I Was A German: An Autobiography of Ernst Toller

INTRODUCTION

NOT only my own youth is portrayed here, but also the youth of a whole generation, and a slice of history into the bargain. This generation followed many different paths, worshipped false gods, and believed in false prophets, but always it strove for enlightenment and tried to hear the voice of reason and truth.

Before the current débâcle in Germany can be properly understood one must first know something of those happenings in 1918 and 1919 which I have recorded here.

I have glossed over nothing—errors, incompetence, and failure are all recorded, my own inadequacies as well as those of others. To be fair one must look at all the facts; to be just one must forget nothing; to be courageous one must understand everything. Beneath the yoke of barbarism one must not keep silence; one must fight. Whoever is silent at such a time is a traitor to humanity.

E. T.

THE DAY MY BOOKS WERE BURNT

IN GERMANY

CHAPTER ONE—CHILDHOOD

MY maternal great-grandfather received permission from Frederick the Great to settle down as the only Jew in Samotschin, a little town in the Netzebruch near the Polish border. My great-grandfather paid for this privilege with money. It was a thing of which his great-grandson was very proud; I used to brag about it to my school-fellows, and dream of advancement and ennoblement.

My paternal great-grandfather, who was of Spanish extraction, had an estate in West Prussia, and an aunt of mine used to relate that he ate off golden dishes while his horse fed from a silver manger; but with his sons the manger had become copper and the dishes mere silver. As a boy I used to dream of these legendary riches: in my dreams the old man was devoured by his horse, while I looked on placidly and unsympathetically, indeed rather with an unaccountable feeling of satisfaction.

In my grandparents’ house the loft was full of huge dusty old folios, heavily gilt. My grandfather used to read in them all day and sometimes even all night, while my grandmother ran the shop, served the customers, and did the housekeeping. This was the business that my father inherited after he had done brilliantly at the University and had been, for a time, a chemist.

Samotschin was an intensely German town, and both Protestants and Jews were proud of the fact. They spoke with scorn of the other towns in Posen, where no distinction was made between Catholics and Poles. Ostmark had first come into Prussia’s hands with the second Partition; but the Germans regarded themselves as hereditary rulers, merely tolerating the Poles. These little villages of the plain, invaded by German colonists, acted as outposts, as buffer territory between Germany proper and the Polish estates and farmlands. Poles and Germans fought relentlessly over every foot of land; and any German who sold land to a Pole was regarded as a traitor.

We children called the Poles Polaks and firmly believed that they were the descendants of Cain, who slew Abel and was branded by God.

Against the Poles, Jews and Germans showed a united front. The Jews looked upon themselves as the pioneers of German culture, and their houses in these little towns became cultural centres where German literature, philosophy and art was cultivated with a pride and an assiduousness which bordered on the ridiculous. The Poles were declared to be no patriots—the poor Poles whose children at school were forbidden their mother-tongue, whose lands had been confiscated by the German State. But on the Kaiser’s birthday the Jews sat at the same table as the Reserve officers, the War League, and the Home Defence Corps, and drank beer and schnaps and raised their glasses to the Kaiser’s health.

I was born on the first of December, 1893. Looking back on my childhood days I find myself remembering disconnected and fragmentary incidents.

I see myself wearing a little short dress, standing outside our house looking at a cart. It is big, bigger than Marie, as big as a house. Marie is the nurse, and she wears a red coral necklace: round red corals. She is sitting on one of the shafts, rocking to and fro. Then Ilse comes out with her nurse. She runs up to me and we hold hands; for some time we stand hand in hand and look at each other curiously. Ilse’s nurse is gossiping with Marie, but suddenly she calls out:

Come away, Ilse! He’s a Jew.

Ilse drops my hand and runs away. I can’t understand what the nurse means, but I begin to cry bitterly. At last the other nurse departs with Ilse, and Marie tries to comfort me, taking me in her arms and showing me her corals; but I don’t want the corals, and I break her necklace.

I am friends with the night-watchman’s son. When the others cry Polak I cry Polak with them; but he is my friend for all that. His name is Stanislaus, and he tells me how the Polaks hate the Germans.

In the marketplace they have been taking up the pavement and digging trenches. It is Saturday night, and the workmen have left their spades and pickaxes in a little hut made of rough boards while they go to the public house. Stanislaus and I sit in one of the trenches, a narrow ditch covered with planks. Stanislaus spits.

Tonight one of the workmen will die, as a punishment for digging here. They’ve no right to dig here; it’s Polish earth. The Germans stole it from us. But let ‘em go on digging just here where they’ve begun, let ‘em go on digging another hundred yards down and they’ll come upon the King of Poland. He has a white horse in his stable, so beautiful that the Captain’s horse would look like a billy-goat beside it. When the time comes, the King of Poland will mount his horse and ride up from below the earth and drive them all away. All of them. You as well.

I ask Stanislaus when that time will come. Stanislaus knows more than I do, for his father is the night-watchman. But he presses his lips together, and sets his mouth obstinately.

Spit then, and give me a marble as pledge.

I spit and he takes the marble but says nothing. All night I dream that Stanislaus is standing in the marketplace blowing on his father’s horn. And suddenly a white horse comes galloping out of our ditch, its brown saddle covered with Kaiser-pictures.

I collect Kaiser-pictures. In my father’s shop there are lots of fascinating things, string, bonbons, lemonade and raisins, little nails and big nails; but best of all are the Kaiser-pictures. And they are the hardest to steal. There is one in every packet of chocolate; but the chocolate cupboard is kept locked, and the key is on a bunch which Mother carries in her blue check apron. Mother is always working; she is working when I wake up in the morning. She works in the shop, in the granary, she does the housekeeping, she gives food to the poor and invites beggars in to the midday meal, and when the farm-hand goes to the fields to plough and sow it is to her he comes for supplies. Every evening she sits reading, deep into the night, often falling asleep over her book. And if I wake her up she says:

Do let me be, child, reading is the only pleasure I have.

Why are you always working, Mother?

Because you must eat, my dear.

If Mother isn’t careful I steal the key, and then the pictures out of the packets of chocolate. The chocolate itself is only incidental. They are beautiful pictures of ancient Germans, dressed in skins and leaning on huge clubs; their women squat beside them polishing their shields. Stanislaus thinks they used their blonde hair to polish the shields with, hair which looks like straw bed-hangings. In some of the packets there are pictures of our own Kaiser wearing a red velvet cloak over his shoulders and holding a ball in one hand and a gold poker in the other.

When I am lying in bed one morning, and looking at all my Kaiser-pictures, I ask myself if the Kaiser ever has to go to the w.c. like me. The question worries me, and I run to Mother.

You will finish up in prison, says Mother.

So now I know that he does not go to the w.c.

The street between the Church and the marketplace is called the Totenstrasse, the Street of the Dead; but the people who live there don’t attach any particular meaning to the name. They stand at their doors and gossip, grumbling at the Burgomaster because the pavement (of which everybody in the town is very proud) stops half-way up the street. As if it had been cut off with a knife, says Herr Fischer, the dealer. I am glad I don’t live in the Totenstrasse; I have never seen a dead man, only once a skull and some bones that the workmen dug up when they were making a well near the mill. Stanislaus and I played ball with the skull, using the bones as bats; and Stanislaus gave the skull a kick.

Why did you kick it?

Grandmother said he was a wicked man. Good people don’t stay in their graves. Angels come and fly away with them to heaven.

What do they do there?

Well, they don’t eat potatoes in their skins.

I like potatoes baked in their skins, not at home, but with Stanislaus. His grandmother, his mother and father, his three sisters and four brothers all live in the Dorfstrasse in a little house made of mud with a thatched roof. They all sleep in one room, which gets very hot. There is no pavement in the Dorfstrasse, but nobody thinks of complaining to the Burgomaster about it. When I go and see Stanislaus at dinner-time I find them all eating baked potatoes and groats, or baked potatoes and pickled herring. I stand in a corner watching them, my mouth watering.

At last Stanislaus’ mother tells me to help myself. If there’s enough for eleven, one more won’t make much difference.

Stanislaus digs me in the ribs.

You can imagine it’s roast meat.

We don’t have roast meat every day.

You could if you wanted to.

I take up my cap and run home.

You oughtn’t to go there for dinner, Mother says to me, eating their food when they have so little.

Why haven’t they got more?

It’s God’s will.

The Totenstrasse is very long—I suppose to give the dead on their way to the churchyard a chance to decide whether they would rather stay in their graves or fly up to heaven.

Uncle M. has just died. I wonder very much if he was a good man. I go to the churchyard, break off a branch of yew, whittle it, and sharpen the end. Then I climb the wall and bore down into uncle’s grave to see if he is still there. But the sexton surprises me, and I run away.

On the way home I ask myself, what is a good man?

I hear doors slamming outside. It ought to be dark in the room. Father sleeps there, and Mother over there. But it isn’t dark now, and their beds are empty. Have they been kidnapped? There is a red glare outside. Somebody is blowing a horn, on and on, a wailing note. I jump out of bed, wrench open the door and run out into the street; and there on the other side of the marketplace is a house on fire, all red and green and black. Firemen with shining helmets are running about wildly, and a gaping crowd stands watching it all. Julie, our cook, catches sight of me and drives me back to bed.

Why is that house on fire, Julie?

Because God always punishes people.

But why does He want to?

Because little children ask too many questions.

I am frightened, and I can’t get to sleep again—the night smells of smoke and of burning; it smells of God.

In the morning I stand looking at the charred wood and blackened stone, still hot.

They haven’t found so much as a button; the poor thing must have been burnt to ashes in her bed.

I turn round quickly, but the man who was speaking has gone on.

I run home and sit down in a corner, still clasping the stick I was poking the ashes with.

Herr Levi comes and laughs at me.

A nice thing you’ve done.

I don’t move.

The whole town knows it was you who set fire to Eichstädt’s house.

Herr Levi lights a cigar and goes away. First Julie said I was to blame, and now Herr Levi.

I crawl under the table, and stay there till evening. What did I do wrong yesterday? I undressed, I washed myself, went to bed and fell asleep; but I didn’t really wash, only promised Mother I would: which was a lie. Is that what caused the fire? Is that the reason for this terrible punishment? Is God so strict? I think of baked potatoes, and of Frau Eichstädt burnt to death.

It is dark in the room, and I lie there listening. On the right of the door there is a thin circular glass tube, which I am forbidden to touch. Marie, the maid, crosses herself before she dusts it.

That’s where your Jewish God lives, she grumbles; and my heart thumps. I daren’t touch it. What if He were to jump out of the tube and cry: I am the Lord God! I have come to punish you for lying....

But I won’t let myself be frightened any longer by the Lord God in the tube, nor by the thought of baked potatoes; with one leap I am at the door, and climbing on to the chest of drawers I tear the Lord God down. I break the glass tube into bits. He does not appear. I throw it on to the floor. Still He does not appear. I spit on it and stamp on it. The Lord God does nothing. Perhaps He is dead. He surely must be. I gather up the broken glass and paper and stick them down the crack of the sofa: tomorrow I will bury the Lord God.

Back in bed again I feel very happy. Everybody shall hear how I have killed the Lord God dead.

I had always thought that boys and girls all went to the same school. But Paul and Ilse go to the Evangelical school, I go to the Jewish school, and Stanislaus to the Catholic school. But they all learn to read and write just like me, and the schoolrooms all look just the same. Our teacher is called Herr Senger. When he comes in to take the class we all cry: Good morning, Herr Senger. He sits down at his desk, and puts his pointer in front of him. If you have not done your homework you must hold out your hand, and Herr Senger canes you with his pointer. That’s to punish you. If you have done your homework well Herr Senger takes you on his knee and rubs his prickly cheek against yours. As a reward, he says.

In the break we compare our sandwiches.

I’ve got meat.

I’ve got cheese.

What have you got in yours?

He hasn’t got anything in his.

Kurt tries to hide his poor sandwich, but we won’t let him. We laugh at him, and Kurt cries, I’ll tell my mother of you, and we call back, Sneak! Then Kurt throws down his bread and begins crying.

When we are going home from school Max says: My people won’t let me play with Kurt; his mother does our washing. Poor people are dirty and have fleas.

I am playing with Stanislaus. I have had a train as a present and now I am the engine-driver and Stanislaus is the signalman. In the middle of the journey I whistle.

Right away, cries Stanislaus, and whistles shrilly with two fingers in his mouth.

Have you got fleas?

Right away!

Are you dirty?

Stanislaus kicks the train over, reducing my lovely present to twisted metal.

Max said all poor people are dirty and have fleas. And now you’ve broken my train. Do you call yourself my friend?

I’m not your friend. I hate you.

In the streets the children cry: Yah to you, dirty Jew! I have never heard his before. Stanislaus is the only one who doesn’t, and I ask him what it means.

In Konitz the Jews killed a Christian baby and made Passion-cakes with its blood.

That’s not true.

Well, is it true that we are dirty and have fleas?

Herr Senger, the teacher, is crossing the marketplace when a boy runs after him and sings:

"Jiddchen, Jiddchen, schillemachei,

Reisst dem Juden sein Rock entzwei,

Der Rock ist zerrissen,

Der Jud hat geschissen."

Herr Senger goes on without turning his head, and the boy calls out: Konitz, yah, yah! Konitz, yah, yah!

Do you really believe that the Jews killed a Christian baby in Konitz? I ask Stanislaus. I’ll never eat Passion-cake again.

Idiot! You can give it to me then.

Why do they shout, ‘yah, yah, dirty Jew’?

Don’t you shout ‘Polak’ after us?

That’s different.

Different, hell! If you want to know, grandmother says it was the Jews killed our Saviour on the cross.

I run into the barn and crawl into the straw, feeling miserable. I know the Saviour. He hangs in Stanislaus’ room; red tears run down his checks, and he carries his heart open in his breast and it is all bleeding. Underneath it says: Suffer little children to come unto me. When I am there and nobody can see me I pray to the Saviour.

Please, dear Saviour, forgive me for letting the Jews kill you dead.

When I am in bed I ask Mother: Why are we Jews?

Go to sleep, you naughty boy, and don’t ask silly questions.

But I can’t go to sleep. I don’t want to be a Jew. I don’t want the other children to run after me shouting, Dirty Jew!

In the carpenter’s yard there is a hut where the True Christians meet. They blow trombones and sing Hallelujah and kneel on the ground and shout, Thy Kingdom is at hand, O Zion! Then they embrace one another, and blow their trombones again. I want to be a True Christian too, so I follow the others into the hut. The preacher pats me on the head and gives me a lump of sugar and says that I am on the right path.

We will all celebrate Christmas together in love and goodwill, he says, and I say, Yes.

And you, my boy, shall have this little Christmas verse to recite.

I am blissfully happy. I am not a Jew any more, and I have a Christmas verse to learn; nobody will ever be able to call Dirty Jew! after me again. I take up a trumpet and blow it when the preacher blows his trombone; and then in a clear, solemn voice I recite my Christmas verse. But next day the preacher says he is very sorry, but the Saviour would rather Franz recited the verse.

All grown-ups are bad, but if you are cunning you can outwit them. Our gang is very cunning. I am the captain; the other brigands carry short wooden swords, but I have a long one. Old Hordig made it for me. You look like a real officer, he said, as he hid the cigars I had stolen for him.

We break into the cupboard where Mother keeps the preserved fruits and sample every jar; when the fruit is too sour we pour vinegar into it. In the evenings we slink round the houses and pull the door-bells and run away and laugh at the owners, who are first bewildered and then angry. We stretch string across the street, and jeer when somebody trips up over it and falls. We steal money and smoke cigarettes which we pretend to enjoy. We have declared war on all grown-ups. We forget our own quarrels and take a terrible Indian oath that we