By Michael Lewis
Thursday, September 19, 2019
Nazi Germany produced two wartime diaries of equal
literary and historical significance but written from the most different
perspectives conceivable. Victor Klemperer wrote furtively, in daily dread of
transport to an extermination camp, a fate he was spared by the firebombing of
Dresden. Ernst Jünger, by contrast, had what was once called a “good war.” As a
bestselling German author, he drew cushy occupation duty in Paris, where he
could hobnob with famous artists and writers, prowl antiquarian bookstores, and
forage for the rare beetles he collected. Yet Klemperer and Jünger both found
themselves anxiously sifting propaganda and hearsay to learn the truth about
distant events on which their lives hung.
One might ask why it has taken 70 years for Jünger’s diary
to appear in English translation, for there is no more detailed account of the
occupation from the German point of view. But Jünger was always controversial,
up to his death in 1998 at the age of 102. In Germany, polite opinion has never
forgiven him for Storm of Steel, his memoir of World War I that saw in
the experience of combat an ultimate test of manhood. “The finest, most
visceral account of battle since the Iliad,” according to the New
Statesman, his book made him a hero among German nationalists and ensured
his privileged status in Nazi Germany. As it happens, Jünger was anything but a
Nazi.
Born in 1895, the son of a chemist, Jünger got off to an
unpromising start. A chronic discipline problem, he was repeatedly forced to
change schools until at last in 1913 he lied about his age, joined the French
Foreign Legion, and found himself in the Algerian desert. By the time that the
German foreign office could extricate him, World War I was looming. He enlisted
immediately, and, for the first time in his life, he flourished.
World War I, for Jünger, was not the grinding mechanized
mass-slaughter we know from the war poets. Serving for the duration, he watched
the replacement of sanguinary frontal assaults by storm-troop tactics, where
small detachments of well-armed soldiers trained in hand-to-hand combat would
overrun selected points and break through the enemy’s rear. Such a form of
warfare rewarded personal initiative and bold leadership, which Jünger took as
the principal lesson of the war. By the time he won the Pour le Mérite,
Germany’s highest military honor, he had already been wounded 14 times in
combat.
After the war, Jünger studied zoology, where he
cultivated the acute observational skills that distinguish his writing. He came
to despise the Weimar Republic and flirted with nationalist groups,
including—briefly—the Nazi Party. In 1926, he sent one of his books to Hitler,
who proposed a meeting. By the time it fell through, Jünger was already having
misgivings. He decided that Nazi racial ideology was embarrassing (“peinlich”),
and he thereafter held aloof, making certain that he and Hitler never met
personally.
Jünger was far too capricious and eclectic a thinker to
fit into any straitjacket. Had the Nazis read Storm of Steel carefully,
they would have noticed that it was strikingly free of nationalist or political
content. Jünger’s belief system was an idiosyncratic mysticism that drew
equally from science and religion; by temperament he was essentially a German
romantic, for whom intense personal experience led to an understanding of the
fundamental unity of nature. As a result, his circle of friends was as wide as
could be, including the dadaist artist Kurt Schwitters and even Communists or
Communist sympathizers such as Ernst Niekisch.
All this brought him into open conflict with Joseph
Goebbels, who recognized an enemy in Jünger and attacked him in print. For his
part, Jünger never joined the Nazi Party, and he refused to let his writings
appear in Nazi publications. Twice his rooms were searched by the Gestapo,
looking for incriminating documents about his Communist acquaintances. Under
the circumstances, it defies belief that Jünger ever dared keep a diary, let
alone one of such uninhibited candor as the one he kept from April 1941 to August
1944 during his tour of duty in occupied Paris.
Shortly after his arrival, a German officer was
assassinated in Nantes and Hitler decreed that a hundred randomly selected
hostages be shot in reprisal. Before their execution, they wrote final letters,
which Jünger was given to translate. Affected by their dignity and composure,
he was struck by how often the same words recurred, particularly courage and
love. The conduct of those facing death always interested him, and as the war
progressed, he began collecting accounts of shipwreck and starvation.
The most disagreeable act Jünger was called upon to
perform was supervising the execution of a recaptured deserter. Jünger pitied
him (he had been denounced by the French girlfriend who had been concealing him)
and even considered backing out of the ordeal by feigning illness. But he
decided it would be “shabby” to foist the duty on someone else and that he
could see it through with less brutality than anyone else. The account of that
execution, carried out in the pleasant Bois de Boulogne, has drawn more
criticism in Germany than any other incident in the diary. Jünger was condemned
for reshaping his published account from the version in the original
manuscript, which he indeed did, although not to minimize his culpability but
to sharpen its literary quality.
But this was the point of the criticism, that by taking
refuge in a self-indulgent aestheticism, Jünger fled the moral choices imposed
by the war. To be sure, to dip into the diary at random is to get the
impression of a dandy and flâneur. A literary celebrity, Jünger enjoyed entrée
to the highest circles. He could visit Picasso and Braque in their studios and
debate their art in fluent French, or ponder the meaning of dreams with Jean
Cocteau (“someone who dwells in a special, but comfortable, hell”), who sent
him passes to screenings of surrealist films. With seemingly endless leisure
time, he took long walks and indulged his habit of exploring cemeteries,
writing lyrical but precise accounts of the tombstones, their inscriptions, and
the plant and insect life teeming around them. He even found time to
contemplate the city’s curious dog cemetery.
At times Jünger does not even seem to know he was
fighting a war. After the D-Day landings, he went to bed reading a 14th-century
chronicle of the life of Saint Louis. Not even an air raid could ruffle his
coolness; his entry of September 15, 1943, is typical. He began the day
interpreting one of his tormented zoological dreams, later inspecting the
Gothic church of Saint-Séverin with his Parisian mistress, and then later, at
the sound of the air sirens, went to his hotel rooftop to observe the
bombardment and see planes torn apart by flak and watch as “something of
considerable size, sepia-brown, gathered speed as it fell—most likely a man
attached to a smoldering parachute.” Yet after all that, as he did every night,
he could still take a book to bed:
Read further in Huxley, whose lack
of structure is tiresome. His is a case of an anarchist with conservative memories
who opposes nihilism. In this situation, he ought to employ more imagery and
fewer concepts. As it is, he seldom exploits the real strength of his talent.
Jünger could have been writing about himself here. It is
this ice-cold detachment—the plummeting pilot and then the literary
criticism—that makes him repellent to the casual reader.
But to read the diary in chronological order is to
realize that Jünger’s submersion in art and literature was his way of
preserving his humanity while serving the machinery of a lethally violent
state. One way of doing this was through a voracious program of reading,
chiefly literature and history, often reading two or three books at once. One
is not surprised at the German and French reading but at the abundance of
English writers, whom he read in the original—Melville, Joyce, Poe, Conrad,
Kipling, Thomas Wolfe, Thornton Wilder, the Brontës, ad infinitum. The range is
also remarkable. Jünger pivots from the 1772 fantasy Diable amoureux to
a biography of the painter Turner to Crime and Punishment. And
throughout the entire diary, one finds him reading the Bible, cover to cover,
which he began shortly after his posting to Paris.
One is surprised to see how little Jünger has to say
about the actual course of the war. Major events, such as the attack on Pearl
Harbor or Hitler’s declaration of war on America, pass by unmentioned or with a
stray comment. Here we see the fatalism of the jaded World War I veteran, who
has long stopped believing that “decisive” battles decide anything. But
Jünger’s real interest, to which he pays acute attention, is the process of
moral corruption that he sees as the inescapable legacy of the lemurs,
his code word for the Gestapo and other servants of Nazi tyranny. Nowhere is
this seen more clearly than in his obsessive recording of all that he can learn
about German war crimes.
For American readers curious about the extent of German
knowledge and complicity in genocide, this is the central question. Even as
well-connected a celebrity as Jünger had to rely on the occasional visitor from
the Russian front to learn firsthand of Nazi atrocities. It is not until
November 4, 1941, five months after the invasion of Russia, that he first
records a “hideous mechanism for executing prisoners,” which required them to
strip and be measured by a weighing machine that was actually a lethal air gun.
By March 1942, he was fully informed about the activities of the Einsatzgruppen,
the units charged with the organized killing of political enemies, primarily
Jews, behind the front lines: “certain butchers…who have singlehandedly slain
enough people to populate a midsize city.”
If I correctly understand his cryptic entry, Jünger
learned of the results of the Wannsee Conference from General Jodl, chief of
the operations staff, on February 8, 1942, just 19 days later. And so when
Jünger described his first sight of yellow stars in Paris on June 7, 1942, he
knew full what it portended.
On Rue Royale, I encountered the
yellow star for the first time in my life. Three young girls who were walking
past arm in arm were wearing it. This badge was distributed yesterday, and
those who received it had to part with a point from their clothing ration in
return. I then saw the star more frequently that afternoon. I consider things
like this, even in my own personal history, a significant date—I was
immediately embarrassed to be in uniform.
For all the criticism that Jünger has served up a self-serving
exculpatory diary, the truth is that he leaves his most selfless acts
unmentioned. It is known that he gave advance warning to Jews facing
deportation: The writer Joseph Breitbach was one, as he subsequently confirmed,
and Walter Benjamin was possibly another.
None of this, for obvious reason, could be committed to
paper, nor could the names of Adolf Hitler or any of his henchmen. Instead,
their appearances are marked by Jünger’s felicitous code names. Joseph
Goebbels, the Nazi chief propagandist, is “Grandgoschier,” a character from
Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel meaning “Big Throat.” SS Chief
Heinrich Himmler is “Schinderhannes,” the name of a notorious German highwayman
but also a pun on horse knacker. And Hermann Goering is simply “Head Forester,”
citing the most fatuous of his many official titles.
Jünger thought a great deal about the mystic and symbolic
power of sounds, and he reserved his most apposite pseudonym for Hitler,
“Kniébolo,” a name that is at once menacing and absurd. It suggests a kneeling
demon (Diabolos), a leitmotif of the diary as Jünger became ever more
convinced of Hitler’s essentially Satanic character—in the literal biblical
sense. Reducing Hitler the man to Kniébolo was congenial to Jünger’s way of
dealing with the world, which was through metaphysical symbols and archetypes.
One begins reading the diary with mild annoyance at Jünger’s fastidious
recording of his dreams but soon realizes that they are part and parcel of the
same actively questing mind, in which conversation and reading, art and dreams,
all strain to make sense of the senseless. The result is a miracle of the
diarist’s art, a diary as eventful and consequential as those of Samuel Pepys
or James Boswell, but with an inner life.
Given the exceptional importance of Jünger’s diary, it
deserved an impeccable translation and editorial notes. Distressingly, it has
not received them. While the foreword delivers an excellent account of Jünger’s
life and the importance of the diary, it does not say nearly enough about its
publication history and revisions over the years. Unaccountably, and
senselessly, it omits his preface to the original publication, Strahlungen
(Rays or Emanations). There he gives his fullest account of how he edited the
diaries for publication, refusing to censor or retouch, even for purposes of
clarity, while skipping some personal details for reasons of taste (unlike
James Joyce, whose Ulysses “registered every possible circumstance for
using the toilet”).
The missing foreword also sheds light on the great
question hanging over the diary, which is why Jünger, who was intimately
associated with many of the July 20 conspirators against Hitler, did not join
the coup. Above all, it would have been valuable to hear Jünger’s justification
of keeping a wartime diary in the first place: “In a totalitarian state it
remains the last possible conversation.”
A German Officer in Occupied Paris has won
universal praise, but no reviewer has called attention to its errors of
translation. For example, Hitler is described as insisting on taking personal
command of “two tank battalions” after the D-Day landings, when the German text
reads “two panzer corps,” the difference between 2,000 men and 100,000.
Literary translators are not expected to be military historians, but, given the
topic, they might have consulted one.
Other errors show embarrassing carelessness. For example,
the final entry of the book describes the dramatic entry of American troops in
Jünger’s town on April 11, 1945. Just before their arrival, the soldiers
commanding the local artillery unit destroyed their guns and dispersed, while
their commander, “who wanted to escape in civilian clothes, committed suicide”;
in fact, according to the original German text, he was killed by his own men.
Even worse is the rendering of the entry for August 10,
1944, when Jünger was preparing to abandon Paris on the eve of its recapture by
the Allies. On that day, we are told, he bought a small notebook like those he
used “when I was a journalist in more stirring times.” The reader will wonder
what times were more stirring than the summer of 1944. In fact, the German text
explains quite clearly that he bought a notebook “of the sort which in more
dangerous situations I substitute for the big diary.”
We naturally assume that a translation published by a
university press will achieve a minimal accuracy in translation, and we do not
expect our reviewers to search for errors. I would not have spotted these
errors (and others) had I not by chance read the German original shortly before
the translation appeared.
For the moment, though, it is all we have in English.
Even in its imperfect and incomplete form, it should be read by anyone with a
serious interest in the horrific events of the past century. There is still
ample material here to debate the moral choices made—and evaded—by Jünger, and
to ponder Cocteau’s final verdict, who liked Jünger but whose aloofness
troubled him: “Some people had dirty hands, some had clean hands, but Jünger
had no hands.”
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