In the House of My Parents
Today it seems to me providential
that Fate should have chosen Braunau on the Inn as my birthplace. For this
little town lies on the boundary between two German states which we of the
younger generation at least have made it our life work to reunite by every
means at our disposal.
German-Austria must return to the
great German mother country, and not because of any economic considerations.
No, and again no: even if such a union were unimportant from an economic point
of view; yes, even if it were harmful, it must nevertheless take place. One
blood demands one Reich. Never will the German nation possess the moral right
to engage in colonial politics until, at least, it embraces its own sons within
a single state. Only when the Reich borders include the very last German, but
can no longer guarantee his daily bread, will the moral right to acquire
foreign soil arise from the distress of our own people. Their sword will become
our plow, and from the tears of war the daily bread of future generations will
grow. And so this little city on the border seems to me the symbol of a great
mission. And in another respect as well, it looms as an admonition to the
present day.
More than a hundred years ago, this
insignificant place had the distinction of being immortalized in the annals at
least of German history, for it was the scene of a tragic catastrophe which
gripped the entire German nation. At the time of our fatherland's deepest
humiliation, Johannes Palm of Nuremberg, burgher, bookseller, uncompromising
nationalist and French hater, died there for the Germany which he loved so
passionately even in her misfortune. He had stubbornly refused to denounce his
accomplices, who were in fact his superiors. In this he resembled Leo
Schlageter. (A free corps leader who performed
acts of sabotage against the French occupation authorities in the Ruhr. In the
summer of 1923 he was captured by the French authorities, court-martialed and
shot. With brief interruptions the Social Democrat Carl Severing was Prussian
Minister of the Interior from 1920 until 1932, when Chancellor Von Papen
dissolved the Prussian government. As Minister of the Interior he was in charge
of the Prussian police. This, coupled with the fact that he successfully combated
the influence of the Rightist secret leagues in the Reichswehr, earned him the
special hatred of the Nazis.)
And like him he was denounced to the French by a representative
of his government. An Augsburg police chief won this unenviable fame, thus
furnishing an example for our modern German officials in Herr Severing's Reich.
In this little town on the Inn, gilded by the rays of German martyrdom,
Bavarian by blood, technically Austrian, lived my parents in the late eighties
of the past century; my father a dutiful civil servant, my mother giving all
her being to the household, and devoted above all to us children in eternal,
loving care. Little remains in my memory of this period, for after a few years
my father had to leave the little border city he had learned to love, moving
down the Inn to take a new position in Passau, that is, in Germany proper.
In those days constant moving was
the lot of an Austrian customs official. A short time later, my father was sent
to Linz, and there he was finally pensioned. Yet, indeed, this was not to mean
'rest' for the old gentleman. In his younger days, as the son of a poor
cottager, he couldn't bear to stay at home. Before he was even thirteen, the
little boy laced his tiny knapsack and ran away from his home in the Waldviertel
(Forest Quarter). Despite the attempts
of 'experienced' villagers to dissuade him, he made his way to Vienna, there to
learn a trade. This was in the fifties of the past century. A desperate
decision to take to the road with only three gulden for travel money, and
plunge into the unknown. By the time the thirteen-year-old grew to be
seventeen, he had passed his apprentice's examination, but he was not yet
content. On the contrary. The long period of hardship, endless misery, and
suffering he had gone through strengthened his determination to give up his
trade and become 'something better.' Formerly the poor boy had regarded the
priest as the embodiment of all humanly attainable heights; now in the big
city, which had so greatly widened his perspective, it was the rank of civil
servant. With all the tenacity of a young man whom suffering and care had made
'old' while still half a child, the seventeen- year-old clung to his new
decision — he did enter the civil service. And after nearly twenty-three years,
I believe, he reached his goal. Thus he seemed to have fulfilled a vow which he
had made as a poor boy: that he would not return to his beloved native village
until he had made something of himself.
His goal was achieved; but no one
in the village could remember the little boy of former days, and to him the
village had grown strange.
When finally, at the age of
fifty-six, he went into retirement, he could not bear to spend a single day of
his leisure in idleness. Near the Upper Austrian market village of Lambach he
bought a farm, which he worked himself, and thus, in the circuit of a long and
industrious life, returned to the origins of his forefathers.
It was at this time that the first
ideals took shape in my breast. All my playing about in the open, the long walk
to school, and particularly my association with extremely 'husky' boys, which
sometimes caused my mother bitter anguish, made me the very opposite of a
stay-at-home. And though at that time I scarcely had any serious ideas as to the
profession I should one day pursue, my sympathies were in any case not in the
direction of my father's career. I believe that even then my oratorical talent
was being developed in the form of more or less violent arguments with my
schoolmates. I had become a little ringleader; at school I learned easily and
at that time very well, but was otherwise rather hard to handle. Since in my
free time I received singing lessons in the cloister at Lambach, I had
excellent opportunity to intoxicate myself with the solemn splendor of the
brilliant church festivals. As was only natural, the abbot seemed to me, as the
village priest had once seemed to my father, the highest and most desirable
ideal. For a time, at least, this was the case. But since my father, for understandable
reasons, proved unable to appreciate the oratorical talents of his pugnacious
boy, or to draw from them any favorable conclusions regarding the future of his
offspring, he could, it goes without saying, achieve no understanding for such
youthful ideas. With concern he observed this conflict of nature.
As it happened, my temporary
aspiration for this profession was in any case soon to vanish, making place for
hopes more suited to my temperament. Rummaging through my father's library, I
had come across various books of a military nature, among them a popular
edition of the Franco-German War of 1870-71. It consisted of two issues of an
illustrated periodical from those years, which now became my favorite reading
matter. It was not long before the great heroic struggle had become my greatest
inner experience. From then on I became more and more enthusiastic about
everything that was in any way connected with war or, for that matter, with
soldiering.
But in another respect as well,
this was to assume importance for me. For the first time, though as yet in a
confused form, the question was forced upon my consciousness: Was there a
difference — and if so what difference — between the Germans who fought these
battles and other Germans? Why hadn't Austria taken part in this war; why
hadn't my father and all the others fought?
Choice of Profession
Are we not the same as all other
Germans? Do we not all belong together? This problem began to gnaw at my little
brain for the first time. I asked cautious questions and with secret envy
received the answer that not every German was fortunate enough to belong to
Bismarck's Reich. This was more than I could understand.
It was decided that I should go to
high school.
From my whole nature, and to an
even greater degree from my temperament, my father believed he could draw the
inference that the humanistic Gymnasium would represent a conflict with my
talents. A Realschule seemed to him more suitable. In this opinion he was
especially strengthened by my obvious aptitude for drawing; a subject which in
his opinion was neglected in the Austrian Gymnasiums. Another factor may have
been his own laborious career which made humanistic study seem impractical in
his eyes, and therefore less desirable. It was his basic opinion and intention (The German is 'Willensmeinung,' an extraordinary
word, perhaps Hitler's own invention. Literal translation would be 'opinion of
the will.' had become the content of his whole life.) that,
like himself, his son would and must become a civil servant. It was only
natural that the hardships of his youth should enhance his subsequent
achievement in his eyes, particularly since it resulted exclusively from his
own energy and iron diligence. It was the pride of the self-made man which made
him want his son to rise to the same position in life, or, of course, even
higher if possible, especially since, by his own industrious life, he thought
he would be able to facilitate his child's development so greatly.
Consequently, my father's decision
was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean, of course. Finally, a
whole lifetime spent in the bitter struggle for existence had given him a
domineering nature, and it would have seemed intolerable to him to leave the
final decision in such matters to an inexperienced boy, having as yet no sense
of responsibility. Moreover, this would have seemed a sinful and reprehensible
weakness in the exercise of his proper parental authority and responsibility
for the future life of his child, and, as such, absolutely incompatible with
his concept of duty. And yet things were to turn out differently.
Then barely eleven years old, I was
forced into opposition for the first time in my life. Hard and determined as my
father might be in putting through plans and purposes once conceived, his son
was just as persistent and recalcitrant in rejecting an idea which appealed to
him not at all, or in any case very little.
I did not want to become a civil
servant.
Neither persuasion nor 'serious'
arguments made any impression on my resistance. I did not want to be a civil
servant, no, and again no. All attempts on my father's part to inspire me with
love or pleasure in this profession by stories from his own life accomplished the
exact opposite. I yawned and grew sick to my stomach at the thought of sitting
in an office, deprived of my liberty; ceasing to be master of my own time and
being compelled to force the content of a whole life into blanks that had to be
filled out.
And what thoughts could this
prospect arouse in a boy who in reality was really anything but 'good' in the
usual sense of the word? School work was ridiculously easy, leaving me so much
free time that the sun saw more of me than my room. When today my political
opponents direct their loving attention to the examination of my life,
following it back to those childhood days and discover at last to their relief
what intolerable pranks this 'Hitler' played even in his youth, I thank Heaven
that a portion of the memories of those happy days still remains with me. Woods
and meadows were then the battlefields on which the 'conflicts' which exist
everywhere in life were decided.
In this respect my attendance at
the Realschule, which now commenced, made little difference. But now, to be sure, there was a new conflict
to be fought out.
As long as my father's intention of
making me a civil servant encountered only my theoretical distaste for the
profession, the conflict was bearable. Thus far, I had to some extent been able
to keep my private opinions to myself; I did not always have to contradict him
immediately. My own firm determination never to become a civil servant sufficed
to give me complete inner peace. And this decision in me was immutable. The
problem became more difficult when I developed a plan of my own in opposition
to my father's. And this occurred at the early age of twelve.
How it happened, I myself do, not
know but one day it became clear to me that I would become a painter, an
artist. There was no doubt as to my talent for drawing; it had been one of my
father's reasons for sending me to the Realschule, but never in all the world
would it have occurred to him to give me professional training in this
direction. On the contrary. When for the first time, after once again rejecting
my father's favorite notion, I was asked what I myself wanted to be, and I
rather abruptly blurted out the decision I had meanwhile made, my father for
the moment was struck speechless.
'Painter? Artist?'
He doubted my sanity, or perhaps he
thought he had heard wrong or misunderstood me. But when he was clear on the
subject, and particularly after he felt the seriousness of my intention, he
opposed it with all the determination of his nature. His decision was extremely
simple, for any consideration of what abilities I might really have was simply
out of the question.
'Artist, no, never as long as I
live!' But since his son, among various other qualities, had apparently
inherited his father's stubbornness, the same answer came back at him. Except,
of course, that it was in the opposite sense.
And thus the situation remained on
both sides. My father did not depart from his 'Never!' And I intensified my
'Oh, yes!'
The consequences, indeed, were none
too pleasant. The old man grew embittered, and, much as I loved him, so did I.
My father forbade me to nourish the slightest hope of ever being allowed to
study art. I went one step further and declared that if that was the case I
would stop studying altogether. As a result of such 'pronouncements,' of
course, I drew the short end; the old man began the relentless enforcement of
his authority. In the future, therefore, I was silent, but transformed my
threat into reality. I thought that once my father saw how little progress I
was making at the Realschule, he would let me devote myself to my dream,
whether he liked it or not.
I do not know whether this
calculation was correct. For the moment only one thing was certain: my obvious
lack of success at school. What gave me pleasure I learned, especially everything
which, in my opinion, I should later need as a painter.
What seemed to me unimportant in
this respect or was otherwise unattractive to me, I sabotaged completely. My
report cards at this time, depending on the subject and my estimation of it,
showed nothing but extremes. Side by side with 'laudable' and 'excellent,'
stood 'adequate' or even 'inadequate.' By far my best accomplishments were in
geography and even more so in history. These were my favorite subjects, in
which I led the class.
If now, after so many years, I
examine the results of this period, I regard two outstanding facts as
particularly significant: First: became a nationalist. (Hitler's early nationalism had, of course, nothing to do with Austrian
patriotism, but was the Pan-Germanism of the Los-von-Rom (Away-from- Romc)
movement founded by Ritter Geoig von Schonerer. It stood for union of Germany
with the German parts of Austria and must be distinguished from the Pan-German
movement of Germany, which was an out- and-out conspiracy for German world
domination. Schonerer's movement was strongly anti-Semitic.) Second:
learned to understand and grasp the meaning of history. Old Austria was a 'state of nationalities.'
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