Their names are Hermann Rosencranz, Karl Munch and Walter Schieber. Karl’s last name has an umlaut over the u, which changes the pronunciation, but WordPress makes no provision for umlauted u‘s, so you’ll have to remember Munch doesn’t rhyme with lunch.
I call them Nazis because of three small red books I happen to have. The first one was given to Hermann in Munich on June 30, 1936. His party membership number is 3483589.
On the frontispiece inside, under a swastika and seal, is the name of the organization that issued the small red book: National Sozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. [National Socialist German Workers Party.]
The second small red book was given to Karl on September 4, 1934. His party membership number is 717410. Karl was born earlier than Hermann and joined the party earlier, too. You can see that his number is lower. Hermann’s book is dirtier and duller in color, though. He may have perspired more heavily. Or dropped it somewhere. It’s hard to believe that either of them would have been sent into the dirt and sweat of battle. Perhaps they were World War I veterans. But they were both too old to fight in 1939.
The third small book is Walter’s. His party number is 557979. He was born 29 years after Karl, and 21 years after Hermann. The very low number he was given when his book was issued to him on June 30, 1941 may therefore have been one that had been retired after the death of its original owner and was now being put back in service with Walter.
A brief pause for back story. How did these three National Socialist Party membership books make their way into one of my bookcases, where they now repose quietly on top of a small paperback copy of Marlene Dietrich’s ABC which I purchased in New York City for 50 cents in 1961? I can tell you why I put Hermann, Karl, and Walter with Marlene. It’s because their books are the same size, and — more fancifully — because all four of them spoke the same language. It also pleases me that the three Nazis were politically poles apart from this German-born woman who bravely entertained American troops at the front wherever and whenever Army regulations permitted.
But I can only surmise how the three red books reached America at the end of World War II. My second husband was the youngest of three brothers — and too young for either enlistment or the draft. (Probably also too near-sighted.) But the middle brother was drafted, and then trained as an Army weather man. He was therefore in Europe, although not on the front lines, after D-Day. It’s my guess he picked up the three red books, and maybe more than three, as small compact souvenirs to bring home when the war was over.
My former brother-in-law is now 91 and living abroad with his Dutch-born wife in an assisted living facility near her daughter and other family, so I can’t easily ask him if I’ve guessed right. The first I personally knew of the three red books was when my second husband showed them to me, twenty years after the end of the war. He had no use for them even then, and left them behind when we eventually parted after our children were grown.
That was in 1987. I have jettisoned a lot of stuff since then. However, I still hang on to Hermann, Karl and Walter and have sometimes asked myself why. There are probably two reasons, one less important than the other. The lesser reason is that I never really learned German, therefore cannot read what Hitler had to say in these little red books, and want to know — before passing the books on to someone else. [Bill thinks they might be worth something, but I’m not so sure of that. It’s all so long ago now that at least some uneducated young people have never heard of the Holocaust and others who have heard of it deny it ever really existed. So who would want to pay good money for my three Nazis?]
German was supposed to be my second foreign language for earning a doctorate in English, and I did get through the reading exam — a paragraph on the novels of Sir Walter Scott written in German. But only by spraying myself heavily with Arpege beforehand, saving up all the vocabulary I didn’t know (which was a lot), and then summoning the young proctor of the exam, who was permitted to give help with “one or two” words per exam-taker. Overcome by fragrance, he as good as translated a third of my paragraph for me. So I’m not really in great shape vocabulary-wise to share Hitler’s message with anyone.
But now there’s this blog, which has at least three German-speaking followers, and the occasional German “visitor” too! Perhaps one of you — and you know who you are — would be good enough to translate, or summarize, the Fuhrer’s words for us in the comment section below. Feel free to editorialize as well, and as much as you like!
However, the more important reason I can’t let go of Hermann, Karl and Walter is that they were three flesh-and-blood human beings, with birthdates, and handwriting, and faces as real as if they’d been photographed yesterday. (Hermann even appears to be slightly smiling.) And these three men, who probably had wives and children, would have looked at me, if I had been so unlucky as to be a little girl in Europe, and seen only a specimen of vermin to be exterminated as efficiently as possible.
Hermann died on March 1, 1943. It’s pencilled in at the top of the page. (I do know what “gestorben” means.) He was 57. If he hadn’t died during the war but lived on and on, so that I could confront him now, in the flesh instead of in his photograph, he would be 128, which is of course impossible. I have his photograph, though. I’m still alive, and he’s just a photograph. I know it’s ridiculous that this gives me some satisfaction, some sense of vindication. But it does.
Karl is “gestorben” too. It happened in November 1943.
He died at 65. He would be 136 today. I have a feeling Karl was more ruthless than Hermann. He seems more smug in his photograph. Of course, feelings are subjective. And photographs lie. I know that. But I hate Karl more than Hermann.
When Bill read the first draft of this post, he stopped at that sentence, the one just before this one. ‘Hate’ is a pretty strong word,” he said. “You mean ‘dislike,’ don’t you?”
No, I don’t mean “dislike.” It’s senseless, it’s illogical, I wasn’t there, it’s an accident I even know Hermann and Karl and Walter existed. All the same, when I look at their photos there’s real hate in my heart. Perhaps I should think of them as victims, too. Brainwashed by rhetoric, mesmerized by a charismatic leader. That doesn’t cut it for me. This isn’t about Germans, or Germany, or the language, or Angela Merkel (whose well cut jackets I quite admire). It’s not about Bach or Beethoven or Brahms. I’d love to visit today’s Berlin before I die. But Hermann and Karl and Walter looking out at me from the pages of their small red books, those three I can’t forgive. They are the faces of perps — perpetrators of a twentieth-century genocide I may have escaped but which tangled my growing-up years in ways too complex to tease out in the short space of a post.
Walter, the baby of the group — born in 1907 and only 32 when Hitler marched into Poland — does not have “gestorben” written in his book.
Although photographed in civilian dress, Walter was probably mobilized when Germany went to war. He was young enough, and also the only one of my three to have received an award: something in “Bronze” on April 1, 1940.
While Walter may not have been classified as “gestorben,” he must have been separated from his red book at some point after March 1943. Beginning in April of that year, there are no more stamps in the book showing he paid his monthly party dues. And something did happen on April 29, 1943; not knowing the language, I cannot tell you what. Again, perhaps a German-speaking follower or reader can explain to us what this cryptic notation inscribed on the inside cover of Walter’s book may mean:
If he survived the war and life after war, Walter would be 107 today. Remotely possible, although not very likely. And in truth, what could I possibly say to such an extremely aged man in such a fantasy reality? I may know what “gestorben” means, but I can’t speak his language. And I’m sure he never learned mine, or not enough to understand me and my feelings. Especially as I don’t really understand me and my feelings either, when it comes to Hermann, Karl, Walter and the three red books.
Given the date of my birth, I know I was beyond fortunate to have been born where I was born, a whole ocean away from the murderous venom that was flooding Europe during the years of my childhood — the very same years when Hermann, Karl and Walter were dutifully paying their party dues. But my good fortune changes nothing. I have been on the moving walkway at Yad Vashem, hearing the endless litany of names of little children like me, starved, gassed or slaughtered by other Hermanns, Karls and Walters — names, names, names echoing through a dark and starry universe. It’s therefore ironic that these three Hitler loyalists should come to rest with me and my hostility as I grow old, that I should be the curator of their last effects.
I began this piece thinking such artifacts might be of general interest. Having written it, I suspect I was wrong. The feelings these three red books incite in me draw so heavily on the past and on my ethnicity (if you can call it that) that they may be incommunicable. If so, it seems only sensible to put Hermann, Karl and Walter back in the bookcase and leave them be.
You can’t win ’em all. As Hitler (and perhaps Walter) finally learned.