Эрнст Юнгер - A German Officer in Occupied Paris - The War Journals, 1941-1945

By contrast, the terrible activity of the Volkspartei [168] Here, the NSDAP (National Socialist Party). has hardly wavered in the wake of this offensive. Yes, it has been instructive. One does not heal the body during the crisis, neither in whole nor in part. Even if the operation were to succeed, today we would have instead of one pustule a dozen, with hanging judges holding court in every village, street, and house. We are undergoing a test that is justified and necessary; there is no reversing this machinery.

Telephone call from General Loehning from Hannover reporting that everything in Kirchhorst is fine. His jokes surprised me, for without doubt all conversations are monitored. Immediately afterward, I got the terrible news from Neuhaus that yesterday on the way to Berlin, Heinrich von Stülpnagel had put his own pistol to his head. He is still alive, but he has lost his sight. That must have happened at the same hour for which he had invited me to his table for a philosophical discussion. I was moved by the fact that during all the commotion, he actually canceled the meal. That is typical of his character.

Oh, how the victims are dying here, and especially in the smallest circles of the last chivalric men, of those freethinkers—the very people who are superior to the others, whose feelings and thoughts are but petty emotions. And yet these sacrifices are nonetheless important because they create an inner space and prevent the nation as a whole from falling into the horrifying depths of fate.

I heard that the first question the general asked when he woke up blind was about the facilities at the hospital. He wanted to know whether the senior physician found everything satisfactory. He is already being isolated by attendants who are also guards; he is a prisoner.

I thought about our conversation by the fireplace in Vaux about Stoic philosophy and that the gate of death is always open to man, and that given this reality, decisive action is possible. These are frightening lessons.

Visited General von Niedermayer in the afternoon, who vaguely reminds me of the Oriental scholar Hammer-Purgstall—I mean in the way that the Eastern ethos, the Asiatic spirit, can inhabit a person—his ideas, his deeds, even to the point of affecting his exterior.

In the army, the so-called German salute has been introduced as a sign that they have lost the contest. [169] See Notes from the Caucasus , Kirchhorst, 21 January 1943. E. J.’s comment acknowledges the subservience of the army to the Party. This is one of the recent formalities to make people submit sub jugo [under the yoke] several times a day. This can also be seen as the progress of mechanization.

The Americans are in Pisa, the Russians in Lemberg [Lviv] and Lublin.

At the table we discussed Laval and his superstitions, including the one involving the white necktie he wears. He also always carries a copper two sous coin with him and steers clear of negotiations if he has forgotten it. He is convinced of his luck, of his guiding star, and took it as a particularly good omen that he had been born with a caul. At his birth, this lay upon his head, which popular superstition sees as an auspicious portent. Well, we shall see.

At Vogel’s in the evening. We talked about the details of the assassination attempt, which Vogel had been informed about. The effect of such actions is beyond calculation; usually very different forces are unleashed than what the perpetrator expected. They exert influence less in the direction than in the rhythm of historical events: the process is either accelerated or inhibited. An example of the first kind happened in response to an attempt on Lenin’s life, whereas Fieschi’s attack on Louis Phillippe retarded the progress of the democratic cause. Generally speaking, we can observe that an assassination attempt, if not actually abetting the cause of its target, at least propels it violently forward.

A peculiar mechanism of history is that the flaws of the German are being exposed as the wheel of fortune carries him downward. He is now feeling the experience of the Jew: being a skandalon [stumbling block, offense]. Whenever the conversation would turn to this topic, Valeriu Marcu used to say that the vanquished are plague carriers.

Panic is spreading through the Raphael. Types are turning up who can’t be called superiors in the old sense of the word. Instead they are commissars, and they are utterly destroying the last bonds that have remained intact since the days of Friedrich Wilhelm I.

My final breakfast with the Doctoresse. My way back takes me along Rue de Varenne, where as usual I am enchanted by the tall entryways typical of the old palaces of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. They were built to permit wagons piled high with hay access to the stables. A cloudburst drove me indoors for a short visit to the Musée Rodin, which would not have otherwise attracted me. The Waves of Sea and Love . [170] Reference to the drama Des Meeres und der Liebe Wellen (1831) by the Austrian playwright Franz Grillparzer treating the mythological story of Hero and Leander. E. J. could have been reminded of these tragic lovers by Rodin’s sculpture of Cupid and Psyche. Future archaeologists may find these images right below the layer containing tanks and aerial bombs. People will then ask what could link the two so closely, and they will propose clever hypotheses.

Max Valentiner arrived from Lyons. In the South, the pure ethos of the lemures seems to be spreading. For instance, he told about a woman who had already been in prison there for four months. Two henchmen of the Secret Service were discussing what to do with her since she showed little interest in the matter they had arrested her for. “We could shoot her too. Then we’d be rid of her.”

Visited Dr. Epting in the evening. He told me that Médan had been murdered in Aix. Now he, too, has fallen victim to the hatred that increases every day. His only crime was that he considered friendship between our two peoples possible. Expressing this sentiment, he once embraced me in 1930 when I met him in Aix for the first and only time in my life. We had each commanded combat patrols in World War I.

I have his last letter before me. It is from 15 July, where he writes, “If I am to die then I would rather it be in my house, or at least in my own city than somewhere by the roadside in a muddy ditch. That is more dignified and also less trouble.”

He then added, “ Je tiens à vous dire que c’est l’amitié admirative que vous m’avez inspirée qui m’a rapproché de mes anciens adversaires de 1914/18 .” [I must tell you that you have inspired in me admiration and friendship that have reconciled me to my former adversaries of 1914/18.]

I now see that these were meant deliberately as parting words—as was his prayer, which Claus Valentiner told me about: that God might prevent any young Frenchman from bringing guilt upon his head by shedding his blood. In these past weeks, I’ve become acquainted with bitterness that debases the best people. In World War I, my friends were killed by bullets—in this second war, that is the privilege of the lucky ones. The others are rotting in prisons, must take their own lives, or die by the executioner’s hand. They are denied the bullet.

The Americans have reached Rennes, Mayenne, Laval, and have cut off Brittany. I am making my farewell visits; this evening I was with Salmanoff. Even my barber, who has been cutting my hair for years, seemed to have the feeling that he was performing his office for the last time. His farewell reflected the mentality of his class and of his sympathy for me: “ J’espère que les chose s’arrangeront .” [I hope things will work out.]