Finally, I was free. Weeks of hard work and anxieties were left behind, when I received my degree in March 1929 which opened the doors to my Alma Mater, the University of Munich. A glance at my final report card made me peevish, but I quieted my conscience swiftly. Who cares from now on how much I know in ancient languages, mathematics, or chemistry? At last, I am free to do what I want and I pretended to have a pretty clear picture of it. My goal was to be one day a famous musician, more specifically, a composer. My motive was to create something of importance, that makes life meaningful. This almost frantic love for music, where did it come from? Neither my parents nor ancestors had ever shown any particular musical inclination. Only I had that in-oppressible craving in me. Full of enthusiasm I took courses in the university and began with piano lessons, an integral part of my future career. Well, I have to admit, our neighbors as well as Mr. von Schab, an elderly bachelor and longstanding subtenant of ours, were much less happy. “Your constant pounding on the piano and boring exercises drive me crazy,” he complained. “To strive for professional musicianship today is an extremely naughty idea anyway.” That was a strong medicine that I refused to take. My mind was made up. Besides musical studies, I spent quite some time on reading novels, historical and mainly philosophical books. Two of them had a profound impact on my personal development: [Prentice] Mulford’s [collection of] essays entitled The Nuisance of Dying [Der Unfug des Sterbens, a collection of Mulford essays translated into German. Mulford’s original English editions include The Gift of the Spirit, Thoughts are Things, Your Forces, and How to Use Them, vol 1 and vol 2. Mulford also wrote an autobiography: Prentice Mulford’s Story: Life by land and sea] which introduced me to the world of Yoga. The strange mystique pouring forth from this treatise engulfed my thinking at once and lastingly. Wherever I was traveling, the book remained my companion. In a masterly fashion, the American journalist from New Jersey tallied the ancient oriental way of living with Western thinking. Unfortunately, America forgot him, but in Germany, his writings are still published and available. A very detrimental effect had Oswald Spengler’s Untergang des Abendlandes – Perishing of the Occident [The Decline of the West] – a comprehensive study in 3 massive volumes. Every cultural entity, the author points out, grows like an individual, and reaches its culmination first in artistic masterworks, then in great technical achievements prior to gliding down into subculture and final insignificance. Comparing today’s paltry artistic performances with those 100 years ago and considering the brilliant technical advances of our century leaves no doubt where to pinpoint the position of our western culture on the downward curve. The analysis rendered me sick, distraught, and mentally paralyzed. Suddenly I realized my carefully hatched aim, the focal point of my endeavors, was out of step with the historical trend. The dire diagnosis left me with a vacuum that I hoped to fill by studying theology. For 9 months I wasted my time on this discipline mostly in a mood of apprehension and sadness. The priesthood, I fancied, will give me inner illumination, offers financial security and last not least leaves ample time for composing, if I was able to reconcile my still strong-going musical aspirations with the upcoming clerical duties. The idea looked promising enough to stabilize my bungled life. But there was one hurdle. I needed the bishop’s consent. His excellency, however, was not convinced of my sincerity. Though radiating pastoral kindness, he firmly criticized my lack of reverence and told me bluntly: “Either you intend to be a priest with all your heart and soul or leave it.” Disturbed, sobered, and somewhat alleviated I walked slowly down the steps of the palace. My interest in theology vanished quickly and I began to search for a job.
“My motive was to create something of importance, that makes life meaningful.”
A short course in selling insurance policies did not bear any fruit. I was absolutely a failure and misplaced in that milieu. The only chance I had was the low-paying position of a praefect in a catholic home for apprentices. It was the last straw and I grabbed it. I had to, considering the political and economical circumstances in May 1931. Germany was in deep trouble. The great depression which held the United States already with an iron grip had spilled over to Europe. The rate of unemployment climbed to a fearsome 25%. Germany as a democratic state fell slowly apart. People were crying for work. Hitler and his cohorts armed themselves for the final assault. How could I hang around any further? I wanted to get off my father’s back. The daily life had become so gloomy that my parents were not spared the indignity to get some help which was granted by my mother’s cousin Dr. Willi Specht. He offered to send a monthly check of DM 150, on a loan basis. It was a small sum and did hardly make a dent in the doctor’s budget, but was nevertheless a palatable support for my parents. The Spechts owned a well-attended hospital for lung patients and moreover speculated to reimburse themselves one day by inheriting all my father’s paintings in case of his death. As affectionate admirers of Hitler, they foresaw a gleamy future coming and did not reckon with the onrushing catastrophe. The tragedy afflicting the family was grave. Their son was killed in the war and their wealth was expropriated by the Poles. My brother Rudi paid the loan back after the war with money that soon was rendered worthless. The Spechts then drifted out of our sight.
Beginning in May 1931 I moved from my parent’s house to Morassistreet 10, one of Munich’s oldest sections. The three-story building, a bit run down, was packed with teenagers. The director, a priest, dwarfish, flat-nosed and with hapless facial features was not a sympathetic figure. His lack of outgoing friendliness was felt in all corners of the house which he operated more as a horse stable than a home. Only the Ursuline Sisters taking care of our bodily needs brightened the otherwise depressive atmosphere. The daily contact with the 100 or so boys opened my eyes to the many problems a rising generation is burdened with. Most of the boys came from lower and lowest classes – which is not meant in a derogatory sense but should rather indicate the aggravated hardships these youths had to struggle with. It was a difficult job to guide these teenagers whose actions and general line of thinking was for the most part dictated by their strong animalistic instincts. I felt so inadequate to deal with these young lives since I had neither the wisdom nor inner stability to give them what they needed most: the clear vision of a meaningful life on a spiritual basis. As in many such institutes the Christian faith, although preached daily, left them empty-handed because one vital element was missing: love. One could painfully feel their longing for love and recognition which I tried to give, although I had not much to offer myself.
A theology dropout aspiring for his doctor’s degree in psychology was hired simultaneously. His name was Willi Gerstacker, a tall, ascetic-looking student who needed to be self-supportive like me. Being a praefect is a routine job, he professed, and on account of his background, the intricating strata of human behavior were undoubtedly less enigmatic to him than to a freshman and music student I was supposed to be. My admiration for his intellectual superiority and even for his occasional abrasiveness could hardly be surpassed. Thanks to his encouraging and impelling influence I found my way back to the original goal, I joined Trapp’s Conservatory for Music and steadfastly pursued my studies over the next four years. Willi and I developed a close and intense friendship that did not even become affected by his marriage a few years later. He asked me to be his best man and I in turn composed a piece for cello and organ, a gift for him and his lovely bride, which premiered during the wedding ceremony. After the war, Willi’s personality had undergone a strange metamorphosis. He divorced his wife and old friends alike in a most rude and insulting manner. I then never met him again.
How about girlfriends? Don’t you have to serve us some juicy love stories, I hear you asking. Racking up my memory, there are surely many names and faces, shadows of the past, but a past which saw me too often pennyless, jobless and hopeless. Hardly anybody will claim, I guess, that such circumstances are conducive to courting. Nevertheless, vacation time and the illustrious Mardi Gras in Munich provided a rich field to harbor many a charming beauty; but the tender flowers of mutual attraction during a delightful night frequently withered away with the dusk of the rising sun, killed by the icy whiff of reality. Every juvenile, supposedly, encounters those whirlwind affairs, hot and bittersweet, which let us forget everything for a few days and yet leave us with hardly more than a vague imprint in our brain until the day comes that finds us face to face with the image of our dreams. Then we surrender totally, not knowing why, not noticing anything other than the beautiful embodiment of our deepest desires only. Such was the case when I met Gisela. A strange bond tied me to her immediately. What a graceful figure she had, what a lively physiognomy and stylish hairdo. I had seriously fallen in love regardless of the fact that she was two years older. We had plenty of interests in common, particularly in the field of art. Many months of happy togetherness followed. We enjoyed meandering through the English Garden, 5 o’clock dancing, fraternity parties, and carnivals. But a tiny rift, so to speak, existed right from the beginning, a shade of difference in our relationship which I intentionally and incessantly avoided taking cognizance of. She liked me very much, but I loved her. One day another guy crossed our way and Gisela ran with flying flags into his open arms. Hurt and humiliated I was unable to take the sudden loss in stride. For a long time, I licked my wounds and became inaccessible to female advances. Eventually, however, the bloodiest wounds heal. Only the taste of a lucid love and the scars remain.