In the summer when I was sixteen, I was sent to Germany as an exchange student. This entailed spending six weeks in a German family with a boy of my own age. When his summer holiday started, he went back with me to Sweden and stayed for the same period of time.
I was placed with a pastor’s family in Thuringen, in a small town called Haina, halfway between Weimar and Eisenach. The town was in a valley and surrounded by prosperous villages. A muddy slow-moving river wound its way between the houses and the town had an outsize church, a market square with a war memorial and a bus station.
I was placed with a pastor’s family in Thuringen, in a small town called Haina, halfway between Weimar and Eisenach. The town was in a valley and surrounded by prosperous villages. A muddy slow-moving river wound its way between the houses and the town had an outsize church, a market square with a war memorial and a bus station.
The family was large, six sons and three daughters, the pastor and his wife, plus an old relative, who was a deaconess or dienende Schwester [serving sister]. She had a moustache, sweated profusely and ruled the family with a rod of iron. The head of the household was a slight man with a goatee beard, friendly blue eyes, tufts of cotton wool in his ears and a black beret pulled low down over his forehead. He was widely read and musical, played several instruments and sang in a soft tenor.
His wife was fat, worn out and submissive; she spent most of her time in the kitchen and patted me shyly on the cheek. Perhaps she was trying to apologize for the house being so humble.
His wife was fat, worn out and submissive; she spent most of her time in the kitchen and patted me shyly on the cheek. Perhaps she was trying to apologize for the house being so humble.
My friend, Hannes, seemed to have been cut out of a National-Socialist propaganda broadsheet, blond, tall and blue-eyed, with a fresh smile, very small ears and the first growth of beard. We made mutual efforts to understand each other, but it was not easy. My German was the result of cramming nothing but grammar, a common practice at the time, when the consideration that a language might possibly be spoken was not part of the curriculum.
The days were tedious. At seven o’clock in the morning, the children of the house went off to
school and I was left alone with the adults. I read, roamed about and was homesick. I preferred being in the pastor’s study and going with him when he was out visiting in the parish. He drove a ramshackle old car with a high hood, over roads dusty in the still heat and with angry fat geese marching everywhere.
school and I was left alone with the adults. I read, roamed about and was homesick. I preferred being in the pastor’s study and going with him when he was out visiting in the parish. He drove a ramshackle old car with a high hood, over roads dusty in the still heat and with angry fat geese marching everywhere.
I asked the pastor whether I should raise my arm and say Heil Hitler like all the others. He
replied: ‘Lieber Ingmar, das wird als mehr eine Hoflichkeit betrachtet.’ [My dear Ingmar, that will be regarded as more than mere politeness.] I raised my arm and said ‘Heil Hitler’, and it felt odd.
replied: ‘Lieber Ingmar, das wird als mehr eine Hoflichkeit betrachtet.’ [My dear Ingmar, that will be regarded as more than mere politeness.] I raised my arm and said ‘Heil Hitler’, and it felt odd.
After a while, Hannes suggested I should go with him to school and listen in on the lessons.
With a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, I chose the school, which was in a larger town a few kilometres bicycle ride from Haina. I was received with enthusiastic cordiality and allowed to sit next to Hannes. The classroom was spacious, shabby and rather cold and damp, despite the summer heat outside the tall windows. The subject was Religious Knowledge, but Hitler’s Mein Kampf lay on the desks. The teacher read something out of a paper called Der Stiirmer. I remember only one phrase that seemed peculiar to me. Again and again, he repeated in a factual tone of voice, von den Juden vergiftet [poisoned by the Jews]. I asked later what it meant. Hannes laughed. ‘Acb, Ingmar, das alies ist nicbt fur Auslander.’ [Oh, Ingmar, all that’s not for foreigners.]
With a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, I chose the school, which was in a larger town a few kilometres bicycle ride from Haina. I was received with enthusiastic cordiality and allowed to sit next to Hannes. The classroom was spacious, shabby and rather cold and damp, despite the summer heat outside the tall windows. The subject was Religious Knowledge, but Hitler’s Mein Kampf lay on the desks. The teacher read something out of a paper called Der Stiirmer. I remember only one phrase that seemed peculiar to me. Again and again, he repeated in a factual tone of voice, von den Juden vergiftet [poisoned by the Jews]. I asked later what it meant. Hannes laughed. ‘Acb, Ingmar, das alies ist nicbt fur Auslander.’ [Oh, Ingmar, all that’s not for foreigners.]
On Sundays, the family went to morning service, and the pastor’s sermon was surprising for his text was not from the gospels but from Mein Kampf. After church, coffee was served in the church hall. There were a number of people in uniform, so I had several opportunities to raise my arm and say ‘Hell Hitler’.
All the young people in the house were in organizations, the boys in the Hitler-Jugend, the girls in Bund Deutscher Mddel. There was drilling with spades instead of rifles in the afternoons, or sports at the sports stadium, lectures with film shows in the evenings, or we sang and danced. We could bathe in the river, but with some difficulty, for the river bed was muddy and the water smelly. The girls’ sanitary towels, crocheted out of thick white cotton, hung out to dry in the primitive washroom, which had no hot water or other conveniences.
There was to be a party rally in Weimar, a gigantic procession with Hitler to the fore. Everyone bustled around the house; shirts were washed and ironed, boots and straps polished, and the young people set off at dawn. I would go later in the car with the pastor and his wife. The family made quite a fuss about being given tickets near the platform of honour and someone suggested as a joke that my presence might be the reason for their good seats.
That morning, the telephone rang. It was from home, and far away I could hear Aunt Anna’s
sonorous voice. This expensive call was possible because of her immense wealth. She did not even bother to hurry, but only gradually came to the point. She told me a friend of hers, married to a banker and living in Weimar, had heard from Mother that I was staying nearby, so she had at once telephoned her friend and suggested I should visit the family. Aunt Anna then spoke to the pastor in fluent German, and returned to the conversation with me, pleased that I would be meeting her friend and her lovely children.
sonorous voice. This expensive call was possible because of her immense wealth. She did not even bother to hurry, but only gradually came to the point. She told me a friend of hers, married to a banker and living in Weimar, had heard from Mother that I was staying nearby, so she had at once telephoned her friend and suggested I should visit the family. Aunt Anna then spoke to the pastor in fluent German, and returned to the conversation with me, pleased that I would be meeting her friend and her lovely children.
We arrived in Weimar at about midday. The parade and Hitler’s speech were to begin at three o’clock. The town was already seething with excitement, people in their best clothes or uniforms strolling along the streets. Bands were playing everywhere and the houses were hung with garlands of flowers and banners. The church bells, both gloomy Protestant and cheerful Catholic, were ringing, and a big fair had been set up in one of the old squares. They were advertising Wagner’s Rienzi at the Opera House as a gala performance with fireworks afterwards.
The pastor’s family and I were placed close to the saluting platform. While we were waiting in the sticky heat, we drank beer and ate sandwiches out of the greasy packets the pastor’s wife had clutched to her swelling bosom all through the journey.
On the stroke of three, we heard something resembling an approaching hurricane, the sombre frightening sound spreading along the streets and resounding off the walls of buildings. Far away in the extension of the square, a procession of open black cars was crawling along. The roaring sound grew louder and drowned the claps of thunder, the rain falling like a transparent curtain and the crashes detonating above the arena.
No one took the slightest notice of the storm, all attention, all enthusiasm, all this glory
centred on one single figure. He stood quite still in the huge black car slowly swinging into the square. He turned and looked at the cheering weeping obsessed crowds, the rain running down his face and dark patches of moisture appearing on his uniform. Then he stepped slowly down on to the red carpet and walked alone towards the platform, his entourage keeping at a distance. Suddenly silence fell, the rain splashing against the stone-laid streets and balustrades the only sound. The Fuhrer spoke. It was a short speech. I did not understand much, but the voice was sometimes lofty, sometimes bantering, the gestures synchronized and well matched. When the speech was over, everyone shouted his He//, the rain stopped and the hot bright light broke through the blue-black formations of clouds. A huge band played and the parade poured out through the side streets in and across the square round the platform and then on past the theatre and the cathedral.
I had never seen anything like this eruption of immense energy. I shouted like everyone else,
held out my arm like everyone else, howled like everyone else and loved it like everyone else.
centred on one single figure. He stood quite still in the huge black car slowly swinging into the square. He turned and looked at the cheering weeping obsessed crowds, the rain running down his face and dark patches of moisture appearing on his uniform. Then he stepped slowly down on to the red carpet and walked alone towards the platform, his entourage keeping at a distance. Suddenly silence fell, the rain splashing against the stone-laid streets and balustrades the only sound. The Fuhrer spoke. It was a short speech. I did not understand much, but the voice was sometimes lofty, sometimes bantering, the gestures synchronized and well matched. When the speech was over, everyone shouted his He//, the rain stopped and the hot bright light broke through the blue-black formations of clouds. A huge band played and the parade poured out through the side streets in and across the square round the platform and then on past the theatre and the cathedral.
I had never seen anything like this eruption of immense energy. I shouted like everyone else,
held out my arm like everyone else, howled like everyone else and loved it like everyone else.
During our nightly conversations, Hannes had explained the Abyssinian war to me, how
important it was that Mussolini was at last paying attention to the natives who toiled in the
darkness, and how he was generously giving them the benefit of ancient Italian culture. He had also said that far away up there in Scandinavia we did not understand how, after the collapse, the Jews had exploited the German people. He explained how the Germans had created a bulwark against communism, and how the Jews had consistently sabotaged this bulwark, and how we must all love the man who had shaped our common destiny and decisively welded us together into one will, one strength, one people. I was given a present by the family on my birthday, a photograph of Hitler. Hannes hung it up above my bed so that I would always have the man before my eyes’, so that I should learn to love him in the same way as Hannes and the Haid family loved him.
important it was that Mussolini was at last paying attention to the natives who toiled in the
darkness, and how he was generously giving them the benefit of ancient Italian culture. He had also said that far away up there in Scandinavia we did not understand how, after the collapse, the Jews had exploited the German people. He explained how the Germans had created a bulwark against communism, and how the Jews had consistently sabotaged this bulwark, and how we must all love the man who had shaped our common destiny and decisively welded us together into one will, one strength, one people. I was given a present by the family on my birthday, a photograph of Hitler. Hannes hung it up above my bed so that I would always have the man before my eyes’, so that I should learn to love him in the same way as Hannes and the Haid family loved him.
I loved him too. For many years, I was on Hitler’s side, delighted by his successes and saddened by his defeats. My brother was one of the founders and organizers of the Swedish National-Socialist party, and my father voted several times for them. Our history teacher worshipped ‘the old Germany’, our gymnastics teacher went to officers’ meetings in Bavaria every summer; some of the pastors in the parish were crypto-Nazis and the family’s closest friends expressed strong sympathies for the ‘new Germany’.
Taken from :
INGMAR BERGMAN : The Magic Lantern - An Autobiography
