World War I | Hindenburg and Ludendorff: Two men in civilian clothes

So that's who ruled Germany for four years! So that's who set the tone for four years, commanded, oppressed, reprimanded, and made world politics! So those were the heroes of a people that worshipped themselves in them! So that's who they were! That? Oh my God.

On November 18, 1919, at a quarter to ten in the morning, Hindenburg and Ludendorff entered the brown, unceremonious hall. The old man in a frock coat, his square head somewhat Mongoloid, but his figure, mustache, and cheekbones—a national hero, the kind you'd paint on a wheat beer glass. Ludendorff, woodenly stiff, very agitated, and very insecure, in a black jacket suit; a wicked expression around his nostrils... A sergeant in civilian clothes and a senior administrative official. They sat down.

The interrogation begins. An interrogation the likes of which would not be possible in any private libel suit before the Berlin-Mitte District Court: The witnesses don't even think about answering the questions posed to them; they relentlessly read from pre-existing documents what they have planned to read out, only addressing what is convenient for them. There is no obligation to testify, they say. And the committee cowers.

A world is rising. What a world! When Bethmann says, "Qui tacet consentire videtur," I feel: Schulpforta, philosophy, university. And even if I didn't know all that, I would still feel: This is one of our own, this is someone who somehow has something to do with the spirit, even if he was weak, he may have been compliant, he may have been dependent—he is, after all, a man of our world. But these two?

It was the biggest disappointment of my life. They were both simply nonexistent. No personalities, no minds—nothing. Two old, graying cadets.

Hindenburg, in human terms, was definitely the greater of the two. The man's heart beats in his chest; when he rumbles along harshly, he feels something—it's not our feelings, but he feels them, his blood is flowing. The other one was ice cold. Not the horrible type of clean-shaven rear-officers, like the masses of them standing around in civilian clothes—but with the same coldness of feeling as them, the same unshakable, incomprehensible, self-conscious brutality.

The worldview that unfolds here is shocking. There's nothing of experience, nothing of human knowledge, nothing of Goethe or Dostoyevsky. They thought with their biceps and wrote with their fists. When Ludendorff says he and Bernstorff have different worldviews, that's not true. Together they have only one. And Bernstorff has that.

The general defends himself against the most remote things. He was accused of never having smiled in 94 photographs—well, he couldn't smile because of the sheer responsibility. Oh, we readily believe the weight of this responsibility—but he should not only have felt it, he should also have let it guide him. He could have smiled.

When Ludendorff spoke, the audience breathed: Yes! And the officers' wives sitting there felt: Our Reich shall return! Our Reich, in which we were happy and influential, in which we had more food than the others, in which our husbands and friends could command without having to obey, which hurt them—our Reich! Our Reich! That was what it was all about, and that was the question.

Two worlds are colliding. But one, the old, the worse, makes a pitiful, disarming impression. How the journalists on the right will manage to "open" this moment in world history must be hard work.

For four years, they have refused any interference in their work, citing the great responsibility involved. Now it's here, the opportunity to answer for themselves – now stand firm! And now they're chickening out. They can't be caught either. General Ludendorff, have you read the reports against submarine warfare, written by good experts, as carefully as those in favor of it – yes or no? Were you familiar with the individual stages of Wilson's campaign – yes or no? Did you have solid reasons to believe that England could really be brought to its knees – yes or no?

And Ludendorff reads and reads. And a committee waits for an answer.

"I only had to negotiate with the Reich Chancellor—Count Bernstorff's statements were not official for me," says the general. This is my Germany.

The senseless drive to work for the sake of work, not for the sake of purpose, to organize for the sake of organization, ultimately paralyzed everyone's strength. One could see nothing. The question of a reason was heresy – everything was compartmentalized. The German can only give his best when he is placed under dictatorial control. Profitable corporate work is almost impossible for him – he then immediately becomes stuck in the apparatus, in debates about rules of procedure, in formalities, in himself. Even if Ludendorff had been a real man, he wouldn't have been able to assert himself in this heap of confused tangles. He would have remained stuck. A degenerate militarism has beaten every free labor force out of the Germans.

Departmental patriotism and the hierarchy of authorities – here they are in their purest form. The complete inability of these minds to grasp that it's not the files that matter, but solely and exclusively the success, the sole purpose of understanding everything, absolutely everything, even if it doesn't originate from the superior department – is disarming. Quid dicam, quod? They haven't learned any better.

The readings continue. The old man reads his speech, harshly, awkwardly, illogically, and at a surprisingly mediocre level. The air in the room becomes oppressive – there is a break during which the committee deliberates.

Heroes? Heroes? What do these two have to do with the concept of heroism? The soldier was a hero, and the poor company commander was one who was stuck in the mud and pulled his men out, and the vice-sergeant outside was one, and the man at the ship's boom. But these? Administrative officials, well-fed, always out of danger, and always—like Ludendorff in November 1818—ready to escape. Here, too, Hindenburg, who continued to do his duty and only then rose to a certain stature, more valuable than the other.

But doesn't the people's heart beat for these two? Well, not for the entire people. But how do I recognize my Germans? They aren't usually so chivalrous, so sensitive, so infinitely tactful—and that with two unsuccessful ones? It's not the brain that speaks here—only the heart speaks.

And if these two had committed a heinous murder, half a nation would rise up and take their side. They don't love these men as individuals: they love the representatives of a beloved system that gave everyone their due and everyone the opportunity to trample on each other. This is the same reason that makes the emperor almost taboo in public discussions, not human compassion or magnanimity.

These were the leaders, these were the corrupters. The gigantic danger inherent in militarism has not yet been fully recognized. The entire bourgeoisie considers it a virtue, regrets only that this war was lost, and attacks these two at best. Wrong. They were the best representatives of the worst system. And when I saw the two of them sitting here, far removed from all spirituality, far removed from everything we are accustomed to considering valuable, I understood again, and more strongly than ever: Militarism is a state of mind. Or rather, a spiritual deficiency.

The meeting is adjourned. A primitive, stubborn obstruction of the heroes sets in. The committee backs down. And adjourns indefinitely. Ludendorff's sharp, ragged voice is heard scolding. The gentlemen leave the room to a roar of cheers from the throng. One must have lost a war to be celebrated like this.