Showing posts with label Eton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eton. Show all posts

Monday, 18 November 2024

Deposition of a Rebel from the Cross

Since, in each case of my lantern slides this evening, the image is a species of ideological propaganda let us compare and contrast the exhibits for intended (or possibly unintended) effect. 

Exhibit 1: What do we see? The anti-englische propaganda is reproduced here from Sozialismus gegen Plutokratie ([National] Socialism vs. Plutocracy, 1940) a product of the ministry of Dr Goebbels, Reichsminister für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda, who in his youth had considered the Catholic priesthood. Does it not resemble The Deposition of Christ from the Cross? (See Exhibit 2.)

Exhibit 1
A demonstrator is removed.
Note subliminal black armbands mourning the dead configured by the black-gloved hands of the British police officers. Inside those gloves we may imagine fists hardened in sacramental vinegar squeezed from a pugilist’s sponge.

We cannot escape the concordances that link the imagery with the conventions of devotional art that depict the Thirteenth Station of the Cross as the stark, unconscionable indignity of a man reduced to vermin to be rubbed out as Enemy of the State.

Exhibit 2
A demonstrator is removed.

The ‘Compare-and-contrast page-spread is a technique of Photojournalism stolen from the British Lilliput men’s magazine (founded 1937), which suggests a further level of propagandist subtlety, never mind the nostrums of Goebbels’s partner-in-crime, Reich Minister for Church Affairs, Hanns Kerrl, who in 1937 pronounced: ‘There has now risen a new authority as to what Christ and Christianity is. This new authority is Adolph Hitler.’

Exhibit 3
‘The Cruel Ones.’

 So . . . Wem gehört die Zukunft? Sozialismus gegen Plutokratie. (Who Owns the Future? [National] Socialism against Plutocracy.) Are the concordances I find imaginary or is there substance in my suspicions?  You can see here how page 74 (Exhibit 1) and facing page 75 (Exhibit 3) are images staged for contrast, side-by-side. So let us compare the diptych of ‘The Darling Bobbies [British policemen] lead an unemployed demonstrator away’ with its facing text of calculatedly nudge-nudge knowingness,‘The “cruel” SS helps two girls who want to see the Führer.’  The cynicism of Goebbels has the bitter taste of wine mixed with gall.

Certainly, a captive rebel – pinioned to evoke crucified limbs and hauled off to his Golgotha (‘Place of the Skull’) – can be considered to possess a sort of commonality with the ‘Death’s Head’ unit on the opposite page (their Totenkopf insignia may be discerned above their peaked caps) if we accept the birth of another myth . . . the apotheosis of their fair-headed Mädchen as goddesses destined to be the Aryan race’s progenitresses to magnify the thousand-year Reich.

Any resemblances end, however, when we compare the duty of unarmed policemen to serve British democracy – bound in law courts by oaths sworn to Almighty God – with the sacred oath of the pistol-packing praetorian guard, the dagger-wielding SS, who swore by God to render unconditional obedience to one god-like man, Adolf Hitler, the self-proclaimed Führer of the German Reich.

The contradistinction of the two cultures, as perceived by Dr Goebbels, may be examined on the double-page spread of  Exhibit 4 (pp. 18 and 19). Apparently, the combined might of the Eton and Harrow Officer Training Corps was no match for Hitler Youth on the march. (Winston Churchill was an Old Harrovian.)

Exhibit 4
 
Degenerate Art.
Yes, the sly subliminal imagery of Goebbelsian propaganda, intent on inversions of perception for the sake of the id-satisfying, sensation-seeking, cheap thrill, still remains the stock-in-trade of soi-disant shock-jock artists even today. Ironically, the Nazi Party’s 1937 exhibition of Degenerate Art (Entartete Kunst), assembled to condemn ‘cultural degeneracy’, included any number of surrealists, whose founding credo also celebrated the freeing of the unconscious mind with (ostensibly) inconsequential juxterpositions of imagery devised to provoke a viscerality of response. And isn’t the visceral response of the herd the precise aim of propagandists the world over?
 
I append a centre-spread (Exhibit 5) published in my father’s rather frayed copy of Lilliput men’s magazine, a 1940 dyptych from the year of Dr Goebbels’s masterwork of parodic agitprop. 
 
Exhibit 5
 
Shellshocked chimpanzees.
Somehow, I am reminded of the words of the revered Russian WW2 photographer who was tempted to visit Berlin Zoo on May 2 1945 to view ‘. . . two dead SS men next to a cage of shellshocked chimpanzees. That might have made a picture, but I was after something bigger. I wanted the Reichstag.’

So, in event, Yevgeni Khaldei braved his way to the top of the Reichstag under fire to take the celebrated shot that made his name: the flying of the Red banner of the Hammer and Sickle over the smoking ruins of Berlin. (Maybe it’s instructive to note that Yevgeni’s first choice of subject was a surrealist incongruity that promised a self-indulgent viscerality of response, from which we might draw the conclusion that the lure of voyeuristic sensationalism is inescapably a refuge of meretricious art, yet a documentary photographer of true greatness, as a witness to a genocidal epoch, resists the cheap thrill.) 
 
Who Owns the Future? 1940
[National] Socialism against Plutocracy.
 
Sunday Best.
Yevgeny Khaldei, soviet photographer:  ‘ [In 1945] I was in Vienna.
We were closing on the square in front of the parliament. 
This senior Nazi had come with his family, all in their Sunday best.
He shot his wife and his son, but his daughter did not want to die.
So he pinned her on the bench and shot her.
Then he killed himself as we arrived.’
 
See also: Between life and death . . . January 14 1944 . . . Franz Lüdtke’s ‘Ostvisionen’ for Colonisation to the Baltic Coast.

and:
Rates of Exchange: ‘Ici. Français assassinés par les Boches.’






Monday, 11 June 2018

Grim Secrets of Room 101 . . . Is it Time to Uncover the Origin of Orwell’s Worst Fears in Nineteen Eighty-Four?

‘In your case,’ said O’Brien, ‘the worst thing
in the world happens to be rats.’ 
[Winston Smith’s] bowels seemed to 
turn to water. ‘You can’t do that!’ he 
cried out in a high cracked voice.

From time to time I like to assume the mask of a literary sleuthhound even though I am far from claiming the mantle of an academic or of a pundit. I defer to those who are the genuine article. Especially Hungarian polyglots.

As polyglot and polymath George Tabori once boasted, ‘Only a Hungarian (or a Pole [a reference to Conrad?] ) would have the arrogance to write in English . . .’

So I revere the literary works of Hungarians Tabori and Arthur Koestler, despite my inbred assumptions due to that venerable English adage which warns us that Hungarians are the only people who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out of it in front.

Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984)
written for the screen and directed by Michael Radford,
starring John Hurt as Winston Smith.

Communazi totalitarianism . . . forever stamping on a human face.

One can assume that the ideological battleground that has been Hungary over the last hundred years – lurching from imperial crownland to Nazi puppet state to Soviet satellite and thence to a national-conservative autocracy – was bound to make the Hungarian intelligentsia exceptionally quick on their feet.

Such nimble footwork in contriving to keep one step ahead of the fraudulent dogmas of Communazi totalitarianism also explains the fascination the Brothers Tabori (George Tabori and his older brother, Paul Tabori) and Koestler held for George Orwell – they moved in the same orbit and, as members of a London-based anti-fascist commentariat, theirs was a common crusade.  

But my contention is that the significant inspiriter of Orwell in his vision of the sadistic torments inflicted in Room 101 in Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) rather than Koestler (Darkness at Noon /otherwise Sonnenfinsternis, 1940), as often claimed, was in fact George Tabori and his Beneath the Stone the Scorpion, 1945 (otherwise Das Opfer / The Victim).

George Orwell and George Tabori 
regularly broadcast for the BBC during WW2.
(Tabori portrait by Werner Bethsold.) 

Orwell’s nightmarish dystopia prefigured by a 1947 political pamphleteer.

Though it’s true that the archives of the Akademie der Kunste in Berlin (the repository of George Tabori’s papers) contain no evidence of the Tabori-Orwell connection, by contrast, in support of my theory, we can see that Orwell’s collection of political pamphlets (catalogued as one of the last tasks performed by his secretary, Siriol Hugh Jones) contains a January 1947 pamphlet edited by George Tabori, Hungary Today: a Review of Hungarian Life and Letters; published by the Hungarian Club, 33 Pembridge Square, London W.2. (Shelfmark 1899, British Library).

Orwell’s pamphlets collection was of immense importance to him as a private data-bank in his pursuit of his journalistic career. He declared himself a pamphleteer, regarding the pamphlet as a powerful literary and political device for influencing social change. Indeed, Nineteen Eighty-Four was viewed by many critics as a satirical ‘broadside’ against inexorable oligarchical rule in the tradition of Jonathan Swift’s polemical writings. (George Orwell edited and wrote the introduction to volume I of British Pamphleteers, 1948.)

So, for Orwell, the pamphlet was one of the most active forms of provocative writing by ideologues from his turbulent times and, to judge from the contents of George Tabori’s pamphlet, published in the year of Orwell’s first drafting of Nineteen Eighty-Four, the ‘classic ideological battle-lines drawn’ across post-war Hungary, described by Tabori, shaped the nightmarish dystopia of totalitarianism prophesied by England’s maverick polemicist, whose cautionary fable was soon to send shockwaves across the world to challenge the beliefs of all political classes, west and east. 

As I hope to demonstrate, the resemblances between Orwell’s novel and the Hungarian Tabori brothers’ writings are uncanny in the observable concordance, in each case, of predictions that foretell the ruthlessness of an envisioned totalitarian regime, relentless in its attempt – regardless of the sacrifice of life, truth and freedom – to eliminate the forces of reaction from all agencies of political life. 

In essence, Tabori’s smudged, multi-graphed, typewritten pamphlet presciently warns his troubled country: ‘What are “facts”? Where does documentation end and propaganda begin?’

The Tabori Connection: Book plate in first edition
of Orwell’s Coming Up for Air from the library of 
the Hungarian émigré and author Paul Tabori
(George’s brother). The book contains a folded letter,
‘Dear Mr Tabori’, dated June 6th 1947 from the Isle
of Jura. The letter  refers to the Communist putsch
‘tightening their grip’ in Hungary and the 
resultant censorship.

1947: A mirror of a hierarchical surveillance society?

Let us look at the correlations within George Tabori’s pamphlet that suggest that Orwell saw vividly a post-war Hungary (1946-1947) as a microcosm of the hierarchical surveillance society he conceived would be the fate of Great Britain (Airstrip One) in Nineteen Eighty-Four.

So where are the coinciding points in Hungary Today [HT] that tell of political machinations that seem to have been absorbed and transmuted into the sinister intrigues of Nineteen Eighty-Four [N-E-Fby a writer possessed by the zeitgeist of January 1947?

Airstrip One: Here is an extract from a news item from page 18 [HT], entitled Reaction Strikes: Anti-Republican Conspiracy. On January 4th 1947, the Hungarian Ministry of the Interior announced: ‘State security organisations in recent weeks discovered a dangerous and wide-spread anti-republican conspiracy. The leaders of this fascist plot and its members who have been arrested . . . prepared the ground for the assumption of power by force and hoped to stage an armed military coup d’état . . . the conspiracy was directed by a “Committee of Seven” . . . Each member had clearly defined duties. . . . The special task of the military leaders was to give armed support to a so-called “Counter-Government” and put it in power . . . Since the end of 1945 this committee met secretly each week . . . To carry out special military tasks the Committee had several aircraft at their disposal. These were kept in parts ready for assembly.’  
[cf. N-E-FIn the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace . . . teams of experts are indefatigably at work . . . Some are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars . . . or . . .  strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship . . .’

The Inner Party (whose scapegoat is The Brotherhood, the Enemy of the People):  From page 18 [HT]: ‘To organise the the underground armed forces  the “Committee of Seven” established a so-called “Underground High Command” . . . The “Underground High Command” assumed this final form in the autumn of 1946 and issued its first communique on 1st October 1946.’ 
[cf. N-E-F‘A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be.’

The Outer Party: From page 20 [HT]: ‘. . . a class of hangers-on who had lost most of their land and flocked to the towns to make up the civil service and the army. Their dread of becoming declassé and their snobbishness prevented them from forming a stable middle-class and many of them embraced Nazism with nauseating haste . . . Apart from a small Marxist vanguard, Hungarian writers still seem to be dazed, gripped by nostalgia for the past and an almost apocalyptic dread of the future. Their predicament cannot be divorced from the general sense of shame and disintegration that characterises the bourgeoisie . . . Nostalgic attachment to the past, irrationalism, indifference, escapism and pessimism are the main . . . critique . . . particular to Central Europe and due to lack of democratic development . . .’  
[cf. N-E-F‘But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this room, they both felt, no harm could come to them . . . the room itself was sanctuary. It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get inside that glassy world, and that once inside it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of escape.’

The Proles: From page 20 [HT]: ‘For a long time the two progressive trends, urban and peasant, were sharply divided. The urban intelligentsia was mainly liberal, dreaming of a society on the Western pattern, it alienated itself from both the industrial workers, whom it despised, and the peasantry, whom it suspected of Fascist leanings. The peasant-intelligentsia . . . perform an important task by exploring and cataloguing the misery and sloth of the “romantic” peasant . . . a new appropriate scale of aesthetic values . . . opens the way for a sort of literary Front Populaire.”  
[cf. N-E-F‘And the Ministry [of Truth] had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes*, films oozing with sex, and sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator.’ 


The impenetrability of ‘Deep Continent’ party-politicking. 

Well, the passages cited above are just mere glimpses of the complex ideological struggle for hearts and minds overwhelming Hungary during the agitations for reform driven by the [HT‘Left Wing Bloc’ in the period of raging inflation that defined 1946, when [HT‘. . . the cashiers and book-keepers in Hungary lost even the help of the adding machine because they did not have enough noughts.’

The impenetrability of postwar politics in Mitteleuropa when viewed by Little Englanders was borne in on me one day when the head of production for UK 20th Century Fox, Sandy Lieberson, told me that certain subject matter for movies (interwar political assassination , for example, such as the case of Walther Rathenau, or a revival of the Bergfilm genre) was classified as ‘Deep Continent’ drama— and definitely unsuitable for populist movie-making for the English-speaking world.

So it strikes me now that Orwell in setting his Nineteen Eighty-Four in an entirely English locale – in all its recognisable drabness and mundanity – very cleverly overcame the problem of ideological exegesis of his dystopian tract for unsophisticated English readers, an exegesis that included rendering much of his text in the guise of a blood and thunder penny dreadful . . . not to say, five-cent novelette, in the opinion of some critics.


The cage was nearer; it was closing in.

Which brings me to those contemporary critics of the Room 101 torture scenes who sought to write them off as ‘melodramatic’ and ‘schoolboyish’, because, far from being the oft-quoted sublimated sadism of prep school locker-room bullies (viz. Orwell’s years as pupil at St. Cyprian’s and, later, Eton), the origins of the specific torture of Winston Smith can be be found in the literary works of George Tabori and Arthur Conan Doyle, two authors evidently admired by Orwell . . . at least, that is my private reading of the following cases of inventive torture calculatedly devised by two fictionists to assault the reader’s senses . . . and the likely precursors of the horrific instrument of Winston Smith’s agonising and conclusive indoctrination.
O’Brien picked up the cage  . . . ‘You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.’  . . .  The cage was nearer; it was closing in . . . ‘It was a common punishment in Imperial China,’ said O’Brien as didactically as ever.


He uncovered the cage. ‘It's an old Turkish custom, half-forgotten
for a long period of softness and degeneration.’ 

And so to Tabori’s Beneath the Stone the Scorpion, 1945. Plot: An English captain is captured by the German occupiers during World War II near a Slovenian village. Wehrmacht Major von Borst interrogates him to elicit his true intentions in a unresolved game of verbal jousting . . . unresolved, that is, until sadistic Intelligence Officer Hirtenberg arrives from HQ, ‘carrying ‘a small wooden cage  . . . by an iron handle’. His methods of interrogation are, as he explains to von Borst, decidedly more persuasive. The narrator is von Borst:
‘Meet Tomashek,’ he said affectionately, and uncovered the cage, ‘the cat. Tomashek is a great friend of mine although we only met a few days ago. He is one of our most able agents, in a way, Tomashek.’ He smiled proudly like a father and I leaned forward and looked at a huge, ugly tom-cat, obviously asleep. He had a long, powerful body with dark stripes and tufty, rough hair. While I was inspecting him, wondering what kind of a joke it was, the cat suddenly woke. He did not stretch or stir, just spun around in fury and hit out with his claws and emitted a queer, hoarse cry. I never heard a cat crying like that. It was almost human. He had large grey eyes that shone in wrath and a large, dripping mouth . . . ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Hirtenberg said . . . ‘Tomashek,’ explained Hirtenberg apologetically, ‘has a split personality. He is mad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Quite mad. I mean, he is rabid . . . Tomashek helps us to make people talk,’ he added, a bit too dramatically . . . ‘It’s an old Turkish custom . . . half-forgotten for a long period of softness and degeneration. The Turks used cats widely as means of persuasion. The practice was to tie up the prisoner and then place a rabid cat in his trousers . . . It takes about an hour or so I’m told,’ he said, ‘until they work themselves to about the stomach. If they get entangled in the bowels it takes longer. They usually reappear near the navel.’ He stopped and I looked at the cat. I knew Hirtenberg was watching me. I felt slight nausea. ‘Have you made use of Tomashek before?’ I asked casually. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I will to-morrow.’
And here are our very own, very British, home-grown torments, whose extreme ingenuity we proudly owe to Arthur Conan Doyle, a writer who outrivals de Sade. (Oh. And let’s not forget that super-decadent fin de siècle title of his, A Study in Scarlet.) 
So strange was the scene before them that for an instant all three stood motionless with horror and surprise . . . It was a great vaulted chamber, brightly lit by many torches. At the farther end roared a great fire. In front of it three naked men were chained to posts in such a way that flinch as they might they could never get beyond the range of its scorching heat. Yet they were so far from it that no actual burn would be inflicted if they could but keep turning and shifting so as continually to present some fresh portion of their flesh to the flames. Hence they danced and whirled in front of the fire, tossing ceaselessly this way and that within the compass of their chains, wearied to death, their protruding tongues cracked and blackened with thirst, but unable for one instant to rest from their writhings and contortions. Even stranger was the sight at each side of the room, whence came that chorus of groans which had first struck upon the ears of Nigel and his companions. A line of great hogsheads were placed alongside the walls, and within each sat a man, his head protruding from the top. As they moved within there was a constant splashing and washing of water. The white wan faces all turned together as the door flew open, and a cry of amazement and of hope took the place of those long-drawn moans of despair. [They are rescued.] A few strong blows struck off the irons and freed the three dancers before the fire. With a husky croak of joy, they rushed across to their comrades’ water-barrels, plunged their heads in like horses, and drank and drank and drank. Then in turn the poor shivering wretches were taken out of the barrels, their skins bleached and wrinkled with long soaking . . .                                                                                                                                                                                  Sir Nigel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1905-1906)

Oh, and see also a sadomasochistic relish evident in Conan Doyle’s vivid account of a brutal and bloody prize fight in his novel, Rodney Stone.

The wickedest story ever written.

And Britishers should also pay their respects to Rudyard Kipling for his short story, Mary Postgate (1915), described by a WW1 Second Lieutenant in the Irish Guards as: The wickedest story ever written. (Oliver Baldwin, 2nd Earl Baldwin of Bewdley.) 
 
A WW1 propaganda poster claims
German nurses refuse help to wounded
British prisoners, cruelly pouring water
on the ground rather than tend to them.
(Was Kipling’s tale a coldblooded riposte?)
 

 

The Science of Fear.

I append these quotations merely to point out that continental fictionists do not have an exclusive monopoly on the creative torture of characters in search of retribution.  As Conan Doyle and his disciple, George Orwell, demonstrate, we British can make quite a good fist of it. And, surely, the greatest tribute to Orwell’s grip on the Science of Fear is to learn that the German Democratic Republic’s much-dreaded Stasi chief Erich Mielke (the GDR’s soi-disant O’Brien) managed to renumber the offices in his secret service headquarters. ‘His office was on the second floor, so all the office numbers started with “2”. Orwell was banned in the GDR, but he would have had access to it. Because he so wanted the room number to be 101, he had the entire first floor renamed the mezzanine, and so his office was Room 101.’ (Stasiland by Anna Funder, 2002.)


Laughter in the Dark.

A cannot leave this page on such a grim note. Let us hear again from our Hungarian friends as they emerge from the whirring revolving doors of the Communazi Statehouse that has ruled the minds of their compatriots these past seventy years. These are the émigrés who in their exile pilloried the ‘The Maniac’ and ‘The Devil of the Crooked Cross’.

Look. They’re being watched by an undercover agent, but undeterred they can still spare us a moment for a couple of quick-fire gags. Does it matter whether their targets are the Soviets or the Nazis . . . they are Big Brother by any other name.
A poor old Russian man enters his local police station and timidly complains to the policeman. ‘A Swiss soldier has stolen my Russian wrist-watch!’ The policeman shakes his fist in rage at the old man. ‘Grandfather. Please speak good sense! A Swiss soldier steals a Russian wrist-watch?  Surely you mean a Russian soldier has stolen your Swiss wrist-watch!’  The old man grins slyly.  ‘You said it, not me.’ 
And, finally, the elusive ‘Eureka Moment’ we’ve so very often conjectured must have occurred:
Have you heard the one about the absentminded German professor, a former student of Nietzsche, who set about his breakfast one morning with the aim to boil an egg. So he takes his wristwatch and drops it into the boiling water, holding, instead of the watch, the egg in his hand – the egg he wanted to boil. And the watch is boiled to pieces while the egg remains as raw as before. Whereupon the professor invents his Theory of the Master Race.
What time is it? Correct. The clocks are striking thirteen.

About George Tabori.

George Tabori, veteran dramatist, Brecht expert and author of The Brecht File, was intimately familiar with the theme of The Victim which foreshadows many of the moral ambiguities found in Jorge Luis BorgesDeutsches Requiem. Tabori was born in Budapest, Hungary in 1914. His father died in Auschwitz in 1944, but his mother and his brother Paul Tabori (writer and psychical researcher), managed to escape the Nazis. During the 1930s Tabori worked as a journalist. Exiled from his homeland by the Nazis, Tabori eventually landed in America and made his way to Hollywood, where he came into contact with the European exile community. He met and worked with some of the most prominent anti-fascist artists, including Heinrich and Thomas Mann. He developed film scripts for Alfred Hitchcock (I Confess, 1953) and Joseph Losey, among others – and he met Bertolt Brecht on three occasions. 


*About Paul Tabori

As to Prolekult, I can’t resist adding Paul Tabori’s very amusing account of his days in Hungary as a hack ‘galley slave’ for a publisher who believed ‘that the drabber and more humdrum human existence is, the greater the thirst for romance and escapist thrill. [He] pandered almost exclusively to the cultural needs of domestic servants: cooks, chambermaids, waitresses, charwomen — all of whom were underpaid and overworked in my country. He published fiction in instalments for them . . . he believed in wish-dreams and their vicarious fulfilment in print . . . And the standard opening, for some curious and inexplicable reason, ran something like this: “My mother was an honest washerwoman, my father a handsome sailor whom a storm swept from the deck one night in the Atlantic.” . . . We must have killings and elopings and swoonings and guilty secrets.’
Private Gallery by Paul Tabori, 1944.
(Illustrated by Biro, a fellow Budapestian in exile.)

From Paul Tabori’s Private Gallery (1944) illustrated by Biro:
‘Suicide was not punished by the country’s laws; anybody could
take his or her life — because the country was poor and lives
were worth practically nothing. The bridges over the Danube
were patrolled . . . to fish out the unfortunate divers . . . the country
had the unenviable record of possessing almost the highest
suicide rate in Europe.” [Today, the statistics for Europe appear to
be unchanged from 1944: according to WHO, Hungary follows
Lithuania and Russia in the suicide rate recorded per 100,000
inhabitants. Lithuania (28.2), Russia (19.5), Hungary third (19.1).]


For the Godfather at the Birth of Winston Smith, see Year Zero, a Thing with One Face:

For German literary antisemitism in 1944, see also
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/between-life-and-death-january-14-1944.html


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)

Thursday, 8 March 2018

English Manners: the Gentle Art of Jew-Baiting . . . the Holy Terror and His Honour the Judge.

A gulf of ignorance – or more probably the detachment of an inbred disinterest – can go but only a little way towards explaining the seeming heartlessness of English satirists and respected fictionists in their characterisation of Jews as comic victims of ridicule in the first half of the 20th Century, their prejudices imbued, we may assume, with stiff-necked attitudes so often customary in the works of their 19th Century literary masters.

It’s a kind of Pavlovian response that is no better instanced than in this character sketch by the popular English novelist Henry Seton Merriman when exhibiting his deep-dyed hostility to one of his villains (1892).

He was dark of hair with a sallow complexion and a long drooping nose—the nose of Semitic ancestors. A small mouth, and the chin running almost to a point . . . He returned and stood at the table with slightly bowed legs—not the result of much riding, although he wore top-boots and breeches as if of daily habit—but a racial defect handed down like the nasal brand from remote progenitors . . . He knew that he only possessed one thing to risk, namely, his life; and true to his racial instinct, he valued this very highly, looking for an extortionate usury on his stake . . . Here again was the taint of the blood that ran in his veins. The curse had reached him—in addition to the long, sad nose and the bandy legs . . . for a Jew never makes a soldier or a sailor, and they are rarely found in those positions unless great gain is holden up.

The Old Bunch.

Like Anton Chekhov in his early drama, Platonov, even a modern master of sophisticated English prose can fall prey to reflexive prejudices as a product of an atavistic cultural inheritance. 

Consider, then, Evelyn Waugh in whose Vile Bodies (1930) there can be read ‘Dirty yid,’ spoken of a Jew by a struggling actress; indeed, there is also Waugh’s Scoop in which the foreign correspondents arriving in Ishmaelia are described as ‘All the old bunch,’ with the exclusion of just one reporter. Yes, and there’s a highbrow yid . . . but we don’t count him.’

For those who affect the condescending manners of the quintessential Mayfair Man-About-Town we should look no further than The Romantic Lady (1921) by Michael Arlen, a bestselling writer of Armenian origin. There is an offhand back-handed putdown of another émigré class in this character sketch : 

[He] had actively sat as member for __ since he was twenty-six, was now recognised as one of the leaders of the Opposition, and certain, in spite of his youth, of office at the fall of the Liberal ministry. It was after all, so original of him to be so clever and polished and dark and ambitious without being a Jew.
From his writings it’s clear that Michael Arlen cunningly adopted an English class consciousness and xenophobia to negotiate the exclusiveness of London’s high society. And, here, in this passage can be detected a kind of inverted antisemitism, which both praises the virtuosic outsider and condemns him.

Today we can spot this same knee-jerk cultural envy in the long-running cartoon strip in the satirical magazine, Private Eye, which lampoons London’s publishing houses whose founders, in many well known instances, were émigré Jews of exceptional brilliance who’d coupled their names with certain scions of the tweed-jacketed English County Gentry. Thus, Snipcock & Tweed.

The brass plate of Snipcock & Tweed may have slipped over time, but its significations still have a precarious hold on Britain’s collective unconscious . . . and stir half-forgotten guilty impressions from reading certain popular fictions in our youth . . .


Dateline for despatches from the Empire of Xenophobia.
So let’s take a look at these extracts from pages of hazy recall with their concordances to a DATELINE of world events at the time of publication as a sobering counterpoint. As Max Hastings writes in the same vein: 
‘Before the second world war, such [antisemitic] sentiments were commonplace, not least in the “Clubland Hero” thrillers of Buchan, Sapper and Dornford Yates. “Bolshevik Jews” were responsible for many of the villainous conspiracies frustrated by Richard Hannay, Bulldog Drummond and Jonah Mansell, before they gave the culprits a good flogging.’
Let us then begin with a quintessential Edwardian . . . because I intend this modest conspectus of hints and glints and glimpses to end with one.


The Un-Rest Cure.

We begin in the first decade of the 20th Century with Saki (H H Munro). 

           DATELINE 1911: The persecution from recurring outbreaks of 
           pogroms has driven over 2 million Jews to flee the Russian 
           Empire between 1881 and 1910. 

           “To-night is going to be a great night in the history of Christendom,” said Clovis. 
           “We are going to massacre every Jew in the neighbourhood.”
           To massacre the Jews!” said Huddle indignantly. “Do you mean to tell me 
           there’s a general rising against them?”
           No, it’s the Bishop’s own idea. He’s in there arranging all the details now.”
           But—the Bishop is such a tolerant, humane man.”
           “That is precisely what will heighten the effect of his action. The sensation will 
           be enormous.”
           That at least Huddle could believe.
           “He will be hanged!” he exclaimed with conviction.
           A motor is waiting to carry him to the coast, where a steam yacht is in 
           readiness.”
           “But there aren’t thirty Jews in the whole neighbourhood,” protested Huddle, 
           whose brain, under the repeated shocks of the day, was operating with the 
           uncertainty of a telegraph wire during earthquake disturbances.
           “We have twenty-six on our list,” said Clovis, referring to a bundle of notes. 
           “We shall be able to deal with them all the more thoroughly.” 
                                                                                                              [ The Unrest-Cure, 1911.]

Before they’re sorted out ...

Here, as we advance into the 1930s, ‘well-bred’ snobbery blends with not-so-subtle racial antipathy signalled by biblical allusion to the condemned and redeemed.

           DATELINE 1933: The Nazi Party assumes control of the German
           state and the SS establishes the Dachau concentration camp.
I put up at . . . a second-rate hole [in Paris] . . . It had two distinct clienteles . . . there was a sprinkling of English honeymooners . . . balanced by an equally large sprinkling of doubtful Semites; altogether a very well-proportioned mixture of sheeps and goats—like Judgement Day, you know, only before they’re sorted out.
[Risk by Margery Sharp, 1933.                  
From The Strand Magazine .]                 


They make everyone do jus’ what they like 
an’ send them to prison if they don’t.
Yes, the insular British can be blinkered to the point of ostrich-like self-deception, but what is difficult to accept, however, is the cold reality of an extraordinarily casual dismissal of human suffering by that favourite English schoolboy mischief-maker, William Brown, created by Richmal Crompton.

           DATELINE 1935: The antisemitic Nuremberg Laws for the Protection 
           of German Blood and German Honour are passed in Nazi Germany 
           by the Reichstag; together with the Reich Citizenship Law, which 
           declares that only those of German or related blood are eligible 
           to be Reich citizens.
‘What did you say they were called?’ said William.                       ‘Nasties,’ replied Henry, who as usual was the fount of information on the subject.                                                                 ‘They can't be called nasties,’ said William. ‘No one would call themselves a name like that. That mus’ be what people call them that don’t like them.’                                                          ‘No, it’s their real name,’ persisted Henry. ‘They really are called nasties. Nasty means something quite different in Germany.’                                                                                                ‘Don’t be silly,’ said William. ‘Nasty couldn't mean anything but nasty anywhere. What do they do?’                           ‘They rule all the country,’ said Henry, ‘an’ make everyone do jus’ what they like an’ send them to prison if they don’t.’                                                                                              ‘I’d be one of them if I was in that country,’ said William, ‘but I bet I’d find a better name than nasty.’                                    ‘I tell you nasty means somethin’ else in Germany,’ said Henry.                                                                                                      ‘Well, why can’t they say somethin’ else instead of nasty then?’ demanded William. ‘Haven’t they got any sense? What else do they do?’
                                                                                            [ William and the Nasties, 1935.]



‘The Effects from Transfusion of Jewish Blood.’

From the 1937 Year Book of a British Commercial College (Secretarial Shorthand and Typing), this ‘Joke’ is recorded ‘A man after a serious operation had to undergo a blood-transfusion, and the blood was given by a Jew, who was presented with £10. A few months later it became again essential for another transfusion and, after the sacrifice by the same donor, the man rewarded him with £5. Unfortunately, bad luck fell his way again and the same procedure took place, but this time the donor received nothing!’

            DATELINE 1937: Under the Reich, plans are laid to ban Jewish 
            doctors from treating non-Jewish patients, a ban effective in 
            July of the following year.

 

‘I must say we could do with a bit of Hitler here . . .’

That an Oxford Professor of Poetry, Cecil Day Lewis, could conceive in 1938, even as caricature, the callous views in the passage quoted, below, is all the more remarkable from the lover of a distinguished woman of Jewish lineage, Rosamond Lehmann, his mistress of a nine-year affair.

            DATELINE 1938: Exclusion of Jews by a new German decree closes 
            all Jewish-owned businesses. In desperation, Jewish parents send 
            their unaccompanied children abroad to escape Nazi persecution.
            The first Kindertransport arrives in Great Britain.

            A film executive introduces the novel’s protagonist to a starlet who complains
            of Weinberg, a producer, and takes to task one of Weinberg’s sidekicks, another
            imputed Jew who’s made advances to her. She protests all in a rush: 
‘I keep on telling Weinberg he must ring up the Embassy and have the man deported the country’s not big enough to hold both of us either he goes or I but of course all these Jews are in league I must say we could do with a bit of Hitler here though I do rather bar rubber truncheons and sterilisation . . .’
                                                                       [The Beast Must Die by Cecil Day Lewis 
                                                                                    writing as Nicholas Blake, 1938.]


‘A sub-Aryan called Cohen.’

And what are we to make of this unthinking character sketch in 1939 from a master practitioner from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction, Cyril Hare, once appointed to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions before he was made a county court judge.

            DATELINE 1939: Germany’s occupation of Czechoslovakia begins.
            Germany invades Poland.  Persecution of Jews in Poland and     
            Czechoslovakia; all Jews in Nazi controlled territory forced to wear 
            the yellow star.
‘There’s no such person – in the office of Vanning, Waldron and Smith, anyway.’                                                                                                                            ‘How do you know?’                                                                                                  ‘I looked them up in the official list . . . I checked up on accountants as well. And there wasn’t a Vanning . . . Not a solitary one. So far as this crowd goes, the partners now are Waldron, Smith and a sub-Aryan called Cohen . . . ’
                                                                                        [Suicide Excepted, p.154. 1939.
                                                                                                                       by Cyril Hare,       
                                                                                    Judge Gordon Clark, 1900-1958]  

‘A modern Jewish colony provokes an outburst . . .’

A feted writer of children’s fiction, John Verney, an old-Etonian (see Harold Macmillan below) reveals in 1940, in letters home from Israel, residual prejudices from his schooldays. It is true that at that time, in the early days of WW2, this young English soldier would not have been deeply aware of the Shoah whose full horror was to be uncovered by Allied combatants in the latter days of the war.

            DATELINE 1940: In May, SS command establishes the Auschwitz 
            concentration camp (Auschwitz I) outside the Polish city of 
            Oswiecim, located in German-annexed Upper Silesia. 
            In November, German authorities order the Warsaw ghetto to 
            be sealed, confining more than 350,000 Jews (about 30 percent 
            of the city's population) in an area of about 1.3 square miles, 
A wounded dog bites any hand however friendly and to bite at something, at everything, became for me too often the means of relieving my feelings. A few weeks later the contrast between my own state and the sight of happy civilians leading a normal life in a modern Jewish colony provoked the following outburst:                                                                                 “The spring is fully upon us in a blaze of sunny days and sprouting grasses. The red mud everywhere has turned to green, the birds sing as never before, the anemones grow out of the concrete and the young repulsive Jewish male casts a furtive suggestive look at the young repulsive Jewish female as they walk together beside the plough.”                     In the mood I was then in, I am sure I would have written the same words had I found myself in Scotland instead of in Israel. 
                                                                    [Going to the Wars by John Verney 1955]
                                                                                   
Harold MacMillan, 
1st Earl of Stockton 
Eton (1906–10)


Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose . . .  
and so to the UK in the 1980s . . .   
to recall an Edwardian Etonian’s celebrated bon mot.  

[A telling extract from You can take the boy out of Eton . . . by Nick Fraser from The Guardian, 2005.]    

There have been a number of Etonian prime ministers, among them William Ewart Gladstone, and, in modern times, AJ Balfour, Anthony Eden, Harold Macmillan and Sir Alec Douglas-Home. More than half the members of AJ Balfour's 1902 cabinet were Etonians, but there were nine in Macmillan’s 1956 government and 11 in Douglas-Home’s.  Neither Ted Heath (cabinet-maker’s son) nor Margaret Thatcher (grocer’s daughter) displayed any conspicuous love for Eton. There were Etonians in Thatcher's first cabinet, but it appears that she didn’t feel easy in their presence. 

In 1983, she sacked four of the most prominent Tory Etonians, prompting Macmillan's snobbish (and anti-semitic) mot about there being more Old Estonians than Old Etonians in the cabinet. 

Last Word from T S Eliot at 5.55pm September 14th 1943, Wigmore Hall, London.

We know with certainty that at teatime, on an autumnal Tuesday in London, T S Eliot spoke these lines from his Gerontion:

            My house is a decayed house,
            And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
            Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp . . .

During the WW2, over 20,000 of the Antwerp’s Jews perished in the Holocaust, rounded up between 1941 and 1942 by the Germans with the collaboration of the local police. 

In his TS Eliot, Anti-semitism and Literary Form Anthony Julius writes: ‘Eliot’s offence lies in his willingness to give offence, in his deployment of anti-semitic language. Eliot’s anti-semitic poetry is very deft . . .  Refusing either to acquiesce in, or to rail at, Eliot’s contempt for Jews, one strives to do justice to the many injustices Eliot does to Jews. This is what adversarial reading allows. It is an alternative to two kinds of silence: the coercive silence of censorship, the passive silence of the submissive reader. It combines resistance with respect.’

Post postscriptum: Cricket averages of consuming interest to Brits.

A British P.o.W. escapee, who was witness to the genocidal purges of the Nazi regime, explains:
“War crime!” sneered McIntosh. “I paid my first visit to Belsen in ’38, Major, when you people back home knew more about Hutton’s centuries than Hitler’s rest-homes for the Jews. Things were much the same then as they were later.”
Richard Pape. Fortune Is My Enemy (1957)           



For German literary antisemitism in 1944, see also

See also my father’s despatch from Paris in 1944



For a tragedy of a native German’s alienation in the face of the NSDAP’s inexorable rise to power incited by antisemitism see also my The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K at the South Bank Poetry Library



Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)
and Listen Close to Me (2011)