And, writing these words, expressing this most individualistic, democratic cry of warning, seeing so clearly what the Nazis were preparing (as far back as 1931) —was the Nazi Hans Schlemm.
One of the surprises of the National Socialist Revolution was the speed with which signs and names were altered in 1933, when it was possible to call anything black that, a week ago, had been painted white. “Save the family!” the Nazis had been shouting. “Save religion!” They knew they would have to destroy both. And they came into power, disguised as saviors, and took hold of the German family and religion, hoping to be undetected while they did away with both.
At first, it went smoothly. Nobody was even suspicious in the beginning.
The German people are naturally pious, church-going, giving great importance to family life. They know today that since Hitler came in, something has gone wrong with their churches and families. Ministers were arrested by the hundreds; more peaceful means were used against the home. The word gemütlich (untranslatable, and coming into English for its flavor) can’t be applied very well to today’s German. Gemütlichkeit flourishes in the warmth of the family; and the family is near dissolution.
Today every member of the nation — man, woman, and child — must belong to at least one Nazi organization: to the Party, to a Fachschaft (professional union), a Women’s or Mothers’ Bund (union), the Hitler Youth, the Jungvolk (young people), or to the Bund Deutscher Mädel (League of German Girls). These take all the time left after one’s profession, housework, or school. Even without a deeper reason, it would be impossible for anyone to devote himself to family problems, just for lack of time.
There is a story told in Germany now: the head of a family comes home; no one is in, but there is a note on the library table which says: “Am at a meeting of the National Socialist Women’s Union. Will be home late. — Mother.” So he scribbles an answer and leaves it beside the other: “Going to a Party meeting. Will be back late. — Father.” The next in is the son, who leaves a note: “Night practice. Won’t be home till morning. — Fritz.” Hilda, the daughter, is last, and she writes: “Must go to a meeting of the Bund of German Girls. —Hilda.”
At about two in the morning, the family gets home, to a bare apartment from which everything movable has been stolen; but there is a fifth note on the table: “We thank our Führer. Heil Hitler! — The Gang.”
The break-up of the family is no by-product of the Nazi dictatorship, but part of the job which the regime had to do if it meant to reach its aim — the conquest of the world.
If the world is to go to the Nazis (for no one else, in Hitler’s eyes, is German), the German people must first belong to them. And, for that to be true, they can’t belong to anyone else — neither God, nor their families, nor themselves.
To begin with, the time they used to give to their families was taken from the Germans and placed at the disposal of the State. But this alone could not have destroyed the foundation of German family life. More subtle measures were necessary to touch the spirit. Destruction began only when, within the family itself, mutual suspicion grew great. It was not until father became suspicious of mother, mother of daughter, daughter of son, and son of father, that the family was really endangered. From the moment when no one dared speak, because every word might be reported, every gesture misunderstood and denounced, the family lost its meaning. Life within it became senseless.
Private homes are not the most important places now — the meeting-hall comes first for the members of the family. Love of the Führer, faithfulness to his State — the Nazis jealously watch over the fulfillment of this highest commandment. The man who takes his home life seriously, spending much of his time there, feeling himself a family man before he is a Nazi, is an outsider. He is suspect. He does not realize that decisive events take place only in the meeting-hall.
Torn between authorities, the Hitler child is pulled by the school and Hitler Youth Movement on one hand, and home on the other. The child feels the duel for the possession of his soul; he hears his teachers’ hidden objection when the Hitler Youth takes too much of his time, he sees his parents’ hidden frown when there is no time for home. But he also notices that the authorities over him are afraid. Fear is the general motive. Grown-ups lie out of fear, and bear false witness against each other. Since they fear even little children, they lie to them.
It is hard to find any connection between this and the heroism they always praise. The child must think: “I don’t know, I’m not afraid at target-practice, with its accidents. But suppose I don’t listen in to Goebbels’ speech? I’m afraid my teacher will know about that in the morning, then I’d be punished. The teacher could denounce my parents. Father could lose his job and be expelled from the Party; that would be the worst thing possible. I am afraid, horribly. And that’s true of my parents, too. And so we do listen to most of Goebbels’ speeches; if, somehow, we miss one, we lie about it. I tell lies in school; Father, in the Fachschaft; and Mother when she goes marketing. We all lie, out of fear.”
The child will only dimly suspect that most people have this fear, although the German populace is glorified as “heroic.” Perhaps parents have it most — the children feel this — for they are held responsible for their children, and at the same time have lost all influence over them.
Lack of time, lack of trust! No, family life is no longer gemütlich. It has lost all tenderness, all the past mutual thoughtfulness; and parental care is dead.
“The lives of all German youths belong solely to Hitler,” shouted Baldur von Schirach, now Reich Youth Leader. If a child asks its mother, for reassurance, “Am I yours?” the mother will have to answer, “No. You belong to the Führer.” And if the father breaks in, impatiently, “Don’t teach the child nonsense, dear… Of course you belong to us,” trouble begins. Something forbidden and punishable has been let slip; a quarrel is the mildest consequence. If the child is too young to go and denounce them, the father must still watch out, servants can hear. Besides, the kindergarten teacher asks what is said at home, and the baby is sure to tell the truth, he is too little to lie.
If the child is a big boy and a member of the Jungvolk or the Hitler Youth, he will rebel with all his might against tenderness. He resents emotion — even his own, which sometimes makes him throw his arms around his mother, and cry. It will destroy him in the eyes of those from whose judgment there is no appeal. He has been taught: “Those who shirk their duties just because they are tired are ‘mothers’ boys.’ Mothers’ boys cry when they are hit. Mothers’ boys run home when it is raining; they are afraid of thunder. They don’t know what a night march or war-play is. If they are tired after their daily work, they do not manage to be fresh and ready for service. Mothers’ boys don’t know the ruggedness of mountains and woods; they do not know dusty country roads, or life in a tent. Mothers’ boys rest their heads on soft pillows and sleep under silk covers. Jungvolk youngsters are hardy.” (Morgen, organ of the Jungvolk.)
To be a mothers’ boy — ah, that would be the most terrible thing that could happen. So, after marching all day, he clenches his fists, the little soldier; and when his mother tries to give him a kiss before he goes to sleep, he turns his head away. This kiss, he feels, might have cost me my dignity. I might have become soft and affectionate. And he goes to his room, stiffening in the most manly way.