One would have expected the atmosphere to be a little festive, at least as festive as for the opening of some exhibition toward which the whole nation, irrespective of party, has been working. Even those delegates — thinks our apolitical observer — who are opposed to parliamentary democracy, should feel some respect, if not for it then at least for their own role, which they are about to begin to play. Perhaps the ceremonial, the useful uniform of every formal situation, should be sterner and more elaborate. Democratic institutions are bad at ceremony, but it gives the drifting participant at least a little distraction from his own drift and his desire to draw attention to himself, and keeps him quiet in spite of himself. A dignified person will gain composure. It deepens quiet and stifles noise. It would force this body of men, which is put together from opposites, to be quiet if only for a couple of hours, into one form of common purpose which is silence.
Here, though, in the German Reichstag, each party has not only its own political convictions but also its own ritual. There is no sense of overall decorum. Foreign ambassadors — the stately Lord d’Abernon,* for instance — are sitting in the box. The eyes of America, France, and Italy are directed at the representatives
of the German people. And what do they see? The goose-stepping of the nationalists. Wrangling among the communists. Ludendorff in dark glasses. The apolitical observer cannot understand why, more than any other professional grouping in the world, German politicians are so driven to make asses of themselves, before they’ve even embarked on their politics, which are a further reservoir of asininity. But then, what does the apolitical observer understand of the mysteries of politics?
The seventy-nine-year-old veteran president, who has a weak voice, receives a call from the right to “Speak up!” That boorish intervention — doesn’t it have a familiar ring to it? Wasn’t it at a cabaret, where a gentleman, remembering what he’d paid for admission and having ordered up a bottle of wine, called out to the emcee, “Speak up!!!” in such a way that the three exclamation marks, or better — indignation marks — were clearly visible? Oh — and where have I heard that whistling coming from the communist benches? It was in high school, wasn’t it, in my junior year! Is it that I’ve outgrown it because I’m apolitical?
The man who provoked this storm of whistling was General Ludendorff. The last time I saw him, we were both, he and I, still at war. We both came out on the losing side. Since then our paths have separated. He became a politician, and I didn’t. No one gave me any medals or decorations, even though I lost as well. Now I have the opportunity to view him in civilian clothes. There is a certain round amiability about his waistcoat and his double chin, which is supposed to inspire confidence. Why does everyone shout when he gets up? He’s changed. He’s older, slower, more settled and middle class. Perhaps he always was just a middle-class man in heroic garb. There’s not much about him of Mars, god of war.
Now they’re singing “The Internationale” on my left and “Deutschland über Alles” on my right. Simultaneously, as if it didn’t make more sense to sing them consecutively. Why not have music, my friends? Why shouldn’t politicians sing? Why will the one not hear the other out? Isn’t it possible that both songs have something to be said for them? In some respects Germany really is above other countries. And in other ways internationalism isn’t the worst. We apolitical observers know what we owe the world, and what we’ve given it. Why don’t the politicians know?
While they’re still singing in the plenary room, I walk down the empty corridors. I see a large library, the Reichstag library. It could be called “Book Room” if they wanted to avoid the very common “library.” And what is it called? It’s called “book depot.”* Well, let’s go into the book depot anyway! We find precious volumes on all subjects, but also kitschy allegorical statues, ponderous virtues hewn from rock. The library should be called a virtue depot. Majestic overload wherever you look. Most un-Prussian-kingly prodigality with the material; reheated tradition without innovation; show without warmth; frozen displays of pomp. How should humanity, understanding, compassion, exist here? In the “dome room” there is a chandelier that weighs eight metric tons — as heavy as the fate of the people who own the chandelier. They’ve shelled out twenty-six and a half million marks for their Reichstag. It looks imposing, no doubt about it. It would be nice if the delegates made it impressive as well.
Frankfurter Zeitung, May 30, 1924
33. Farewell to the Dead (1925)
Today republican Berlin bade farewell to the dead president of the German Reich.* This city, so heartless in its bustle, so cold in its evident urge to utility, and so often teetering on the edge of kitsch where it would be sensitive — just today this city wore a hurt, even a tragic expression on its face. In every street the cortege passed through there was silence. Silence moved the veiled lights of the candelabra, and it was as though silence were the sole force that was moving the people — as if they weren’t walking but were slowly being pushed along by silence.
In the morning Wilhelmstrasse was thronged with people. But not animated, no! Because there was a somber mood among them, even where there was no formal mourning. Wilhelmstrasse is blocked off. There are obelisks, erect, frozen, black guards standing at the entrance to the blocked-off part of it; exotic ornaments, fetched from afar and planted on the tarmac. Even so they don’t look out of place. They make one forget it was ever a street. The thoroughfare, the passage, the public street is suddenly reduced to a tragically beautiful courtyard. Obelisks, dark evergreen, dark in their durability — they turn that most living of human institutions, the street — into the stillest and most immutable: a cemetery.
President Ebert’s funeral cortege outside the Reichstag.
There is the courtyard of the house. Resting along the walls are wreaths with colored ribbons, like visitors who have come a long way, and are tired. A few steps have decked themselves in thin black crepe. Suddenly they are not steps anymore that you climb to gain access to a house. They are signposts of grief. You pass up these steps, you don’t climb them. In the first room there are wreaths propped against the wall, waiting. People as they pass bend down to read what is written on the ribbons. It looks like a visitor greeting another visitor.
On the table lies a book for visitors to write their names. An ordinary book, quite small, bound in green cloth, a neutral sort of prop. After all, it only contains names. A lot of names, moving in their simplicity, names of ordinary people: Franz Kruleweit, innkeeper; Frieda Beckmann, guesthouse manager; Arnold Krug, war veteran; Robert Weitig, carpenter. Did they come so that they could say they had once been inside the house of the president of the Reich? Out of curiosity, making the most of the occasion? And maybe they were just curious when they set out. But by the time they wrote out their good, simple names, I am sure they were moved. Because they are simple people. It is easier for grief to find its way into the hearts of such people. They are not guarded by bitter skepticism.