Jews queers germans, p.23
Jews Queers Germans, page 23
The nobleman feels it necessary to explain to Kessler that his estate remains unrepaired “due to circumstances beyond my control”—which includes, he volunteers, the need to pay “to the Jews” a 12 percent interest rate on certain debts. Kessler is sympathetic. He’s already noted what he takes to be the striking contrasts between the Catholics of Poland and its Jews; he sees the latter as “an alien minority” who “haggle, sneak around, offering everyone their services, filling the streets.” In Kessler’s view, the Jews, if allowed to, “will prevent any normal healthy development of a completely independent Polish state” following the war.
Having put on the uniform of a Prussian officer, Kessler—unpredictably, and to a far greater extent than during any other period of his life—has cloaked himself as well in the traditional snobbery and anti-Semitism of its officer corps. He shows no sense of contradiction with his longstanding and ongoing friendships with such notable Jewish figures as Rathenau, Hofmannsthal, and Max Reinhardt.
Early in the war, in the battle at Tannenberg in late August 1914, General Paul von Hindenburg and his chief of staff Erich von Ludendorff succeed in halting what has been an alarmingly rapid Russian advance. Both men become instant heroes in Germany, and Hindenburg is appointed commander-in-chief of the German forces in the East. Kessler makes the acquaintance of both men, and feels certain that the average German soldier admires their leadership. The string of victories that follows on the eastern front in 1914–15—the conquest of Poland, the ensnarement and slaughter of the Russian army—confirms for many Germans their initial trust and admiration for their military leaders. Kessler, like them, seems intoxicated; he extols the German officer corps as embodying “a kind of priesthood”; they are “delegates from a secret order serving the god of war,” the incarnation of strength of will and organizational talent, cool, hard, unsentimental men.
Kessler’s veneration of Germany’s military leadership eclipses, in the early days of the war, his once finely tuned critical faculties, leading him placidly to accept the mounting piles of grotesquely maimed bodies. What does deeply impress him is “the naked matter-of-factness of the war, its lack of fake pathos and romanticism.” His untroubled nonchalance is shaken at news that in the first two weeks following Austria’s invasion of Serbia, 3,500 civilians have been forced to dig their own graves before being bayoneted to death—their gory executions photographed and widely published as a warning to “spies.” The stupefying escalation in killing will shortly engulf all of Europe, and as it does, Kessler’s detached attitude toward atrocities will disintegrate in tandem.
During the winter of 1914–15, Kessler becomes ordnance officer for Germany’s 24th Corps, which participates in a massive attack on Russian positions in the Carpathian Mountains. The campaign is a disaster. German shells fail to explode in the bad weather, rendering its artillery useless. Its infantry soldiers, at times literally sunk up to their chests in snow, barely crawl forward, their silhouetted bodies easy targets for Russian sharpshooters. One army corps alone loses 40,000 men in a single week, and before the three-month campaign wholly collapses, an unimaginable 800,000 men have deserted, frozen to death, been wounded or killed. Throughout, Kessler himself—not through cowardice—is in a relatively protected area, and, to make matters easier still, he and a young staff aide embark on an intense love affair.
Yet he isn’t any longer immune or indifferent to the hardships that everywhere surround him; his early, starry-eyed view of war’s glory continues to disintegrate as he’s increasingly confronted with war’s reality. The German troops under his command become nearly numb with fatigue, and the fierce cold brings on any number of serious illnesses.
Sent on leave to Berlin to try and stir up newspaper coverage of German “victories,” Kessler is astonished to find that the war has as yet had little impact on the home front; dining at the Richters’ is different from a pre-war soirée only in the absence of decent bread; a performance at the Deutsches Theater is, as usual, sold out; and at a late supper with Max Reinhardt and others, Kessler eats—just as he did before the war—caviar, corn on the cob, and wild boar with truffles.
Angered at the normality of home front life and still a considerable enthusiast for the war, Kessler takes strenuous exception one day at the Adlon on hearing that Rainer Maria Rilke and Franz Werfel, among others, have become self-declared pacifists outraged at the conflict. Such a position, Kessler insists, is “incomprehensible; it weakens us for no reason.” At lunch the very next day with Richard Strauss, Kessler vehemently takes issue with the composer’s view that war is an anachronism, that whether or not a strip of land ends up in the hands of Germany or France is a matter of “complete indifference.”
When Kessler visits Max Harden, he finds him tired and depressed. He tells Kessler that he’s inclined to conclude peace immediately on the basis of status quo ante—that is, according to national boundaries as they’d stood in July. Harden argues that Germany has already shown its power, and will in the future be secure from attack. Kessler tells Harden that he thinks his argument “catastrophic,” which prompts Harden to say that his real position is that Germany should abandon Austria and seek peace unilaterally; the Austrian Habsburgs, he argues, are doomed in any case, so why prolong the inevitable? Kessler scornfully responds that such a suggestion is not worth discussing.
His friendship with Rathenau having weathered assorted storms, Kessler calls on him at his house in Grunewald. He finds Rathenau sunk in gloom and attributes it in part to the Grunewald home itself, which he’s always detested, once describing its décor—with more than a hint at his view of Rathenau’s sexual proclivities—as a mix of “petty sentimentality and stunted eroticism . . . as if a banker and a masturbating boy thought it up together.”
But as Kessler well understands, Rathenau’s depressed isolation is due to much more than the surrounding décor. When ushered into Rathenau’s study, his host rather glumly offers him a seat but—as Kessler duly notes—neither food nor drink. Having resigned his post with the War Office, Rathenau hasn’t moved on to another position. His sharp divergence from official opinion is partly responsible: Germans—as he now puts it to Kessler—have been “driven like a flock of sheep, understanding nothing, into the Unknown.”
In the past Kessler would probably have deferred to Rathenau—whom he feels values him primarily as a kind of aesthete-at-large, not as someone centrally informed about the important questions of the day. Now, in uniform and straight from the front, Kessler’s demeanor is more confident. “Driven?” he asks, a peremptory edge to his voice. “Driven by whom? I have the highest regard for both Hindenburg and Ludendorff.”
Rathenau welcomes the new amplitude. “Come now! Everyone knows that it’s Hindenburg who sits on the horse but Ludendorff who digs in the spurs.”
“True. And a good thing, too. Ludendorff is a superb tactician.”
“I met him at the beginning of the war. At first I thought he was a man who could lead us, if not to victory, then at least to an honorable peace, and I did everything in my power to smooth his path. It soon became clear to me that he’s an advocate of German imperialism, specifically of gaining territory in Eastern Europe, which I strongly oppose. But he is an improvement over the Kaiser, I’ll give you that. The Supreme War Lord seems to have only the vaguest notion of the realities of war—other than shouting abuse at the failure of our troops to have already overrun all of Europe. Fortunately, his commanders are rapidly learning to circumvent him entirely or to feed him misinformation.”
“I’ve heard some talk,” Kessler reluctantly admits, “of calling for his abdication. It will dissipate after a few more victories in the field. But even so, I think the Kaiser’s autocratic rule has been irreparably damaged. In my view, a far more powerful Reichstag will emerge.”
“Tell me, Kessler”—Rathenau’s voice is heavy with irony—“as a man who’s seen combat, do you still feel that Germany made the right decision in going to war?”
“Most assuredly. In saying that, I don’t primarily mean the opportunity to expand our borders. No, I mean the expansion of the German spirit.”
“Which is?” A lethargic Rathenau is still capable of being roused to debate.
“I would make a distinction between German Kultur, which is deep and mystical, and Western civilization, which is superficial, immature.”
“And where does Austria-Hungary fit? Not that I mean to be contentious, but when the Kaiser gave Austria a blank check to invade Serbia, he based it on what he called our shared ‘Nibelungen’ heritage. The content of that heritage has, regrettably, never been revealed. Perhaps the Kaiser means our shared glorification of war.”
“I think not,” Kessler replies sternly.
“Or perhaps he means our shared distaste for Jews.”
The remark is so unexpected that Kessler is taken aback.
“Surely, my dear Kessler, you aren’t surprised at that suggestion? Only recently the remark of a certain army officer was passed on to me. When informed that I had done the state considerable service in the War Raw Materials Department, he replied, ‘If this man Rathenau has helped us, then it is a scandal and a disgrace.’”
“I would assume the officer belongs to one of the conservative, nationalistic parties. Among such men anti-Semitism is profound.”
“You don’t find it so in the army?”
“Some of our leading officers are wayward on several counts,” Kessler evasively replies. “They lack all stature. Not worthy of the men they lead.”
“Your remark earlier about German Kultur . . .”
“Yes?”
“Some might regard the remark as racist.”
“That would be a misconception.”
“Would it?” Rathenau is feeling decidedly more energized. “Your assumption is that our Kultur is superior to that of France, England, and Russia. That was hardly your position when you took up the cause of French Impressionism and ‘seceded’ from Germany’s philistine defense of academic art.”
“One’s attitudes change through time. Or should, to avoid stagnation.”
Kessler’s Olympian tone annoys Rathenau, though he’s often adopted it himself. “How can the truth—or falsity—of your assumption that Germany’s culture is more ‘mature’ than the rest of Europe possibly be measured? One need only start naming some of the giants of non-German culture to expose it for the nonsense it is—Tolstoy, perhaps? Dickens? Proust? Émile Zola? Do our German leaders think to justify war and its horrors as a means of spreading our purportedly superior culture to England—to Shakespeare’s England, mind you? The proposition is imbecilic.”
“You have never heard me endorse violence for such a purpose.”
“I have heard you come close. I’ve heard you argue that the future existence of Germany depends on acquiring the Belgian coast. Peace, you’ve said, must not come without the guarantee of such an acquisition. I’ve had several reports of you arguing vehemently that the future security of Germany must be guaranteed—the Belgians and the Poles must first ‘feel our fist’—isn’t that the phrase you’ve used?—and then, and only then, should we allow them self-government.”
“You do me a grave injustice, Rathenau.” Kessler is seriously agitated—and embarrassed. “As you well know, or should know, I’ve devoted the greater part of my life to extolling the brilliance of French and English culture.”
“I also know that you’ve repeatedly expressed the view that it’s doubtful that Poland—even after ‘feeling our fist’—will be able to maintain its independence as a state. And why not? Because, you’ve been quoted as saying, it has too large a Jewish population!”
“What I said, Rathenau, is that Catholic and Jewish Poles are two entirely separate elements, like a black and a white thread, which can never be seamlessly spun together.”
“Which is perhaps true—but why not blame the Catholics rather than the Jews?”
“I don’t blame either. We’re old friends, Rathenau. I don’t like this kind of quarreling between us.”
“It might be healthy.”
“If so, I’d point out—as I have before—your own ambivalence about the Jewish people.”
It was Rathenau’s turn to feel stung: “I have never been ambivalent about discrimination against Jews.”
“And you yourself have suffered from it. Profoundly and unfairly. Yet you do sometimes sound like an anti-Semite.”
Rathenau stiffens. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“I doubt that. You take great care with your writing, and what you have written several times over is that there’s a profound difference between non-Aryans—whom you call ‘men of fear’—and Aryans—‘men of courage.’ You’ve also called the Aryan race ‘a blond and marvelous people’—praise you withhold from darker-skinned people.”
Rathenau turns away and starts to pace the room.
“You’re misreading me.” He sounds surprisingly neutral, not belligerent.
“I believe you misread your own divided feelings. You despise the arrogant, stupid Nordic warrior—as well you should—yet some part of you deeply envies and feels inferior to him. It’s an inner division that tears at your soul, and keeps you in a state of self-imposed exile.”
Kessler stops abruptly. He’s said far more than he intended and more, he fears, that Rathenau can tolerate hearing. Yet Rathenau seems strangely becalmed, deflated and weary. He mumbles something about needing to complete a report for AEG and politely escorts Kessler to the door, holding it open until he reaches his car. Both men are relieved the evening is over—and both are deeply disquieted by it.
Kessler returns to the front lines in Poland and from there sees additional service in the struggle for Galicia, where the Russians inflicts huge losses on the Austrian army. Though never part of the now-repetitive slaughter taking place in the stalemated trench warfare in the western theater of war, Kessler sees his share of horrors—blackened corpses with their heads torn off, women and children scavenging the battlefield in search of bits of food, village after village reduced to rubble, a lone chimney left poking at the sky. He asks himself if even the devastation that accompanied the Thirty Years’ War was comparable, and doubts it. “The longer war lasts,” he writes in his diary, “the more the warlike spirit dies out.”
He knows that compared with the foot soldiers and even most of the second-tier officers, he lives reasonably well; friends and family send him packages with cans of fruits and preserves through neutral Switzerland—even English turtle soup in violet tin buckets. By 1916, Kessler finally arrives at the conclusion—which had been Rathenau’s starting point—that “war is a vile thing.”
Soon after writing that line in his diary, he’s able to leave the combat zone entirely. Assigned to Bern, Switzerland, Kessler is given the announced assignment of organizing pro-German cultural propaganda, and the unannounced one of secretly exploring the possibility of detaching France from the Allies and concluding a separate peace. Matching up artists with patrons has long been second nature to Kessler; but he now meets some of the younger generation of artists—George Grosz, for one—who will lay siege to his political boundaries. Establishing covert contact with anarchists and Bolsheviks will stretch them beyond recognition.
At the onset of war Magnus Hirschfeld’s ardor closely parallels Harry Kessler’s. Both men initially claim in 1914 that Germany is encircled by hostile neighbors intent on her destruction; that the English have rejected the Kaiser’s attempts to avoid war; and that the Austrian invasion of Serbia has been appropriate and necessary. Hirschfeld’s enthusiasm dissipates more quickly than Kessler’s; and he concerns himself with one policy matter which Kessler keeps at arm’s length: defending the right of homosexuals to serve openly in Germany’s armed forces.
When Herr von Einem, the German Minister of War, announces the dismissal of known homosexual officers from the army, Hirschfeld protests the policy, insisting that they’re no less willing than heterosexuals to die for their country—patriotism, he insists, trumps sexual orientation. To refute the “insult” that it does not, Hirschfeld points to the many homosexuals who, having fled Germany before the war to avoid discovery and persecution, have now returned to serve in the armed forces. Von Einem is unmoved, and the policy goes unchanged.
Hirschfeld shifts his tactics. He once more becomes an expert court witness. Ten years earlier, during the Eulenburg/von Moltke trials, he testified to the “psychic” attributes that would allow one to identify a hidden (or non-practicing) homosexual. Now he defends the high moral character of acknowledged homosexuals who’ve been dismissed from service. Where once he—misguidedly but not maliciously—helped to expose secret homosexuals, he now heaps praise on open ones for having all the requisite military skills: the ability to follow orders, endure hardship, devote oneself to the common good, and not to shrink from killing.
It’s all a bit confusing. In his younger years, Hirschfeld, among others, simplistically argued that homosexual men are set apart by their “finer” natures, their refusal to obey the norms or follow the rules, their cultivated taste, their attraction to the arts, their abhorrence of violence. Now he’s attempting to define them as no different from any other group of men—just as drawn to violence, morally obtuse, and emotionally anaesthetized. Ah well. In his case, as in every other effort to define the homosexual (or heterosexual), no rigidly-defined category can ever encompass the diverse group of human beings it purports to fit. Categories reflect the political purpose for which they’re invented far more exactly than the individuals they claim to describe. By the second year of the war, Hirschfeld’s enthusiasm for it greatly diminishes. By then he’s actually experienced some of the reality of combat as a physician with the Red Cross, and he recognizes that war devalues all prior notions of human worth and dignity. Horrified at the spreading savagery, he now sees warfare as a collective psychosis rather than the cleansing catharsis he (like Kessler) once believed in.
