Heinrich was the active head, a cultivated, complicated, somewhat enigmatic man of superior intelligence. Since the newspaper, founded in 1856, was one of Germany’s great papers, and was upholding a unique tradition of liberalism, he was an important figure nationally. Kurt was mainly concerned with business and administration. Both had to deal with seemingly insurmountable economic problems. There were three editions every day and revenues were in sharp decline.
Heinrich Simon lived on the same block on the Untermainkai as the Geisels. He and his wife also hosted déjeuners — they called them jours fixes — on Fridays. It was a matter of policy for them never to invite staff members. Occasionally Heinrich joined the Geisels’ chamber music sessions. When he did so they stayed away from modern music, for which he had little taste. But he was not rigid. His political tastes, too, were eclectic and included conservatives as well as left wingers. One never quite knew where he stood. A regular guest at his Friday table, I was told, was the tall, slim, elegant, languid, old-fashioned. somewhat mannered writer, war diarist and former cavalry officer Rudolf Binding, who wore a monocle and was surprisingly witty at times. His pieces often appeared in the paper. Another frequent guest was the vigorous expressionist playwright Fritz von Unruh, whom Heinrich consistently promoted. Von Unruh was the son of a general but a passionate anti-militarist.
I was head of the feuilleton section of the paper. My own relations with Heinrich Simon were correct but somewhat distant. He probably sensed that I was not always in agreement with his decisions. But he never questioned my judgement. For example, he never objected to the radical views of the literary critic Walter Benjamin, who occasionally appeared in my feuilletons. I had been with the paper since 1918 but I still never felt entirely secure.
I introduced Fritz Amberg, who, of course, knew who he was. I told Heinrich that Amberg was an old acquaintance who had been of great help to me a few months ago for an article I wrote.
“I am delighted to meet you, Herr Amberg,” Simon said amiably.
He turned to Hanni.
“Hermann is in court?” he asked.
“Alas, yes.”
“You certainly show good taste in picking a deputy.”
“I am pleased you think so, Heinrich.”
He turned back to Amberg.
“Are you also one of Herr Herzberg’s many fans?” he asked him.
As I mentioned, Amberg was at heart a decent man.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I would not know how to get through the day without reading him at breakfast.”
P ARTY T ALK
At the reception in the Frankfurter Hof given by the German Section of the Society of Contemporary Music, the acerbic music critic Arno Loeb was holding forth on the subject of Paul Hindemith.
“I regard him as a musical artisan with extraordinary dexterity,” Loeb said. “He can write music with lightning speed for any instrument, and any combination of instruments. But he is no more than a clown, a jokester who wants to shock. He has no depth. Did you know that a year or two ago he was working on three one-act operas?”
We did not. “We” was Hanni, me and Teddy.
“I am not sure whether he ever published them. The first had an expressionistic libretto by Oskar Kokoschka, which Hindemith tackled only because nobody, least of all he himself, had any idea of what it was about. The subject of the second was a prince of China or Burma whose sex organ was bitten off by a monstrous alligator. The third opera dealt with a nun who had an orgasm whenever she looked at a painting or sculpture of the crucified body of Christ. That opera saw the light of day long enough to be condemned by the Catholic church.”
Our next conversation was with Gretel Köllner, a handsome dark-eyed violinist whom we did not know. She was talking about the Mendelssohn violin concerto.
“It is perfection itself,” she said. “Everybody knows it. Who would want to live on
Heinrich Simon lived on the same block on the Untermainkai as the Geisels. He and his wife also hosted déjeuners — they called them jours fixes — on Fridays. It was a matter of policy for them never to invite staff members. Occasionally Heinrich joined the Geisels’ chamber music sessions. When he did so they stayed away from modern music, for which he had little taste. But he was not rigid. His political tastes, too, were eclectic and included conservatives as well as left wingers. One never quite knew where he stood. A regular guest at his Friday table, I was told, was the tall, slim, elegant, languid, old-fashioned. somewhat mannered writer, war diarist and former cavalry officer Rudolf Binding, who wore a monocle and was surprisingly witty at times. His pieces often appeared in the paper. Another frequent guest was the vigorous expressionist playwright Fritz von Unruh, whom Heinrich consistently promoted. Von Unruh was the son of a general but a passionate anti-militarist.
I was head of the feuilleton section of the paper. My own relations with Heinrich Simon were correct but somewhat distant. He probably sensed that I was not always in agreement with his decisions. But he never questioned my judgement. For example, he never objected to the radical views of the literary critic Walter Benjamin, who occasionally appeared in my feuilletons. I had been with the paper since 1918 but I still never felt entirely secure.
I introduced Fritz Amberg, who, of course, knew who he was. I told Heinrich that Amberg was an old acquaintance who had been of great help to me a few months ago for an article I wrote.
“I am delighted to meet you, Herr Amberg,” Simon said amiably.
He turned to Hanni.
“Hermann is in court?” he asked.
“Alas, yes.”
“You certainly show good taste in picking a deputy.”
“I am pleased you think so, Heinrich.”
He turned back to Amberg.
“Are you also one of Herr Herzberg’s many fans?” he asked him.
As I mentioned, Amberg was at heart a decent man.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I would not know how to get through the day without reading him at breakfast.”
P ARTY T ALK
At the reception in the Frankfurter Hof given by the German Section of the Society of Contemporary Music, the acerbic music critic Arno Loeb was holding forth on the subject of Paul Hindemith.
“I regard him as a musical artisan with extraordinary dexterity,” Loeb said. “He can write music with lightning speed for any instrument, and any combination of instruments. But he is no more than a clown, a jokester who wants to shock. He has no depth. Did you know that a year or two ago he was working on three one-act operas?”
We did not. “We” was Hanni, me and Teddy.
“I am not sure whether he ever published them. The first had an expressionistic libretto by Oskar Kokoschka, which Hindemith tackled only because nobody, least of all he himself, had any idea of what it was about. The subject of the second was a prince of China or Burma whose sex organ was bitten off by a monstrous alligator. The third opera dealt with a nun who had an orgasm whenever she looked at a painting or sculpture of the crucified body of Christ. That opera saw the light of day long enough to be condemned by the Catholic church.”
Our next conversation was with Gretel Köllner, a handsome dark-eyed violinist whom we did not know. She was talking about the Mendelssohn violin concerto.
“It is perfection itself,” she said. “Everybody knows it. Who would want to live on
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