germany a week without asking
himself: "How do these people stand it?" When he has been there a
month, he says: "How long can they stand it?" After three months, his
verdict will probably be: "I guess they'll stand it a long time."
Those, at any rate, were my reactions. And, from conversations with
many foreign residents in Germany, I believe they are typical ones.
Let me explain how this mental evolution came about.

Germany is today a fortress under siege by the British naval blockade.
Even where the Reich has apparently unhampered sally-ports through
neutral neighbors, its freedom is relative; for the neutrals in turn
feel the pressure of British sea-power in whatever may aid England's
arch-enemy. In the World War, Germany collapsed through this
strangling grip. To avoid a similar fate, the Nazi Government has
developed an amazingly elaborate system of rationing which extends to
the smallest details.

The foreign visitor to wartime Germany encounters this all-pervading
system the instant he crosses the border, when the frontier inspector
hands him a few bread, meat, and butter coupons nicely calculated to
avert hunger till he reaches his destination. Thereafter he receives
full sets of coupons (collectively termed "food-cards") enabling him
to buy specified amounts of eatables.  As already related, the quality
depends on the prices he is willing to pay; also he can purchase
certain high-priced luxuries, such as game which (with the exception
of venison) is card-free. But, no matter how great his wealth, he
cannot get more coupons than are legally allotted him. Except under
special circumstances, he gets the same treatment as the average
citizen of the Reich. Germans or foreigners, they all "eat out of the
same [official] dish."

Offhand, one would be apt to think that such severe restrictions would
produce a thriving bootleg trade. As a matter of fact, underhand
trading does exist. But it is relatively small and very much
undercover, because German law punishes the buyer equally with the
seller, and sentences can be imposed up to ten years at hard labor.
For most persons, therefore, the risk is too great.

Legal differences in rationing there are. These, however, are based,
not on wealth or influence, but on age and occupation. Infants and
small children get special foods to safeguard their health and growth.
At the other end of the scale are two favored classes known as "heavy"
and "heaviest" workers--persons engaged in specially strenuous or
hazardous labor. These classifications are prized almost more than
higher wages in laboring circles. The most appreciated favor handed us
newspaper correspondents by the Propaganda Ministry was when it had us
classified as _heavy workers_. Thereby we were entitled to draw an
extra food-card allotment amounting to nearly fifty per cent above
normal.

What, you may ask, is normal? The answer is that the allotment varies
somewhat from month to month; and, interestingly enough, it tends to
rise. For various reasons, the Government determined to start in with
wartime restrictions as severe as the people could presumably stand
without immediate injury to their health and without arousing too much
discontent. The official calculation was that slight additions to the
allotment from time to time would produce marked improvement in
popular morale. This was certainly true, as I myself can testify. I
shall not soon forget how much brighter the world looked when my
microscopic butter ration was increased by nearly a pat a day. The
difference totaled only a few ounces per month, but the psychological
effect was great indeed.

Here is a table of the principal items of rationed foodstuffs for the
month of December, 1939. The reader can easily translate them into
ounces by remembering that 1,000 grams equals 2.2 pounds. Normal
rations which could be bought per head, per week, were:


  Item                              Grams

  Meat.............................. 500

  Butter............................. 125

  Lard.............................. 62.5

  Margarine......................... 80

  Marmalade........................ 100

  Sugar............................. 250

  Cheese............................ 62.5

  Eggs.............................. 1 (egg)

Bread, flour, and other grain products are likewise rationed, but the
allotments are so large that the rationing is chiefly to avoid waste.
Nobody except a tremendous eater could begin to consume his bread
ration while I was in Germany. That is because the Reich is amply
supplied in this respect, due to abundant harvests in recent years
with consequent large carry-overs.  Potatoes and vegetables generally
are unrationed. So are fruits, though these are scarce and of mediocre
quality, judged by American standards. Tropical fruits, even oranges,
tangerines, and lemons, are rarely seen. I understand that most of
these come from Southern Italy.  Mondays and Fridays are fish days.
Wartime Germany's fish supply now comes mainly from the Baltic, which
is not in the active war zone.

It takes only a glance at the table just given to spot the weak point
in Germany's food supply---edible fats.  This danger point has long
been realized, and the Government has done its best to remedy the
deficiency, both by increasing domestic production and by imports from
abroad. Despite these efforts, however, Germany's domestic fat
production averaged only 56 per cent of her consumption in the years
just before the war. In anticipation of the war danger, the Nazi
Government has undoubtedly laid up large emergency fat reserves.  As
far back as the autumn of 1938, Hermann Goering announced at the
annual Party Congress at Nuremberg that the Reich had a 7 1/2 months'
fat supply in storage, while trade statistics indicate that this
figure should be even larger today. Germany can, and does, import much
fat, together with meat and dairy products, from its Continental
neighbors. This trade is, of course, not stopped by the British
blockade. Still, the fat shortage remains; and in a long war it will
be apt to get more acute.

Certainly, the present regulation diet is out of balance.  There is an
obvious deficiency, not only of fats, but also of foods rich in
protein, mineral salts, and vitamins, such as fruit, green vegetables,
and dairy products, especially milk and eggs. The present diet
contains far too much starch, as the writer can emphatically testify,
since he gained twelve pounds during a stay in Germany of less than
four months, although his weight had not varied half that much in
years. And he met many other persons, both foreigners and Germans, who
were having similar experiences. When healthy, well-balanced
individuals react that way, there must be something wrong with the
dietary picture. Unless remedied, it cannot fail to produce bad
results on the general population in the long run.

However, if the food ration can be kept at its present level, the bad
results will be so gradual that they should not notably lower the
average German's strength and efficiency until after a long lapse of
time. When the war broke out the German people were reasonably
healthy.  Yet this health standard had been maintained on a diet
which, in American eyes, must seem meager and monotonous.  For many
years, most Germans have been restricted in their consumption of fats
and dairy products.  The war is thus not a sudden change from plenty
to scarcity, but a relatively slight intensification of chronic
shortages. I discussed food conditions with working-men, and they said
that, if they could get their full foodcard allotments, they fared
about the same as before the war. These statements checked with what
competent foreign observers told me. The winter diet of the working
classes has always been potatoes, bread, and cabbage, together with
some fish, less meat, and even less fats. They hadn't the money to buy
anything better. It is the upper and middle classes who have been hit
hardest by war rationing, and it is among them that you hear the
loudest complaints.

Those upper and middle class folk certainly _mecker_ vociferously over
the food situation, but their complaints are mingled with a somewhat
sour sense of humor. Here is a typical food joke which was current in
winter Berlin: "Recipe for a good meal: Take your meat card. Wrap it
in your egg card, and fry it in your butter