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

In the mail, a letter from Ina Speidel, the general’s daughter. She writes that Horst was also arrested on 29 October. Our old circle of the Knights of Saint George [16] Reference to the group of friends who met regularly in Paris the Hotel George V. and our cohort from the Hotel Raphael have been drastically winnowed. Some have been hanged, poisoned, imprisoned; others have been dispersed and surrounded by thugs.

The German language still possesses country lanes, whereas French runs on tracks. As a consequence, conventional nonindividual elements are on the increase [in German]. We need a liaison officer. [17] In his elliptical way, E. J. here expresses regret at what he perceives as the collectivization, that is, politicization, of language by the primitive ideological jargon of National Socialism. The function of the liaison officer would be to act as interpreter.

Rivarol’s observation seems apt here: “if vowels and consonants were to attract each like magnetic substances, according to the laws of nature, then language would resemble the universe, unified and immutable.”

Visit from Hanne Wickenberg in the afternoon; she was recently surprised by a daylight raid on Hannover when she was in the old part of the city. She described the scenes that took place in the air-raid bunkers. The bombs screamed down nearby. Dust and smoke got in through a small window and made all the faces indistinguishable. The space was filled with sighs, screams, and groans; women fainted. People tied cloths over the children’s faces because they would vomit from fear. One woman was about to give birth:

“A doctor, quickly, a doctor. It’s starting to burn. It’s burning.”

Other voices responded:

“Where is the fire? For heaven’s sake, where?”

By the end, not one of the people inside was able to stand up any longer. They lay there quaking, foaming at the mouth, stretched out on the floor. Even sturdy Hanne said: “I was worn out when it was all over.” [18] E. J. quotes her dialect: “ Ek was fertig, as es to Enne was.”

Massive detachment of aircraft overhead around noon, during which everyone in the house gathered in our little air-raid shelter. First came a squadron of forty planes, which took heavy anti-aircraft fire. Two were seen to have smoke trails; one made a hairpin turn in flames and disappeared in a white cloud that showered debris.

Huge numbers of bombs followed, glistening silvery white in the sunshine. The anti-aircraft fire surged to full force and occasionally the air was filled with the whistling of incoming bombs. I watched the events from our garden but entered the shelter during the worst parts. Just after the planes passed—the wind was from the west—thick clouds blowing over from the city obscured the view.

The roar of the squadrons darkening the sky is so strong that it drowns out the defensive fire and even the detonation of the bombs themselves. It is like standing under a bell filled with a buzzing swarm of metallic bees. The incredible energy of our age—otherwise diffused far and wide—emerges from its abstract potential and becomes perceptible to our senses. The impression of the squadrons lumbering on undeterred even when planes are exploding in their midst, is mightier than the detonation of the bombs themselves. We see the will to destroy, even at the cost of one’s own destruction. This is a demonic trait.

I was pleased with little Alexander and his courage—astonishing when we think about the monstrous weapons of destruction confronting such a tiny heart: “Now I really am having heart palpitations,” when the bombs screamed past and (as we later discovered) hit near the autobahn.

In the evening, there was a further attack with countless Christmas trees. Below them it was like a great array of gleaming white Christmas presents all spread out. Fires also tinged the horizon with red. A new anti-aircraft battery has been put in place at the edge of the moor woodland. Whenever it fires a shell, the house is jolted to its foundation.

When the alert sounds, the children are hustled into their little coats and, as soon as the droning of the aircraft or the noise of the first rounds reaches us, they are led to the shelter. Only thirteen-year-old Edmund Schultz remains out in the garden taking risks. His Aunt Fritzi stays in the house and occasionally looks out, remarkably unconcerned. I’m glad to see that a fearless soul stays indoors. As for me, I go indoors now and then to see that things are under control. At those moments, it’s strange to observe how the demonic powers deplete our communal spirit, especially our basic stability. I have the feeling of moving through the staterooms of a ship, particularly when I glimpse the illuminated dial of the radio. Aside from the red glow of the stove, this is the only light that penetrates the darkness of this strictly enforced blackout. The genderless voice of an announcer reports the maneuvers of the squadron up to the moment when they “are entering the city limits with bombardment to follow immediately.” I sometimes listen to other stations; many places on our planet are broadcasting dance music; others present scholarly lectures. Radio London transmits news and comforting words and reminds its listeners at the end to switch to a different frequency. In between come the rolling echoes of the detonations.

After eating went to church, where several panes of glass in the lovely rose window over the altar have been shattered.

General Loehning came for coffee accompanied by Schenk and Diels, who has particular insight into the political underworld—especially knowledge of the origins of the Staatspolizei [State Police], which he in fact founded. [19] In 1933, Göring appointed Diels to head the new political branch of Geheime Staatspolizei , or Gestapo [Secret State Police]. Caught in the power struggle between Göring and Himmler, Diels was dismissed in 1934. When working in Hannover, he had refused to round up Jews, but he escaped punishment thanks to Göring’s protection. From him, I heard details about horrifying suffering inflicted on friends and acquaintances before they were executed. Schulenburg, for example, was (like his coconspirators) addressed as “ Schurke [scoundrel] Schulenburg” or “ Verbrecher [criminal] Schulenburg” by the president of the People’s Court. [20] The so-called People’s Court [ Volksgerichtshof ] was established by Hitler in 1934 to enforce the agenda of the NS party without regard for due legal process. The judge-president E. J. alludes to is Roland Freisler (1893–1945). At one point, when this hangman type accidentally addressed him as “ Graf [Count] Schulenburg,” he corrected himself with a bow; “Excuse me: Schurke Schulenburg, if you please.” A trait that brought him vividly to my mind.

Diels also mentioned Röpke, Die Gesellschaftskrisis der Gegenwart [ The Social Crisis of Our Time ], a book that is apparently being widely read abroad. This is something Diels seems intimately familiar with; the general said that he had been observed with one of the chiefs of the Secret Service at a Turkish airport.

Took a walk in the afternoon to Moormühle and Schillerslage as far as the boulder with the horseshoe. Had a look there at the animals that had fallen into the holes dug along the road as shelter from dive-bombers.

As I walked, I thought about the cursory style of contemporary thinkers, the way they pronounce judgment on ideas and symbols that people have been working on and creating for millennia. In doing so, they are unaware of their own place in the universe, and of that little bit of destructive work allocated to them by the world spirit. But what is it, other than foam that sprays its fleeting whitecaps over the solid ancient cliffs? We can already feel the incipient tug of the undertow.