Hitler's Private Library Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Illustrations Credits

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Preface: The Man Who Burned Books

  ONE: Frontline Reading, 1915

  TWO: The Mentor’s Trade

  THREE: The Hitler Trilogy

  FOUR: An American Bible

  FIVE: The Lost Philosopher

  SIX: Book Wars

  SEVEN: Divine Inspiration

  EIGHT: Frontline Reading, 1940

  NINE: Hitler’s History of the Second World War

  TEN: A Miracle Deferred

  Afterword: The Fates of Books

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Index

  Appendixes

  Appendix A: Description of Hitler’s library from This Is the Enemy, by Frederick Oechsner, 1942

  Appendix B: Description of the Berghof book collection from a classified report by the U.S. Army Twenty-first Counterintelligence Corps, May 1945

  Appendix C: “The Library of a Dilettante: A Glimpse into the Private Library of Herr Hitler,” by Hans Beilhack, Süddeutsche Zeitung, November 9, 1946

  Appendix D: “Report on the Adolph [sic] Hitler Collection and Recommendations Regarding Its Arrangement,” by Arnold J. Jacobius, Intern, Rare Books Division, Library of Congress, January 9, 1952

  Copyright

  About the Book

  He was, of course, a man better known for burning books than for collecting them and yet by the time he died, aged 56, Adolf Hitler owned an estimated 16,000 volumes – the works of historians, philosophers, poets, playwrights and novelists. A passionate reader, his world-view was largely formed by the books he read.

  About the Author

  Timothy W. Ryback is the author of The Last Survivor: Legacies of Dachau, a New York Times Notable Book for 1999, and he has written for The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. He is the co-director of the Institute for Historical Justice and Reconciliation. He currently lives in Paris.

  ILLUSTRATIONS CREDITS

  Images xviii, 2, 53, 64, 127, 176, 196, 226 Bayerische Staatsbibliothek Photoarchiv Hoffmann, Munich

  Images xii, 9, 15, 24, 43, 45, 96, 100, 133, 135, 143, 166, 169, 193, 224 Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress,Washington, D.C.

  Images xiii, 57, 73 Private Archive

  Images 5, 6 Reprinted from Adolf Meyer, Mit Adolf Hitler in Bayr. Reserve Inf. Reg. 16 List. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Images 8, 17 Reprinted from Max Osborn, Berlin. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Image 19 Reprinted from Hitler’s Aquarellen, Heinrich Hoffmann, Berlin, 1935. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Image 29 Reprinted from Peer Gynt. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Image 33 Courtesy of Franz Fleischmann, Munich

  Image 83 Reprinted from Ernst Jünger, Feuer und Blut. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Image 87 Reprinted from the archives of Institut für Zeitgeschichte, Munich-Berlin, F19/9; with the permission of the Bayerisches Staatsministerium der Finanzen, Munich. The image is reproduced as part of a critical study. The author and publisher expressly distance themselves from the contents of this excerpt.

  Image 118 Courtesy of the Bundesarchiv, Berlin

  Image 122 Inscription reprinted from Fichte: Sämtliche Werke. Vol. 1. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress,Washington,D.C.

  Image 148 Courtesy of the John Hay Library, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island

  Image 175 Die Kunst im Deutschen Reich, October 1939

  Image 180 Drawing reprinted from Max Riedel, Gesetz der Welt. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Images 188, 205 Hugo Rochs, Schlieffen. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Images 209, 219 Hedin Letter republished with permission from the Sven Hedin Foundation and the Swedish National Archives, Stockholm

  Image 238 Courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration, Washington D.C.

  Image 245 David E. Scherman, © Lee Miller Archives, England, 2008. All Rights Reserved.

  Image 248 Die Welt, June 18, 1977

  To my mother,

  who taught me the love of books,

  and in memory of my father.

  Hitler’s Private Library

  The Books that Shaped his Life

  Timothy W. Ryback

  A little learning is a dangerous thing;

  Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:

  There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,

  And drinking largely sobers us again.

  ALEXANDER POPE, “A Little Learning”

  I know people who “read” enormously, book for book, letter for letter, yet whom I would not describe as “well-read.” True, they possess a mass of “knowledge,” but their brain is unable to organize and register the material they have taken in. They lack the art of sifting what is valuable for them in a book from that which is without value, of retaining the one forever, and, if possible, not even seeing the rest.

  ADOLF HITLER, Mein Kampf

  PREFACE

  The Man Who Burned Books

  He was, of course, a man better known for burning books than collecting them and yet by the time he died at age fifty-six he owned an estimated sixteen thousand volumes. It was by any measure an impressive collection: first editions of works by philosophers, historians, poets, playwrights and novelists. For him the library represented a Pierian spring, that metaphorical source of knowledge and inspiration. He drew deeply there, quelling his intellectual insecurities and nourishing his fanatic ambitions. He read voraciously, at least one book per night, sometimes more, so he claimed. “When one gives one also has to take,” he once said, “and I take what I need from books.”

  He ranked Don Quixote, along with Robinson Crusoe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and Gulliver’s Travels, among the great works of world literature. “Each of them is a grandiose idea unto itself,” he said. In Robinson Crusoe he perceived “the development of the entire history of mankind.” Don Quixote captured “ingeniously” the end of an era. He owned illustrated editions of both books and was especially impressed by Gustave Doré’s romantic depictions of Cervantes’s delusion-plagued hero.

  He also owned the collected works of William Shakespeare, published in German translation in 1925 by Georg Müller as part of a series intended to make great literature available to the general public. Volume six includes As You Like It, Twelfth Night, Hamlet, and Troilus and Cressida. The entire set is bound in hand-tooled Moroccan leather with a gold-embossed eagle flanked by his initials on the spine.

  He considered Shakespeare superior to Goethe and Schiller in every respect. While Shakespeare had fueled his imagination on the protean forces of the emerging British empire, these two Teutonic playwright-poets squandered their talent on stories of midlife crises and sibling rivalries. Why was it, he once wondered, that the German Enlightenment produced Nathan the Wise, the story of the rabbi who reconciles Christians, Muslims, and Jews, while it had been left to Shakespeare to give the world The Merchant of Venice and Shylock?

  Hitler was given this anthology of Goethe’s poetry shortly after his re
lease from prison in December 1924, for his “serious and lonely hours.”

  Hitler kept this hand-tooled leather edition of Shakespeare’s collected works at his alpine retreat near Berchtesgaden. His initials are at the base of the spine.

  He appears to have imbibed his Hamlet. “To be or not to be” was a favorite phrase, as was “It is Hecuba to me.” He was especially fond of Julius Caesar. In a 1926 sketchbook he drew a detailed stage set for the first act of the Shakespeare tragedy with sinister façades enclosing the forum where Caesar is cut down. “We will meet again at Philippi,” he threatened an opponent on more than one occasion, plagiarizing the spectral warning to Brutus after Caesar’s murder. He was said to have reserved the Ides of March for momentous decisions.

  He kept his Shakespeare volumes in the second-floor study of his alpine retreat in southern Germany, along with a leather edition of another favorite author, the adventure novelist Karl May. “The first Karl May that I read was The Ride Across the Desert,” he once recalled. “I was overwhelmed! I threw myself into him immediately which resulted in a noticeable decline in my grades.” Later in life, he was said to have sought solace in Karl May the way others did in the Bible.

  He was versed in the Holy Scriptures, and owned a particularly handsome tome with Worte Christi, or Words of Christ, embossed in gold on a cream-colored calfskin cover that even today remains as smooth as silk. He also owned a German translation of Henry Ford’s anti-Semitic tract, The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem, and a 1931 handbook on poison gas with a chapter detailing the qualities and effects of prussic acid, the homicidal asphyxiant marketed commercially as Zyklon B. On his bedstand, he kept a well-thumbed copy of Wilhelm Busch’s mischievous cartoon duo Max and Moritz.

  Walter Benjamin once said that you could tell a lot about a man by the books he keeps—his tastes, his interests, his habits. The books we retain and those we discard, those we read as well as those we decide not to, all say something about who we are. As a German-Jewish culture critic born of an era when it was possible to be “German” and “Jewish,” Benjamin believed in the transcendent power of Kultur. He believed that creative expression not only enriches and illuminates the world we inhabit, but also provides the cultural adhesive that binds one generation to the next, a Judeo-Germanic rendering of the ancient wisdom ars longa, vita brevis.

  Benjamin held the written word—printed and bound—in especially high regard. He loved books. He was fascinated by their physicality, by their durability, by their provenance. An astute collector, he argued, could “read” a book the way a physiognomist deciphered the essence of a person’s character through his physical features. “Dates, place names, formats, previous owners, bindings, and all the like,” Benjamin observed, “all these details must tell him something—not as dry isolated facts, but as a harmonious whole.” In short, you could judge a book by its cover, and in turn the collector by his collection. Quoting Hegel, Benjamin noted, “Only when it is dark does the owl of Minerva begin its flight,” and concluded, “Only in extinction is the collector comprehended.”

  When Benjamin invoked a nineteenth-century German philosopher, a Roman goddess, and an owl, he was of course alluding to Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel’s famous maxim: “The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of dusk,” by which Hegel meant that philosophizing can begin only after events have run their course.

  Benjamin felt the same was true about private libraries. Only after the collector had shelved his last book and died, when his library was allowed to speak for itself, without the proprietor to distract or obfuscate, could the individual volumes reveal the “preserved” knowledge of their owner: how he asserted his claim over them, with a name scribbled on the inside cover or an ex libris bookplate pasted across an entire page; whether he left them dog-eared and stained, or the pages uncut and unread.

  Benjamin proposed that a private library serves as a permanent and credible witness to the character of its collector, leading him to the following philosophic conceit: we collect books in the belief that we are preserving them when in fact it is the books that preserve their collector. “Not that they come alive in him,” Benjamin posited. “It is he who lives in them.”

  For the last half century the remnants of Adolf Hitler’s library have occupied shelf space in climatized obscurity in the Rare Book Division of the Library of Congress. The twelve hundred surviving volumes that once graced Hitler’s bookcases in his three elegantly appointed libraries—wood paneling, thick carpets, brass lamps, overstuffed armchairs—at private residences in Munich, Berlin, and the Obersalzberg near Berchtesgaden, now stand in densely packed rows on steel shelves in an unadorned, dimly lit storage area of the Thomas Jefferson Building in downtown Washington, a stone’s throw from the Washington Mall and just across the street from the United States Supreme Court.

  The sinews of emotional logic that once ran through this collection—Hitler shuffled his books ceaselessly and insisted on reshelving them himself—have been severed. Hitler’s personal copy of his family genealogy is sandwiched between a bound collection of newspaper articles titled Sunday Meditations and a folio of political cartoons from the 1920s. A handsomely bound facsimile edition of letters by Frederick the Great, specially designed for Hitler’s fiftieth birthday, lies on a shelf for oversized books beneath a similarly massive presentation volume on the city of Hamburg and an illustrated history of the German navy in the First World War. Hitler’s copy of the writings of the legendary Prussian general Carl von Clausewitz, who famously declared that war was politics by other means, shares shelf space beside a French vegetarian cookbook inscribed to “Monsieur Hitler végétarien.”

  When I first surveyed Hitler’s surviving books, in the spring of 2001, I discovered that fewer than half the volumes had been catalogued, and only two hundred of those were searchable in the Library of Congress’s online catalogue. Most were listed on aging index cards and still bore the idiosyncratic numbering system assigned to them in the 1950s.

  At Brown University, in Providence, Rhode Island, I found another eighty Hitler books in a similar state of benign neglect. Taken from his Berlin bunker in the spring of 1945 by Albert Aronson, one of the first Americans to enter Berlin after the German defeat, they were donated to Brown by Aronson’s nephew in the late 1970s. Today they are stored in a walk-in basement vault, along with Walt Whitman’s personal copy of Leaves of Grass and the original folios to John James Audubon’s Birds of America.

  Among the books at Brown, I found a copy of Mein Kampf with Hitler’s ex libris bookplate, an analysis of Wagner’s Parsifal published in 1913, a history of the swastika from 1921, and a half dozen or so spiritual and occult volumes Hitler acquired in Munich in the early 1920s, including an account of supernatural occurrences, The Dead Are Alive!, and a monograph on the prophecies of Nostradamus. I discovered additional Hitler books scattered in public and private archives across the United States and Europe.

  Several dozen of these surviving Hitler books contain marginalia. Here I encountered a man who famously seemed never to listen to anyone, for whom conversation was a relentless tirade, a ceaseless monologue, pausing to engage with the text, to underline words and sentences, to mark entire paragraphs, to place an exclamation point beside one passage, a question mark beside another, and quite frequently an emphatic series of parallel lines in the margin alongside a particular passage. Like footprints in the sand, these markings allow us to trace the course of the journey but not necessarily the intent, where attention caught and lingered, where it rushed forward and where it ultimately ended.

  In a 1934 reprint of Paul Lagarde’s German Essays, a series of late-nineteenth-century essays that advocated the systematic removal of Europe’s Jewish population, I found more than one hundred pages of penciled intrusions, beginning on page 41, where Lagarde calls for the “transplanting” of German and Austrian Jews to Palestine, and extending to more ominous passages in which he speaks of Jews as “pestilence.” “Th
is water pestilence must be eradicated from our streams and lakes,” Lagarde writes on page 276, with a pencil marking bold affirmation in the margin. “The political system without which it cannot exist must be eliminated.”

  British historian Ian Kershaw has described Hitler as one of the most impenetrable personalities of modern history. “The combination of Hitler’s innate secretiveness,” Kershaw writes, “the emptiness of his personal relations, his unbureaucratic style, the extremes of adulation and hatred which he stirred up, and the apologetics as well as distortions built upon post-war memoirs and gossipy anecdotes of those in his entourage, mean that, for all the surviving mountains of paper spewed out by the governmental apparatus of the Third Reich, the sources for reconstructing the life of the German Dictator are in many respects extraordinarily limited—far more so than in the case, say, of his main adversaries, Churchill and even Stalin.”

  Books were frequently the gift of choice for Adolf Hitler. The Nazi leader receiving presents on his fiftieth birthday.

  Hitler’s library certainly contains its share of “spewed” material; easily two-thirds of the collection consists of books he never saw, let alone read, but there are also scores of more personal volumes that Hitler studied and marked. It also contains small but telling details. While perusing the unprocessed volumes in the rare book collection at the Library of Congress, I came across a book whose original contents had been gutted. The front and back boards were firmly secured to the spine by a heavy linen cover with the title, North, Central and East Asia: Handbook of Geographic Science, embossed in gold on a blue background. The original pages had been replaced by a sheaf of cluttered documents: a dozen or so photonegatives, an undated handwritten manuscript titled “The Solution to the German Question,” and a brief note typed on a presentation card that read: