These are the recollections of a Jewish-American medical student in Berlin during the early weeks of the Nazi takeover. They reveal nothing sensational but may tell the reader something of the prevailing atmosphere as experienced by a young man close to the scene of those historical happenings, yet insulated from them as an outsider with an “American passport.”
Three and a half years of studies in Berlin and a constant, absorbing interest in the intensifying political situation created in me an unmistakable split between a portion of the personality that was greatly involved and another that was not. Most nagging of my worries was whether, in the last days of my medical studies, I would have to flee the country without a record of examinations—the final examinations being the only ones that counted in a German medical school. Selfishly I wondered if I would get out before Hitler came in—for some time, there had been no doubt in my mind that Naziism would come to power.
On January 30, 1933, it became evident that I would not be getting out for a long while. (It was, in fact, not until March of the following year that I was able to leave with an MD diploma.) Toward evening on that January day, I began strolling home alone from the Charité, the university medical center, where I had spent my day, as usual, in clinics, at lectures, and the like. Nothing in the demeanor or conversation of fellow students had warned me that anything unusual was afoot, although I certainly would not have been surprised to learn that old Hindenburg, guided by a monarchist clique, had called upon Hitler to become chancellor.
I reached Unter-den-Linden and turned right to walk to the Tiergarten and through the park to my home, my usual routine. I was aware that brown-uniformed men were beginning to stream through the arches of the Brandenburger Tor, the arc de triomph of Berlin, which marked the passageway from Unterden-Linden into the Tiergarten. Almost every man was carrying a flaming torch; it was not difficult to realize immediately that Hitler was now chancellor, and his troops were marching to nearby Wilhelm Strasse, where the chancery was located. Seeking some confirmation, I turned to look for a passerby and found there was none at this usually busy hour. Apparently the populace had learned what I had not and were nowhere to be seen either cheering or booing. Discretion was the better part of valor.
It was eerie, perhaps nightmarish, to be so alone, with the Nazi troopers approaching with their torches. They were silent except for the sound of marching feet and military commands. It seemed impossible for me to get out of the way without obviously fleeing, so I chose the less dangerous course as it occurred to me almost reflexively at the moment. I continued to walk toward them as they marched toward me, and soon we were passing each other without comment on either side. I did not salute their flags, and if they noticed, they had nothing to say about it. Soon I was in the Tiergarten and strolling along the sidewalk while they marched in the gutter. They and I continued to ignore each other this way for some half hour, and once again the eeriness of impending darkness, the street lights, and the flaming torches seemed to be a spectacle just for me. I cannot remember seeing anyone else; whatever witnesses there may have been were sparse and certainly silent. I remember feeling some elation at the thought of my own courage in going on like this, although years of witnessing the warring factions in Berlin had left me with considerable stolidity.
In the great Shakespearean dramas, we often find human touches that seem anachronistic but doubtless play their part in conveying the influence of the dramatist. The silent historical march that I witnessed—I should say participated in most unwillingly—had a certain human aspect. The young Nazis were constantly breaking out of line to urinate against nearby trees. It was late in the afternoon, and they had doubtless been summoned up hastily. It occurred to me then (already fairly indoctrinated in psychoanalysis) that they were nervous. Later, I wondered if the flaming torches they carried stirred a wish to quench them. I shall never know.