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On January 30, 1933, the Third Reich was proclaimed and1933 Adolf Hitler became Reichskanzler. While a transformation, the extent of which few people realized at the time, took place in Germany, the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra paid its annual visit to England, Holland and Belgium. We had played our last engagement abroad at the Hague on February 22, and were on the train to Bielefeld to give the first concert on German soil since Hitler’s coming to power.

One of the diners on the train was reserved for members of the orchestra. There were a few strangers present, but we hardly noticed them. A friend had joined us shortly after crossing the frontier, one of the many German music lovers who managed to arrange their business journeys to fit in with the orchestra’s schedule.

Holland at that time was in the throes of a “Mengelberg crisis,” for Mengelberg had changed his residence to Switzerland, allegedly to evade the increasingly high taxation in Holland. The orchestra was in high spirits after a successful tour and chattered freely. I joined in the conversation and discussed the question of taxes with Furtwängler, who had owned a house in the Engadine since 1924, and I jokingly suggested that he should follow Mengelberg’s example.

No sooner had we arrived at Bielefeld than our music-loving friend came to us in consternation and excitement. One of the strangers in the dining-car had been a high S.S. leader who had sat and listened to every word we spoke. He regarded us as “anti-National” criminals, threatened to order the boycott of the Bielefeld concert, to report us to Berlin, and so on. Since I was the only woman traveling with the orchestra he had assumed that I was Frau Furtwängler, and was aghast to hear the wife of such a prominent man express the views that I had. Actually, the first Frau Furtwängler was Scandinavian and the prototype of Hitler’s “Aryan” ideal. Our friend was loath to let suspicion rest on an innocent lady, but at the same time thought it inadvisable to direct the Nazis’ attention to Furtwängler’s secretary, since—as I was to learn later—I had been regarded with displeasure by the Nazi Party and had been on their black list for some time. He therefore explained that the lady concerned was merely a friend of the orchestra.

Argument waxed hot over this incident and dragged on throughout the afternoon. Finally, the concert took place. The local Nazis apparently did not want to risk interfering with Germany’s famous orchestra.

This was our return to Germany—now Hitler’s Germany. Our initiation into its new code of ideals had not been long delayed. The Nazis were already swollen with their new importance—their false ideology. What did it mean to them if the Berlin Philharmonic had won honor, success and fame all over the world? What did they know of real culture? They were far too taken up with what was or was not in accord with “national sentiment” to respect the traditions of art and science, let alone those of free speech or free opinion.

After our return this incident had a long sequel, and crystallized finally into one of the customary “denunciations.” Hitler was handed a memorandum accusing Furtwängler, among other things, of depositing abroad the large fees from his foreign engagements, assisted, of course, by his “Jewish” secretary, while the orchestra was left without salary for months at a time. Actually, the exact opposite was true. Often during this unsettled period of political change, Furtwängler did not draw his own fees, in order not to jeopardize the salary of the orchestra. However, that report to Hitler gave us an inkling of things to come.

I remember at that time a constant feeling of vague uneasiness. How could it have been other than vague? How could one foresee what was to come? My work had taken me across the world, but, with many others, I had made the mistake of not watching political events at home. I had never read Mein Kampf and had never taken the problem of Hitler seriously. Our activities were not connected with propaganda and politics, their object was music, music and nothing else. What could have been more in the interests of the real Germany than our work in the cause of music? How could one imagine that even matters of art and culture would henceforth be handled in a hypocritical and arbitrary way? Under the cover of national sentiment and the new concepts tragbar or untragbar (admissible or inadmissible) the lust for power of mediocre minds was given free rein. No achievement was to be recognized unless it originated from the Nazis themselves and was acknowledged by their own propaganda. “Art” and “values” had no objective significance for them, except as means to an end.

Few realized then the ultimate aims of the Nazis. The new laws were not yet in existence, but coming events cast their shadows before. Rumor of “racial” discrimination spread, and it began to be whispered that the Jewish members of the orchestra would soon no longer be tragbar.

Furtwängler had many interviews with various people. Yet he never thought for one moment that anybody would seriously interfere with his work or his responsibilities. He was an idealist, convinced that he need only explain things to put everything right. His faith in himself gave him courage to take a stand and to voice his demands again and again to the leaders of the Reich.

Many posts in the new state were in the hands of unqualified and inexperienced people, Party members, quickly rewarded with high positions for their loyalty to Hitler. Knowing their incompetence, one expected, accordingly, to see them disappear again at an early date, and hoped that common sense would take the place of Party frenzy. It was obvious at first, that it was mainly the “small fry” clamoring for power and influence who caused such confusion. One was hopelessly at their mercy, for the so-called “leaders” were generally inaccessible.

Furtwängler was determined not to submit to arbitrary encroachment upon his sphere of work—the sensitive, artistic organization of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. He made no secret of his view, and the Nazi authorities soon heard of it. Perhaps they did not feel sure of themselves on this question, important as it was to foreign opinion. At any rate, for some reason, the respect Furtwängler enjoyed prevented, for the time being, a Nazi-engineered catastrophe overtaking the orchestra.

At that moment, as sometimes happened in those days of upheaval, a new personality suddenly appeared on the scene, an aristocratic landowner, a flying officer with Goering in the Great War and a passionate music lover. Although an early Party member with access to all authorities, he was apparently a man of understanding and of decent character. In the continual unauthorized interferences with individual liberties that now occurred, that type of person—of the Party and yet possessing a cultural background, able to make a stand where ordinary people could not−-proved to be a temporary salvation for many institutions. He was introduced to Furtwängler and, by agreement with the authorities, was appointed Kommissar to the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. Thus the orchestra gained a go-between without whom the growing mistrust of the Nazis would have made the continuation of work impossible.

In the meantime, I had grown more conscious of the strange times we were living in, but was still without the least realization what it might mean for me. I was of Jewish origin and Protestant upbringing. Most of the old, cultured Jewish families who had lived in Germany for centuries had assimilated themselves to the national life. “The Jewish problem,” as Hitler created it, simply did not exist.

From the beginning of the Nazi regime, Furtwängler had declared me to be indispensable to him and his work. Through my efforts the orchestra had in many respects been made independent. Their frequent tours, mostly the result of my initiative, were financially and artistically highly successful, and had become an essential part of the orchestra’s life.

One afternoon in March, Lorenz Höber, who had been a member of the Orchestra Committee for many years, the new Kommissar, and I were sitting in my office. After a few irrelevant remarks, Höber suddenly flourished a piece of paper.

“I have here,” he said, “a letter from Professor Havemann [then head of the Fighting League for German Culture], concerning the orchestra. He writes that the Jewish members of the orchestra and, of course, Dr. Geissmar, are no longer tragbar in the New Germany.”

At first I did not take him seriously. Höber was always full of fun, and I thought this was one of his usual jokes. Eventually, however, he reluctantly handed me the letter, and when I found his words confirmed I felt as if I had been struck by lightning.... I began to understand.

Untragbar, amazing word! Why should I be untragbar? I had always served the orchestra and its chief not only with integrity, but with the greatest fervor and passionate devotion. My position was such that the new Nazi legislation so far did not apply to me. But, of course, I could not fathom the depth of cunning to which the Nazis descended in cases beyond their legal grasp.

Professor Havemann, the author of the ominous letter, was a very doubtful character. Long before Hitler came to power he had secretly been a Party member. He was a drunkard, no girl student at the Hochschule für Musik where he taught was safe from him, and he was always in debt. His fellow Party members later discarded him and circulated among the authorities a bulky document enumerating all the accusations against him. That, however, was yet to come. For a long time, pompously officiating in Party uniform, he interfered unopposed and did a great deal of harm. Everyone was helpless against the methods of terrorism he applied under cover of Party authority. When anything annoyed him, Havemann was in the habit of catching his victim on the telephone and raving in an uncontrolled torrent of words. I did not know him personally but one day he rang me up. Without any preliminaries he shouted at me, “Dr. Geissmar, I have just seen the program for the Brahms Festival in Vienna. You can take it from me that this Festival will not take place as planned. Your Jewish influence is indubitably responsible for the choice of soloists.” (They were Huberman, Casals, and Schnabel—the engagement of the latter instead of Backhaus, then the great favorite of Hitler, was particularly galling to the Nazis.) “We shall soon get rid of you, you may be sure,” he roared. Before I could open my mouth he rang off.

The program for the Brahms Centenary Festival to be held in May 1933 had been fixed by the Vienna committee in agreement with Furtwängler and the Deutsche Brahms Gesellschaft. As usual, since Furtwängler was chairman of the Brahms Gesellschaft, I had assisted in the preparations. Vienna still had a free hand and the power of the Nazis came to an end at Germany’s frontiers. Needless to say, the Brahms Festival took place exactly as planned. Havemann’s threat was without effect for the moment. The question of my dismissal, so categorically demanded by his letter, was temporarily dropped. The personnel of the orchestra also remained unchanged.

Meanwhile, continuous changes and interferences in every institution throughout Germany went on, illegally and arbitrarily. The slogan “The voice of the people” was invoked to justify everything: envy, lust for power, and robbery were rampant under the banner of the glorious “New Germany.” Yet many people, so far not directly involved, did not realize what was at stake, and I remember someone on intimate terms with the Mendelssohn family and a close friend of the late Joseph Joachim saying quite seriously to me, “We are approaching wonderful times.” Wonderful indeed!

March 21st was the official inauguration of the Third Reich. It was a great day for the Nazis, enhanced by a brilliant, clear sky. I went for a walk through the Tiergarten, budding in the early spring, swarming with S.A. men and couples of Hitler-Jugend who for the first time dared openly to display their uniform. I was depressed, but I still had no vision of the fateful course events were to take. On my solitary walk, my thoughts turned to the cause of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra to which Furtwängler and I had devoted so much love, energy, and care. Germany owed an immense debt to Furtwängler. Undisturbed work was a basic requirement for conserving his nervous energy, and I fervently hoped that he would be allowed to remain free from interference.

A gala performance of Die Meistersinger at the State Opera, with Furtwängler conducting, had been arranged to celebrate the great day of the nation. A few days before, Generalintendant Tietjen, the head of the Prussian State Theaters, had inquired if Furtwängler would be available, for Hitler had expressed the wish that he conduct. Hindenburg would be present. Attendance was by invitation only. I was given a seat in my usual box. The fact that I went shows how little I realized how matters really stood.

The Staatsoper was filled with unfamiliar faces and uniforms. Furtwängler conducted, ill as he was with incipient influenza. During the first interval he was commanded to the presence of the Führer who sat in the middle of the circle. I was only a few yards away, and so was able to see an ecstatic Hitler grasp the hands of Furtwängler who was as pale as death. Before the last act all windows were thrown open, and the sounds of fanatical youth marching in a torchlight procession in honor of their Führer filled the Opera House.

The rest of March 1933 was a hectic period of uncertainty and harassment. Events preceding the first of April 1933 in Germany were reminiscent of the Dark Ages. No atrocities reported in the foreign press could equal in horror those which actually occurred. The Nazis used the outcry abroad as an excuse for tightening the screw at home. To this day I do not know who was the originator of the idea of the unrestricted boycott of the Jews. Like a nightmare, it was suddenly there. If only the world had realized from the very beginning what great gamblers the Nazis were! They seemed to know quite well that many of the protests “by foreign powers” were only nominal, and the rest meant merely condemnation without action.

By the end of March a crisis was approaching. One day without warning, a notice prohibiting Jewish employees from working appeared on the front pages of the newspapers in heavy type. It was not the “Civil Servants’ Law,” later to be promulgated; in fact, it was no law at all. It caused an enormous panic because neither employers nor employees knew what to make of it. An indescribable insecurity pervaded, and rumors of the impending boycott hung heavily over the people. They were torn by anguish and uncertainty.

There were whispers of American intervention, of continuous government meetings, and then of a “deterioration of the situation” due to (invented) incidents abroad. It was said that the leaders were not in agreement about the boycott, that until the last minute Party officials were in conference with Goering, who was alleged to be against it. Influential voices tried to advise a moderate course. Nobody really knew what would happen; I believe the government itself did not know until the last moment. Finally, on March 31st, it was announced that Goebbels was to speak on the subject on all radio stations at nine o’clock at night. Everybody listened with apprehension to his cunning mixture of sadism, slyness, and empty rhetoric. After a climax, which led everybody to expect the worst, Goebbels announced that the boycott was to come into force on April 1st, and was to last until six P.M. on the same day. At the same time he uttered a threat—obviously intended for foreign consumption—to resume the boycott in the case of “bad behavior”—presumably of the foreign press.

I had been advised to remove myself on the boycott day, because Furtwängler’s attitude toward the dismissal of the Jewish members of the orchestra and of myself made it appear likely that our office would be an object of the “people’s fury,” staged, of course, by Goebbels. Accordingly, in the early morning of April 1st, I went to the Grunewald, outside Berlin, accompanied by the leader of the orchestra, Goldberg, the first violinist, Back, and the two principal cellists, Schuster and Graudan and their wives. We picnicked there, strolled about, and returned late in the evening.

What had been going on in Berlin in the meantime?

Every artifice of demagogy had been used to whip up public opinion. It seemed unbelievable that such infamy was possible in a civilized age. Old and established Jewish-owned firms were assailed by groups of young Storm Troopers, wild with Party frenzy. The nameplates of physicians and lawyers whose ancestors had long been citizens of Germany were covered with mud-colored placards, notices with “Jude,” “Jüdisches Geschäft,” or the Star of David were daubed on the walls of houses inhabited by Jews. Jewish-owned shops were guarded by Storm Troopers who prevented the shoppers from entering.

Nothing happened to the Philharmonic office. The Nazi ventriloquist knew exactly when to produce the “voice of the people.” Our day had not yet arrived!

All this organized hooliganism was infinitely upsetting, and almost as upsetting was the sympathy one met. Many people were ashamed and said so. If only they had had the strength of mind to persist!

A few other incidents of these days are still in my mind. The French Ambassador in Berlin, M. François-Poncet, was both fond of music, and exceedingly hospitable, and regularly arranged concerts at the Embassy. Since I sometimes advised on the programs, I was a frequent guest at the Embassy, and on friendly terms with some of the secretaries, and with the First Counsellor, M. Arnal, and his wife, who came from Alsace-Lorraine, and who themselves were charming hosts.

One day M. François-Poncet gave a luncheon party at the French Embassy in honor of Cortot, who was the soloist at a Philharmonic Concert. The day had not yet come when great international artists were to refuse to play in Berlin. The Philharmonic question was in the limelight, and there was wide speculation whether Furtwängler would be able to retain his Jewish musicians and myself as his secretary. At the luncheon, I was placed at the Ambassador’s right, with Cortot as my other neighbor. Opposite sat the newly appointed musical critic of the Völkische Beobachter, the official Nazi organ. Since Hitler’s seizure of power this gentleman had revealed himself as a Party member and was never seen out of his S.A. uniform. Being a good Nazi, he had, of course, ignored me since Hitler’s advent, though we constantly met. And now on his first visit to an Embassy he was confronted by me occupying the place of honor at the table.

Though they resented us, the Nazis still had to take people like me into account as long as we were invited to official functions, and compromise when they met us on the neutral ground of an Embassy. At this luncheon, the Ambassador, Cortot and I naturally conversed in French. The Nazi critic displayed an overwhelming charm and tried his best to join our conversation. When we left, he and I parted “the best of friends” and he actually took to greeting me again when nobody else was about!