30. DEBUT PERFORMANCE
THE DEGREE OF ACCURACY REQUIRED FROM US, the total concentration on the proceedings, even when one was not actually interpreting, and the tension emanating from the courtroom during the ten-month mental battle fought over the lives of the twenty-one defendants, put a tremendous strain on the nervous and mental stamina of the interpreters.
None of this was obvious to us when 20 November dawned after, for most of us, a sleepless night. I was to give my debut in the German booth and had been reading, and re-reading, the opening statements to be read by Justice Jackson and Sir Hartley Shawcross.[1] They were to be preceded by an opening statement by the President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence and the indictment would be read in open court. Translations of these documents had reached us a day earlier, so we had been able to prepare ourselves to the extent that we knew these texts. What terrified us most was the business of listening and talking simultaneously, and, of course, the prospect of impromptu statements that were certain to occur. I had met Karl Anders, a commentator of the BBC’s German service a couple of days before and he had casually mentioned, ‘About fifty million people will be listening to your German interpretation of the opening of the trial’ – a prospect that did not exactly tranquilize my nerves. (That figure grew to several hundred million when I interpreted Goering’s testimony four months later, but by then I was an old hand at the game).
Starting on that morning of 20 November 1945 we, the newly created ‘Multi-Lingual Simultaneous Court Interpreters’ set out on the seemingly endless task of voicing six million words – predominantly in English and German – that were spoken during the ten-month trial. On that first morning, seated in the German booth, my mouth was painfully dry and my hands were shaking. Never before, or since, have I known such nervous pressure or such a fear of the unexpected. It was comparable to those feelings I had had (in a previous life) at the start of those downhill ski races in which I had competed where one’s fear is of having a bad tumble in full view of the spectators.
On opening day we had a full house, of course. The Press gallery was packed. The Defence and Prosecution teams were all in place. The lights were glaringly bright for the photographers (no film cameras). The glassed-in booths for radio commentators, above the room, were filled to capacity. Then the klieg lights[2] were turned off and the photographers withdrew. The Marshall of the court announced the entry of the Tribunal – and suddenly I was interpreting for the first time. I don’t remember doing the few impromptu comments by the President, but I do remember having started reading the German translation of his opening remarks. I told myself to put more expression into my reading, to speak more clearly, to work on my voice control and to stop shaking. I managed all of that fairly quickly, but the jitters took weeks to disappear and the nervous tension never completely left me.
We were, after all, involved in the writing of history and our contribution was of the greatest importance. None of the judges understood German and everything said in that courtroom to them by the defendants and witnesses passed through the ears, brains and mouths of we interpreters.
It worked!
R.W. Cooper, the correspondent of The Times had this to say about our performance: ‘It all worked splendidly, in spite of occasional delays through technical hitches and, in the beginning at least, translations that broke off in mid-air and made little sense. In such cases recourse could always be had to the recording of the original statement as a check to the shorthand record. Considering the limitless scope of the issues involved, technicalities of politics, military terms or the empty phrases of Nazi jargon, every credit is due to the international band of translators under Colonel Leon Dostert, a teacher of French literature in the United States.’
At this point Mr Cooper’s comments become rather complimentary as far as I am concerned and modesty does not prevent me from quoting him further: ‘And by common accord Captain Wolfe Frank, translating from German into English, who came to Nuremberg in British uniform and returned as a civilian, was the ace of them all.’
He did not, of course, listen to the German booth but writes: ‘The translations into German, happily, were especially well done, as could be seen from the readiness with which the accused and their counsels followed the proceedings.’
Certainly, at no time during the entire trial was there a complaint, or even a challenge, directed at the interpreters. This implies an unqualified seal of approval for Dostert’s daring experiment that, so a mathematically gifted observer pointed out, shortened the Nuremberg Trials by at least three years.
31. RETURN TO CIVVY STREET
BEFORE AND JUST AFTER THE BEGINNING OF THE TRIAL we were isolated from anything German, but as time passed by, I established good and sane relations with many Germans and I gradually worked out a way of living a normal life. Old friendships were resurrected, and new ones were made.
I had my contact, through Diels, with his friends who lived outside the town and for some time, my visits to them had to be kept secret.
There was no lack of diversionary activities. The US Army was doing a great deal more to entertain and pamper its men than we, in the British contingent, had ever known. The PX – the shop for the courthouse personnel – was well stocked with the kind of luxurious merchandise I hadn’t seen since before the war. Food rations were generous and even our British Army cook could not ruin them completely. Most of the time I was eating in an American officers’ mess, and the playground for all was the Grand Hotel, opposite the Nuremberg station, which served meals one could buy against ‘scrip’ – a military currency. The hotel boasted the Marble Room, a ballroom for dancing to German bands and a nightly floorshow. The bar was well stocked and Charley, the barman, was a first-class exponent of the art. There was hardly an evening when I did not adjourn to this ‘home away from home’.
I did have a transportation problem. Colonel Turrell, who was in charge of transport, had introduced some absurd rule whereby senior ranks, major and above, were entitled to use staff cars with drivers whilst junior officers, including me, the eternal captain, had to ride in army trucks equipped with uncomfortable seats, and we were restricted to carefully planned communal outings. Such a truck would, for instance, depart from the Grand Hotel for my billet in Zirndorf five minutes after the official closing of the Marble Room, thus precluding any extracurricular activities, such as sex, unless one could stay overnight. This had to be corrected. I needed a car, but there was no way of getting one – officially. Barman Charley came to the rescue. He knew of a small Opel, tucked away in the garage of some widow or other, which could be obtained against some vital food and medical items the old lady needed but couldn’t get on the German economy. Nor could she ever hope to get the car back on the road as she didn’t rate any petrol under strict German rationing, and the car, furthermore, had no papers.
The deal was consummated, and I now owned an Opel Olympia that had no papers or number plates. Fortunately, Major Tom Hedges, the officer in charge of security in the Palace of Justice (who came through with all sorts of other gifts as time went by) produced some beautiful, self-reflecting plates from his garage. They were Swedish. He also introduced me to the sergeant in charge of the American motor pool – and I had fuel.
My undocumented Swedish plates were only challenged once. I was driving along the Autobahn towards Berchtesgaden, when I was flagged-down by an officer who had just overtaken me in a Mercedes. His car, to my horror, had Swedish plates. This could mean trouble. However, as the officer came walking up to me I saw that his uniform was that of the International Red Cross. Things were looking better. Then a flood of words in Swedish descended upon me. This was not so good. ‘Sorry’ I managed to interrupt, ‘but I don’t speak Swedish.’
1
Sir Hartley Shawcross KC, MP, HM Attorney-General was the Chief British Prosecutor at the IMT.