1919 was a year of great turmoil and upheaval in Germany. Without sufficient food supply, without an effective central government, and an organized army, chaos prevailed. Communist-inspired committees sprang up everywhere, often directed by vicious, power-hungry elements who neither had the brain nor the expertise to run the country. My hometown Munich was also dominated by such a committee. The edicts they issued were often contradictory, sometimes outright ridiculous. In order to win the sympathy of the laborers, for instance, a one-week work stop was ordered. Nobody, not even the laborers, understood the wisdom of such a rule, but people had no alternative other than to abide. Any indication of defiance provoked hard punishment. Eight innocent citizens of Munich who had publicly shown their discontent were taken hostage and sentenced to death. My mother on her way to the office witnessed the execution by a firing squad. Trembling and horrified she returned home. The murderous act sent a shockwave through Bavaria. Thousands of disgruntled soldiers joined a hastily formed militia under the command of active officers. The goal was clear: defeat the Communists. Eradicate the irrational committees. In heavy street fighting Munich was liberated; the Red forces were subdued. During that period we were, of course, confined to our apartment. Even looking out of the window could draw heavy gunfire.
“It was difficult to sell paintings at a time when most people were struggling hard for basic material goods.”
Many years later I was asked sometimes in the U.S.A. why the antisemitic hatred become so widely spread in Germany. Well, the Committee certainly contributed a great deal to letting the roots sprout. Kurt Eisner, Erich Muehsam, Ernst Toller, Rosa Luxemburg, and many other Communist politicians of those days were Jews. They tried to transform Germany into a socialist society after the image and probably in agreement with the U.S.S.R. which was founded in 1917. Historically, communism is a Jewish brainchild, without a doubt. Regardless of the idealism which might have impelled the socialistic reformers, the population of Germany distrusted the so-called “International Brotherhood of Laborers” on an atheistic basis and adhered rather to the old ideals of fatherland and Christian faith. Certainly not due to piety. They were just afraid of the radical philosophy which was equated with decadence and cruelties for obvious reasons.
Nobody understood the situation better than an unknown Austrian, Adolf Hitler, nicknamed the “drummer”, who exploited the chaotic conditions to the utmost. Born with a clairvoyant sense for the mood of the masses and an outspoken talent to agitate them, he traveled around preaching with a roaring voice his gospel: “Germany lost the war because it was stabbed in the back by Socialists and Jews. They try to enslave us and sell us to the Russian overlords. It is all a calculated Jewish plot.” The simplicity of this formula caught on and attracted a lot of naive people who, unaware of the real nature of this man, saw some sort of Messiah in him.
This was the political background when my father returned from war and became officially a part of our family. From the first day on he began painting Madonnas, a symbol of the eternal mother fondling her beloved child, a theme of universal reality which he pursued faithfully to the end of his life. Naturally, it was difficult to sell paintings at a time when most people were struggling hard for basic material goods. My mother was the prime breadwinner and remained so for at least the next 5 years. Her keen instinct for business and inborn gift to seek out influential men and befriend them proved to be very helpful to my father. Soon my parents managed to move out of the low-class neighborhood and rent a fashionable apartment with an atelier at the northern end of Schwabing, Munich’s famous artistic section. The apartment located on the 4th floor with a balcony offered a spectacular view of the city. On clear days the opaque silhouette of the Alps could be seen stretching along the horizon. Carefully cultivated vegetable gardens surrounded our new home, but most of all I liked the verdant meadows of the English Garden nearby, Munich’s landmark which like a giant green caterpillar winds along the Isar River and far out of the city where it is devoured by the natural wilderness. From our balcony one was able to spot the huge mansion of the Bavarian king’s brother in a tightly fenced-in park. Close by stood two baroque domiciles for noblemen who used to come out here hunting. A few steps further, the Biederstein Lake, a pond encircled by old, stalky willow trees, their strands hanging into the water, virtually invited one to sit down for a meditative rest. I often walked over there to enjoy the beautiful setting and nourish my innermost dreams. Unfortunately, this lovely place gradually disappeared over the years and with it one of the most idyllic reminders of the so-called good old times.
The new environment had an invigorating effect on my parents also. My mother became pregnant. In spring 1920 she dwaddled around like a duck as my father used to joke. When her time arrived, we boys had to leave the house; however, it did not escape my attention that she had emptied a bottle of Champagne, apparently to alleviate the painful process of delivering. She bore another boy, my brother Toni. Since my mother was working and my father was painting, the care for Toni fell a great deal upon my shoulders. As often as possible I handed him over to my girlfriends who by nature were better babysitters and playmates anyway. If this trick failed, I packed Toni in a perambulator and together with friends took off to the English Garden where we could meander freely. Only the park inspector scared us, because we seldom observed the numerous restrictions and signs distributed all over. Whenever he appeared, we started to run pushing the go-cart through lawns, bushes, and bumpy roads. Once I failed to get the curve. The heavy vehicle leaned over, the pillows fell down with Toni on top. Anxious to get away, I threw everything quickly back and sped away. The rough handling, however, did not harm Toni who grew up to be a husky six-footer.
In the autumn of 1919, I switched from elementary school to a distinguished educational institute with an excellent reputation, the Max Gymnasium. An unusual number of world-famous scientists and artists graduated there. It made me proud to have passed the entrance examination in such a selective school which paved the road for an academic career, although the road proved to be rather loaded with spiky hurdles. The requirements were exceptionally high, in fact so high that two-thirds of the students over the next 9 years dropped out. The curriculum included Latin, Greek, English, mathematics, and numerous other subjects designed to develop a fully rounded personality. The system was efficient but had inherently a dubious side effect by implanting also in many the feeling of frustration and inferiority. I was one of them because my grades were seldom good. My parents blamed it on laziness and indiscretion. Obsessed by the drive for achievement they disregarded entirely the physical weakness that I still suffered from. Nevertheless, I made it to the 5th grade before I stumbled over Latin and flunked. Oh, how I hated this language! I begged my father: “Please, let me quit school. I don’t need all that crap. I want to become a musician.” My father, however, had not the slightest intention to budge. Enraged I threw my Latin books on the wall, fell on the bed, and wept out of the depth of my wounded soul. The outbreak dissolved my frustration and helped me to come to my senses. There was no choice. I had to stick it out. Much later I began to appreciate my father’s foresight and determination which in the struggle of life gave me an edge over others in many aspects.
With the advancing years, I bothered my parents increasingly to buy a violin for me. I was already 14 when they finally gave in and swapped one of my father’s paintings against a suitable instrument from Mr. Schneebauer’s collection. An accomplished violinist, Mr. Van Leyden, was also hired for regular lessons. He was an excellent teacher, but I admired also his musical knowledge and diversified aspirations which included the skillful playing of the cello and composing in a modern atonal style. Over the years we become genuine friends at least on the musical level. He introduced me to chamber music in private circles and guided me in understanding the works of great composers. 1934 I met him on the street for the last time. He complained bitterly about his proprietors, fanatic Nazis who harassed him continuously after they had found out about his Jewish origin. Since he was a fine man and a sensitive person, I wonder how long he could withstand the great tribulation that a few years later swooped down upon the Jewish people like a deadly tornado. He was the only violin teacher I ever had. The violin became my lifelong companion. Playing her gave me consolation and immense joy thanks to my teacher, whose remembrance I feel obliged to honor in this biographical account.
I was lying in the bed one quiet Sunday morning, awake, the eyes still closed, when something very unusual happened. I saw a face, not very distinct, but illuminated by a blinding brightness. The face just stayed there above me, while pure joy with indescribable intensity overflooded my whole being. The extraordinary phenomenon rendered me immovable. I forgot to breathe, totally absorbed in beholding the light until it faded away. The awe-striking experience stayed close to me for days. Unable to share the strange perception with anyone, it remained my closely guarded secret until this day. In time it was immersed in my subconscious realm and sank into oblivion. Only during periods of unbearable hardships, when my heart cried out for help, it came forward like a tender hand soothingly passing over my face. Very late, in my sixties, I began slowly to understand the unforgettable, blissful event.
It would be ungrateful to conclude this chapter without mentioning the American Quakers who sent large amounts of food to hunger-stricken Germany after the war. The effect of this generosity became felt in every household and school where we daily received a second breakfast of chocolate and white rolls which we, the younger generation, had not even seen before. This praiseworthy humanitarian effort was kept up over a period of several years, exactly until 1923. In this year inflation rose to an unprecedented height. Hardly anyone today can imagine how nasty this inflation really was. People carried their salaries home in big bags and cartons and hastened to the stores to spend their money as fast as possible because the value often dropped considerably within hours. Many used to joke about the price of bread which ran in the hundreds of billions for only one loaf. The intolerable, serious situation called for an urgent remedy.
One who boasted to have the solution was the “drummer” Adolf Hitler. For him, the time was ripe to launch his coup. At a mass meeting in presence of the Bavarian Government, he demanded, revolver in his hand, the immediate transfer of all power to him. The Government, however, had no intention to cave in to such blackmail. On the next morning, the Army, under orders, fired into the marching crowd and killed 16 demonstrators. Their leader A. Hitler barely escaped being shot. He was arrested and accused of inciting riots. The court procedures, however, just provided him with another chance to propagate his ideas in a big way through the news media. I still remember how enthusiastically we embraced his patriotic tirades every morning in school for several weeks until he was indicted. In the prison compound at Landsberg, not far from Munich, Hitler started without delay to outline his philosophy and future strategies in his famous book, Mein Kampf. Millions all over the world read that pamphlet without becoming suspicious of its implications. Many Germans regarded it as the new bible. Only the politicians, who should have seen the dangers ahead, neglected it. “The Gods smite with blindness [madness] whom they intend to destroy,” says the ancient Greek proverb. How true, indeed.