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Minki was keen to cover the event, and hurried to the scene that evening. A huge fire had already been set, and she watched, appalled, as young men threw books onto the flames by the dozen. Nearby, a group of students made great show of swearing an oath to ‘combat un-German literature’. The watching crowd cheered as the pile of burning books grew higher and higher. Soon flames were leaping three or four metres into the darkening sky.
A podium draped in a swastika flag had been erected on the steps of the Opera House. Here stood Joseph Goebbels, his face lit up by the flames. Dressed casually in a white shirt, his skin glistening with beads of sweat, his eyes gleamed with excitement. When he began to speak, his voice rose with emotion as he declared: ‘The age of pretentious Jewish intellectualism is over…We in the Third Reich say, “No to decadence and moral corruption.”’
The students cheered and raised their arms in salute, as Goebbels continued: ‘In the future, the German man will not just be a man of books but also a man of character, and it is to this end we want to educate you.’
The students screamed their approval. It seemed to Minki that they were more than just enthusiastic acolytes – it was as if they were hypnotised. What Goebbels was saying was the opposite of a real education. Books were the precious repository of all learning, of all human thought. Why were these presumably intelligent young people so terrified of any information their government had not sanctioned?
Standing in the shadows, notebook in hand, Minki felt outraged. But another part of her – the dispassionate ‘outside observer’ – was astounded at the ease with which Goebbels could manipulate the populace. By encouraging the students to do the burning, he was able to create the impression that it was the people rising up spontaneously against a liberal belief system, whereas in fact it was obviously a state-organised operation.
Her mind went back to the young Joe Goebbels she had met a decade earlier at a literary party in Munich. He had been so earnest, so desperate to succeed, so open to new ideas. What on earth would he have then said about burning books? Minki felt sure he would have been horrified. As she watched the feverish crowd hanging on to Goebbels’ every word, she wondered how someone with so much promise – someone with a doctorate in philosophy, no less – could have become the controlling propagandist she saw before her. Was it simply ruthless ambition? Or a determination to break away from a working-class background? Having been born, herself, into a relatively wealthy and comfortable family, perhaps she had no right to judge him. She didn’t know what it felt like to pull oneself up from the gutter, using nothing but sheer drive and intellect.
Nevertheless, what Minki had witnessed profoundly shocked her, and she returned to the office that evening and wrote an excoriating piece, which she entitled ‘The burning of un-German books is un-German’.
We are a nation of thinkers, writers, poets and philosophers. To see the minds of university students so blinded by state propaganda is both frightening and shocking.
It was well after ten o’clock at night when she laid it in front of her editor.
Helmut read it, before scoring it with a red pen and throwing it into his wastepaper bin. ‘I’m sorry, Minki, but I can’t print this. Editors are ending up in concentration camps for less. I’m as keen on journalistic truth as the next man, but I have a wife and children, for God’s sake. I’m not going die on the altar of your opinions.’
‘But Helmut, what I saw tonight was an outrage. Surely we must be allowed to say so.’
‘Privately, I agree,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I still can’t run it…I’m sorry.’
‘But what’s the point of doing our job if we can’t tell the truth?’
‘It’s a balance…we must choose which battles are worth the fight – and this isn’t one of them. Rewrite the piece but leave out your opinions – simply report what happened. Let readers make up their own minds.’
Minki felt deflated. As she turned to leave, she stopped at the door. ‘I so wanted to make a difference.’
‘Perhaps you can…but not like this. Believe me, Minki – now is not the time for heroism.’
‘Isn’t it? You see, I’d have thought it was exactly the right time, but perhaps heroism is no longer possible in journalism.’
Minki rewrote her article, just as Helmut had instructed, and left it on his desk. The piece, though factual and accurate, was dull and uninspiring. It would never change hearts and minds. Pulling on her coat, preparing to go home, she realised how misguided and naive she had been to imagine she could use her position as a journalist to influence society. As she looked around the empty newsroom, her job suddenly seemed pointless. Sitting down at her desk, she inserted a new sheet of paper into her typewriter and wrote a letter of resignation.
It was late when she got back home. Max was already asleep in bed, and the house was silent and peaceful. She went to Clara’s room and stood at the end of her cot, watching her little girl sleeping. ‘I’m sorry, my little darling,’ Minki whispered. ‘I tried…I tried to make a difference, but the world won’t let me.’
Her mind still racing, and knowing she would struggle to sleep, she decided to write to the one person who always understood her.
My dearest Leila,
You have been on my mind for so many months. I feel so guilty that I was unable to help Viktor. We live in an evil world and it is incumbent on us all to do what we can to make a difference. You knew that from the start, and I admit that I have taken longer to arrive at the same conclusion. Finally, I realised I must do something to fight back, and so I joined the political team on my old newspaper – theDeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung. I hoped to demonstrate the stranglehold National Socialism has on the German people through my articles – but as you know, the press is now so constrained by Goebbels that even that proved impossible.
This evening I witnessed a horrific sight – book-burning on a grand scale on the streets of Berlin. It was appalling. Here were university students, for God’s sake, burning the works of Hemingway and Thomas Mann. I wrote an article condemning it, but my editor refused to publish. I understand why – he is frightened – but it is a terrible disappointment. What, after all, is the point of political journalism if one is not allowed to tell the truth.
I realised that the only solution was for me to resign, and I have done so this evening.
You and Viktor stood up to the bullies in the National Socialist Party. You were prepared to be brave and to be counted, and you have suffered for it. But I want you to know that in spite of walking away from my job, I will carry on, in some small way, fighting the good fight. I will not abandon either you, or my country.
Write and tell me how you are – and more importantly how Viktor is. I presume he is still incarcerated, or I would have heard. He is strong, darling, and will survive, I’m sure of it.
With love,
Your friend,
Minki
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