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.

https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2018/02/between-life-and-death-january-14-1944.html 

and:

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

https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2014/03/rates-of-exchange-ici-francais.html

An Émigré Childhood. Opus 42. Southern England 1942.

          There was a time when skies made shadows of

          those great wings that cursed our house a midday dark,               where echoes hid a mute Heil Ludendorff!

          and La Vie Parisienne by Offenbach.

          Always the notes of Chopin’s Waltz impend. 

          Father playing, but never to the end. 

 

The dancer stumbles.

A minute later I lifted the lid to the keyboard and adjusted my piano stool.

            I have since read that seers believe that to dream of playing a piano is a favourable omen and means the discovery of something of great value in a surprising place; so I resolved to realise my dream of the night before.

            I experienced a feeling of equipoise I had not known since I last rode Dinah ... a balanced seat, hands-free, independent of the reins.

            In my opinion it is actually more difficult to run into bar 210 of Valse in A-flat Opus 42 where the waltz ‘stumbles’ than emerge from it – one runs the risk of sounding as if one has simply walked into a wall, rather than suspending the breath for a moment – hence, this artifice of ineptitude is not easy to achieve and, even though Chopin intended to simulate a clumsy dancer’s imbalance before her lost rhythm is regained, the player’s assumed clumsiness must be diligently practiced over and over again.

            So, creating this suspension requires exceptional finesse in timing and shades of dynamics and balance, which, to my way of thinking, is the more difficult task.

            In my father’s case, alas, the task was performed never with consummate success, as though the passage was a nagging regret and he had to return again and again to pick a sore.  (Father would tune his piano himself by feeding a reference note into an oscilloscope an army pal of his had once used for reading radar; he’d then retune the fifths until they were slightly flat. Those dancing waveforms on a monitor screen, as I told the doctors, I always associate with Chopin’s waltzes.)

            For my own part, my effortless arpeggiation on the evening I returned from Boy’s funeral, and my faultless span at bar 255 – which had once made such demands on the extensive stretch of my Father’s left hand – meant I rode the home-straight cooly through the flurry of that passionate coda, and reached the winning post at last, luckily without a fall ... until pent up grief all at once welled up and burst my heart.

Extract from Dispossession       

Part 11 of Sister Morphine (Salt 2008)       

 

 

For particularly recherché (even prophetic) examples of la poésie concrète likewise revealng my father’s ‘deep continent’ brand of polymathy, see The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K. and . . .
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2016/04/circo-perfuso-fato-sanguinis.html
 

The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K are exhibited at the Arts Council Poetry Collection website administered by the Poetry Library at Royal Festival Hall in London’s Southbank Centre . . .

http://poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/recordbfb6.html?id=9440 

The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K 

(1902-1939)

A Memoir of a Numeromaniacal Futurist

    

 

Lower than dirt

Once I lived lower than dirt; below,
in the basement area,

under the steps to my master’s front door.

I would dread his return
from the brickyards where
of those mute slaves 
there was not one who did not fear
their hellbent master
and quake at his tread.

Many times, on his approach, 
the brute would bawl my name;
stamp a tantrum at his door
to bid his craven drudge:
‘Take off my boots!’

And there, on that door step,

so near above my head,
there at that boot scraper,
under his tyrant heel

he stamps out the dirt
while I, his bootblack,  
suffer his taunts to bear 
all the cold earth

all the cold earth
he rains down
 to mire my hair.

Ranting.
Ever stomping
to mire my hair.

Until the day I fled away
and seven years passed before
the Time of Rain and Retribution brought
a brown mudslide to bury 
all the master’s works:

the city 

the brickyard

his house

he had built to
last a thousand years.

Misfortune seldom comes alone to a house.

                                             Catherine Eisner             

                                    25.01.2019             

   

For the photograph of the 19th Century boot scraper that lends substance to this text we are indebted to the documentarian, Areta, and her fascinating explorations of the former Austrian empire in her scholarly website:

http://forgottengalicia.com/

Oderint dum metuant*

             Though endlessly in his City of Stone

             From every corner of the Boulevards

             His voice is yammering from his Hectorphone

             He cannot awake his petrified guards.

* ‘Let them hate, so long as they fear.’ (Attributed to Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Roman emperor, AD 37–41, otherwise ‘Caligula’.)

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

I have mentioned here and there, somewhat tangentially, the dilemma of my German-born father, accused by his sister in a fierce letter from Berlin (November 17, 1929) of becoming a stereotypical arch-Englishman (Stock-Engländer).
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/we-are-all-vermin-now.html 

Inevitably, these emotional complexities were compounded by the outbreak of war in 1939, though by that date (September 3 1939) my father had been in the Territorials for more than a year. As I have also intimated, his rôle during the war in the Psychological Warfare Division of SHAEF (General Eisenhower’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) was concerned with the military intelligence to be derived from the closest scrutiny of captured enemy documents, the specialism of the G-2 Documents Section . . . ephemera such as identification papers, Promotions Lists, Casualty Reports, Soldbücher (see below), Travel Orders, photos, notebooks, and captured enemy letters, generally seized unopened at a Feldpost.

The judicious release to the Allied press of enemy propaganda of the vilest sort was also part of his duties. I have, locked away in my plan-chest, a black museum of the most monstrous anti-Semitic propaganda imaginable, a collection my father amassed at G-2.

I have mentioned also that my father was an interpreter at the Nuremberg Trials. No doubt the documents in the files I now possess relate to the trials of those war criminals. Certainly, my father retained signed orders from the most notorious of the accused, including Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring and Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel. Here are their signatures . . .

Out of the blue,  late last year,  my sister dropped by with a number of additional documents relating to my father . . . in particular,  a most illuminating (albeit rather stilted) letter to his former peacetime employers in London written from Paris, exactly two months after the liberation of the city . . .

Speer & Hitler, Paris, June 1940 (Keitel, left, Bormann, right)

October 31st 1944
G-2 Division
SHAEF

. . . As you may have gathered from the envelope I am now overseas. Colossal strides have been made if one recalls some of the milestones of the war since that memorable day when we Territorials quite suddenly had to break off in the middle of what ever we happened to be doing and rush to man our respective posts as soldiers.

The Battle of Britain with which most of us are only too familiar; the exploits in Africa where the enemy despite crafty leadership was outwitted and in the end successfully routed; the heroic defence of Stalingrad and the gigantic offensives launched by Russia, with their implications for the subsequent course of the war and on Allied strategy; the first major assault on the European mainland in Italy resulting in the capitulation of the first Axis power; the overwhelming success of the long awaited invasion of the Continent on the heavily defended coast of France; the liberation of peoples from the yoke of oppression. Now, at last, the Allies have set foot on German soil. What a formidable record!

It would be imprudent to hazard a guess when it will all be over; however, judging by the stiffening of resistance, due, no doubt, both to coercion and the diabolical exploitation of every conceivable morale-bolstering device in the vain attempt to frustrate what must be a foregone conclusion, it may mean to a great extent razing down to the ground the domain of a sadly misguided people until the erstwhile mighty Nazi stronghold has been completely crumbled. While not forgetting the task in hand is far from completed one cannot escape the thought that all of this will have been accomplished not without a price which must never be forgotten by those who through Providence may be permitted to return. Upon them in particular will devolve the onerous responsibility effectively to contribute – by steering well clear of such extremes as political apathy and Chauvinism – to the shaping of a new world era from which the spectre of war will be banished for all times.

Nightmare scenes of destruction.  

It has been my privilege to see many of the historic places in Normandy where not so very long ago fierce battles raged, such as Bayeux, Caen, Carentan, Évreux, Isigny, Lisieux, etc, and to share to some extent in the rejoicing of a people who have once again regained their freedom. If one happens to venture along some French streets, it is touching to be surrounded by children who in their innocence seek to express gratitude for something of which they are only dimly conscious by eagerly seizing your hand and muttering ‘Merci’ or even ‘Thank You’. Not without a feeling of awe does one cross bridges still crudely labelled with names which have gone down into history. The ferocity of the contest is brought home to the onlooker by scenes of destruction and devastation unlikely to occur even in a nightmare. Yet amid these ruins courageous people still dwell and go about their daily business. To heighten the incongruity these places are gaily bedecked with flags, bunting and signs expressing thanks and a welcome to the liberators. While travelling along the open roads one may encounter numerous disabled or burnt-out tanks lined up alongside, and frequent concentrations of craters testify to the strafing of a convoy; moreover, many fragments of wrecked planes clearly showing Swastika markings may be discerned in the fields as one drives by, and now and again a new cemetery symmetrically laid out with countless uniform crosses.

Faded flowers and chips in the masonry.  

Last, but by no means least I, have been to that historic bone of contention named Versailles and to the mecca of the Americans: PARIS. From the fashion point of view, I am bound to remark that the female of the species still goes around extremely well dressed despite sartorial shortages of different kinds and I am confounded more often than not by the monstrous headgear which appears to be in vogue at the moment. When I think that only fairly recently I was still in my own home, especially on that day when General de Gaulle entered Paris, listening to the excited commentator describing the dramatic entry into Notre Dame, it is certainly thrilling to be able to write and say one has been there and, among other places, in the Place de la Concorde where signs of the barricades and chips in the masonry continue to tell their story. In fact, other visible evidence of the former Occupation has not yet been completely effaced either. Countless German inscriptions on buildings, signs and even on big posters may still be seen. A more tragic note was struck when in a lonely street on a fence I observed a piece of cardboard recording in crude handwriting that on a certain date some Frenchmen had been assassinated on that spot by the ‘Boches’. No more and no less, except for a bunch of faded flowers still wrapped in paper dangling from a piece of string surmounting the sign.

Flourishing black market.  

Apart from the congested travel on the ‘Metro’ and on a few isolated ’bus services, life in the great capital seems to be fairly normal so far as I can judge. The cafés and a good many places of entertainment appear to be in full swing. People are manifestly pleased with the change liberation has brought them, and many a harrowing tale has been related to me of sufferings and privations which had formerly to be contended with. Prices in the shops are exceedingly high compared with ours, especially at the present rate of exchange. It may perhaps be attributed to the flourishing state of black market activities and possibly still to the earlier rate of exchange fixed by the Germans, which I understand was approximately 16–24 francs to 1 Reichemark, thus enabling them to buy up as much as they cared  At the arbitrary rate of francs 10 = shilling 1/-, or £ = frs 200, Allied policy obviously wishes to discourage military personnel from making purchases in order not to deprive the indigenous population of their rightful commodities. In this connection I must relate an incident which I shall always remember.

Lost appetite.

On the occasion of a visit to Paris after a strenuous morning sightseeing the inner man asserted himself with particular vehemence. Not realising the prevailing conditions and carrying on my person the equivalent of approximately £2 I had no compunction in entering what seemed to be a restaurant of modern pretensions. I partook of a most enjoyable meal and just regretted the absence of potatoes with my main dish only to find that they were served afterwards as a separate course! A Frenchman sitting nearby who had consumed much along the same lines as I, had meanwhile finished and asked for the bill. He took out his wallet and to my ever-growing astonishment counted out a vast number of notes which I saw were of Francs 100 denomination. My appetite thereupon dwindled rapidly and I must confess to feelings of great trepidation when with a shaky voice I eventually mustered sufficient courage to demand l’addition. To my surprise the waitress summoned the proprietress who came to my table and harangued me in a pretty little speech to the effect that I was the first soldier of the Anglo-American forces to enter her restaurant and that in no circumstances would she accept payment from me. I was utterly dumbfounded for the moment and after muttering not too emphatic expressions of reluctance to accept her offer I managed to say that I respected her sentiments and would she in the circumstances do me the honour to accept a packet of cigarettes which I knew were at a premium in Paris. With faint protestations she too decided to acquiesce whereupon with a sensation of great relief I sallied forth into the street, leaving with great magnanimity a tip equivalent to 5 shillings in our currency representing but a tiny fraction of what my meal should have cost me! 

Stand-in Germans.  

[Real names suppressed.] It with a sense of deep gratitude at being able, if only in trifling measure, to reciprocate the firm’s tangible goodwill to the militant members of staff that I now come to report on my visit to the Paris branch office. I had hoped to be the first British representative of the firm to cross their threshold since the Occupation, but I learned that I had been forestalled by a Major ‘J’ whom I cannot place. The only ‘J’ I knew was taken prisoner at beginning of the war. The Major ‘J’ in question is supposed to be a very able linguist and though this applies also to the young man I knew, there is still a discrepancy of age as I understand Major ‘J’ is about 50. When I paid my first visit to the Rue Rodier I made the acquaintance of a Monsieur ‘M’, whom I assume to be the manager, and in the absence of both M. Rosenberg and Mr ‘H’, he was good enough to answer the various questions I raised in the course of quite a long conversation . . . During the occupation the firm was in the charge of two Germans in all, one at a time over different periods, who supervised the business. They were supposed to have been very capable, extremely correct in their dealings, and drew only a nominal salary of frs 2,000 per month. 

Anti-Semitic measures enforced. 

Naturally, I enquired after M. Rosenberg and I was told that he had been in during the morning and was not expected to return that day. It was not possible to reach him on the ’phone as this was still cut off as a result of the anti-Semitic measures enforced during the Occupation. Mr ‘H’, I was given to understand, had been interned in Vittel [concentration camp in the Vosges department,  where US or British citizens were interned] and had only returned the night before. Monsieur ‘M’ managed to get through to him on the ’phone eventually and I was invited to call on him at his home. There I also met Mrs ‘H’ and we all had tea together. I must say that for his age he look remarkably well and fit and really showed no signs on the ordeal he had just been through. As I happened to be among the first to see him, even before he had been able to see M. Rosenberg, there was nothing much he could say beyond express his intention to look up his contacts.  

A true Frenchman. 

Meanwhile, it has been my good fortune to pay another visit to Paris and this time I managed to see both M. Rosenberg and Mr ‘H’. M. Rosenberg was very charming indeed and I was profoundly moved by his dignified composure when I consider the infinite mental anguish and physical suffering it has been his lot to endure. Though I gather from Monsieur ‘M’ that he has aged considerably, his bearing was agile and his speech lacks none of the sparkle and animation associated with a true Frenchman. He expressed his satisfaction so far as business matters were concerned and regarded it as a major miracle to be able to report that the firm had lost no money despite having been under German control for so many years.
[END of my father’s Letter extracts.]

A booby-trapped piano. 

The routed enemy knew about human weakness, my father told me, particularly how liberating troops would eagerly go after for souvenirs. It was these items that the retreating Germans booby-trapped in France . . . he said you should never pick up helmets, rifles, thermos flasks or cameras left behind in enemy billets, because these could trigger trip-wires connected to igniting devices intended to dynamite souvenir hunters to shreds.  

Resist the fatal impulse to pry, he was warned. Igniting devices could be left in the piano, the closet, the stove, the icebox, behind pictures, beneath dishes and flower bowls or even in a chamber pot underneath the bed . . . or . . .
  

Mid Sussex Times, August 9 1944.

As I have recorded elsewhere, my father was a gifted pianist who studied in Vienna and the Institute of Musical Art, New York. We can imagine, then – in that Paris autumn of 1944 – how his strong desire to run his fingers once again over the keyboard of a splendid grand piano, the centrepiece of a fashionable salon lately abandoned by German officers, was almost his undoing,  . . . had he pressed one piano-key, he told me, he could have tripped the enemy’s surprise package and blown his outfit into kingdom come.

In my writings, my sketches of my father as a pianist are rare, but here, below, is a quotation that describes his postwar manner, which was undoubtedly conditioned by his struggle to resolve the crisis of a divided identity, which would in the late 1940s lead to a troubled crack-up. At that time, specialists had concluded that the confusion associated with my father’s disrupted identity was the result of psychological stresses underlying his bilingualism. That there was a higher incidence of mental disturbances among polyglots, the shrinks claimed, was evidence of the trauma of assimilation.

In my opinion it is actually more difficult to run into bar 210 of Valse in A-flat Opus 42 where the waltz ‘stumbles’ than emerge from it – one runs the risk of sounding as if one has simply walked into a wall, rather than suspending the breath for a moment – hence, this artifice of ineptitude is not easy to achieve and, even though Chopin intended to simulate a clumsy dancer’s imbalance before her lost rhythm is regained, the player’s assumed clumsiness must be diligently practiced over and over again.
     So, creating this suspension requires exceptional finesse in timing and shades of dynamics and balance, which, to my way of thinking, is the more difficult task.
     In my father’s case, alas, the task was performed never with consummate success, as though the passage was a nagging regret and he had to return again and again to pick a sore.  (Father would tune his piano himself by feeding a reference note into an oscilloscope an army pal of his had once used for reading radar; he’d then retune the fifths until they were slightly flat. Those dancing waveforms on a monitor screen, as I told the doctors, I always associate with Chopin’s waltzes.) 

This extract is from the episode, Dispossession, in my Sister Morphine (Salt 2008) . . .
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html 

For a tragedy of true alienation, see also my The Eleven Surviving Works of L v. K at the South Bank Poetry Library. . .
http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=9440