and wanted to ask him about forthcoming theatrical events.
Then the train arrived in Feldkirch, and Zuckmayer’s hopes all but vanished when he saw the spotlights outside. He concentrated his mind on survival. “Everyone out with their suitcases. The train is to be evacuated.”
The station was teeming with men in black and brown uniforms. There were tables onto which the contents of suitcases were being poured out and pored over, while cases were tested for false bottoms. Everything was examined with a fine-tooth comb. Some of the passengers were being strip-searched. Zuckmayer recalled that his case contained a number of autographs by fellow writers—most of them “degenerate.” He feared the worst.
The official looked at his name for a long time, then tossed his head back as if he had been suddenly struck by lightning: “Zuckmayer? . . . The Zuckmayer.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean the notorious.”
“I don’t know if I am notorious, but there is certainly no other writer with my name.”
“Come with me.”
“I must stay with my luggage.”
“You don’t have to do that.” And he laughed a mocking laugh as if to say: You won’t need any luggage anymore where you are going. Zuckmayer was led away to a hut at the end of the platform. Another man was being taken away into custody. Behind the desk sat an SS man with steel-rimmed spectacles. “Carl Zuckmayer, ah ha!”
He examined his passport. It was valid for five years. Jews received theirs for six months. The SS man was vaguely aware that Zuckmayer was “racially” Jewish—his mother’s family were converts—but the passport appeared to contradict this. He reached for a printed list but could not find Zuckmayer’s name on it. “Funny. . . . I had heard something about you once, but I can’t remember now what it was. So you are not a Jew at all.”
He laughed, and Zuckmayer permitted himself a smile. He did not feel it was incumbent upon him to tell the official that his mother was born Goldschmidt. The Nazi read from the passport: “Catholic . . . na ja. We are going to deal with those priests too.” He became chatty and looked as if he might be going to give him back his passport. They talked about his screenplays. The Nazi had seen his latest film. Then he asked Zuckmayer if he were a member of the Party. Zuckmayer said no. Then the tone changed: “German writer and not in the Party?” Nor was he a member of the Nazi writers’ organization. Zuckmayer admitted that his works were actually banned in Germany, and then regretted it.
The SS man reacted queerly: He reached out his hand and shook Zuckmayer’s. He said he was impressed by Zuckmayer’s honesty—most of the people who came before him lied. He volunteered to smooth his way into the Party. The writer thanked him but said that would not be necessary. Zuckmayer took the opportunity to snatch his passport back and asked if he might have his luggage now.
The SS man offered to come with him, expressing the hope that there would be no difficulties occasioned by the search. Zuckmayer envisaged problems for all that: the manuscript, the autographs. He decided to open his coat again and pretend he was looking for something in his pocket. It did the trick: The Nazi wanted to know if he had been at the front, if he had held a commission. He stared at the EK1. “Then you must be a hero,” he said, staring wide-eyed at him. Zuckmayer played down his heroism but told the SS man that medals could not be bought for small change on the streets all the same. He was alluding to the price he had paid for the swastika in his buttonhole.
The SS man was now eating out of his hands. Not only did he understand the reference to the “opportunists,” he relished Zuckmayer’s wit. He bellowed out to the SS and SA men around him: They were to honor a hero with a rousing cry of “ Heil Hitler! ” They did just that, “as if I were the Führer himself.” Zuckmayer admitted to
Then the train arrived in Feldkirch, and Zuckmayer’s hopes all but vanished when he saw the spotlights outside. He concentrated his mind on survival. “Everyone out with their suitcases. The train is to be evacuated.”
The station was teeming with men in black and brown uniforms. There were tables onto which the contents of suitcases were being poured out and pored over, while cases were tested for false bottoms. Everything was examined with a fine-tooth comb. Some of the passengers were being strip-searched. Zuckmayer recalled that his case contained a number of autographs by fellow writers—most of them “degenerate.” He feared the worst.
The official looked at his name for a long time, then tossed his head back as if he had been suddenly struck by lightning: “Zuckmayer? . . . The Zuckmayer.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean the notorious.”
“I don’t know if I am notorious, but there is certainly no other writer with my name.”
“Come with me.”
“I must stay with my luggage.”
“You don’t have to do that.” And he laughed a mocking laugh as if to say: You won’t need any luggage anymore where you are going. Zuckmayer was led away to a hut at the end of the platform. Another man was being taken away into custody. Behind the desk sat an SS man with steel-rimmed spectacles. “Carl Zuckmayer, ah ha!”
He examined his passport. It was valid for five years. Jews received theirs for six months. The SS man was vaguely aware that Zuckmayer was “racially” Jewish—his mother’s family were converts—but the passport appeared to contradict this. He reached for a printed list but could not find Zuckmayer’s name on it. “Funny. . . . I had heard something about you once, but I can’t remember now what it was. So you are not a Jew at all.”
He laughed, and Zuckmayer permitted himself a smile. He did not feel it was incumbent upon him to tell the official that his mother was born Goldschmidt. The Nazi read from the passport: “Catholic . . . na ja. We are going to deal with those priests too.” He became chatty and looked as if he might be going to give him back his passport. They talked about his screenplays. The Nazi had seen his latest film. Then he asked Zuckmayer if he were a member of the Party. Zuckmayer said no. Then the tone changed: “German writer and not in the Party?” Nor was he a member of the Nazi writers’ organization. Zuckmayer admitted that his works were actually banned in Germany, and then regretted it.
The SS man reacted queerly: He reached out his hand and shook Zuckmayer’s. He said he was impressed by Zuckmayer’s honesty—most of the people who came before him lied. He volunteered to smooth his way into the Party. The writer thanked him but said that would not be necessary. Zuckmayer took the opportunity to snatch his passport back and asked if he might have his luggage now.
The SS man offered to come with him, expressing the hope that there would be no difficulties occasioned by the search. Zuckmayer envisaged problems for all that: the manuscript, the autographs. He decided to open his coat again and pretend he was looking for something in his pocket. It did the trick: The Nazi wanted to know if he had been at the front, if he had held a commission. He stared at the EK1. “Then you must be a hero,” he said, staring wide-eyed at him. Zuckmayer played down his heroism but told the SS man that medals could not be bought for small change on the streets all the same. He was alluding to the price he had paid for the swastika in his buttonhole.
The SS man was now eating out of his hands. Not only did he understand the reference to the “opportunists,” he relished Zuckmayer’s wit. He bellowed out to the SS and SA men around him: They were to honor a hero with a rousing cry of “ Heil Hitler! ” They did just that, “as if I were the Führer himself.” Zuckmayer admitted to
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