Hidden Caps and Drawn Sabers

by WALTER HENRY NELSON

1

THE young man was of military demeanor, and his face resembled a cracked glass. “ Here in Munich,”he told me, “we cast a fishy eye on all who write.” I assured him that my wonderment was not hostility. “That may well he,” he said, “but here, whenever the local sheets have empty space to fill, they got some fellow with a grade-school education to attack us unfairly. But we shall see,”he said, and called an alumnus of his club to ask if I might see a dance the club was holding. “He’ll tell the truth,” he said into the telephone, and the Old Gentleman, or Alter Herr, as the financial and spiritual fathers of such groups are called, presumably sighed in relief and consented to my coming.

“Just who’ll be there?” I asked, newly arrived in Germany.

“Only the Burschenschaftler and their girls; the dances are all closed affairs and you couldn’t see a duel because they’re still illegal here. In actuality, everyone blinks an eye. We’ve been around so long — since 1815, you know — that everyone misses us; and although Bonn doesn’t like us to wear our uniforms as yet out in the streets, occasionally we wear our caps and ribbons. When the people see us they’re happy. ‘We have our students back again,’ they say. They really do.”

At eight that night I met my friend in front of a beer garden which, inexplicably, was called The Chinese Tower. We passed into the hall and all glanced most suspiciously at me. I was clearly an object of distrust.

A number of the Old Gentlemen stood at the door, forming a reception line with their wives — bosomy, dowdy creatures in 1935 dresses. My friend went through the line first, pumping hands vigorously with everyone and exchanging his name in the German fashion, something like roll call or attendance checks. My turn came next. I was stared at coldly by an Alter Herr of thirty, but after I had barked my name at him and after he had snapped back “Krauss!” or whatever he was called, and after we had bowed sharply, my scar-faced friend whispered something in Herr Krauss’s ear and he looked up then with a sickly smile and said, “Ach so — oh yes, of course, you’re the . . .” His last words were lost in the rush of more namebarking and heel-clicking, and my friend and I moved across the dance floor to the cloakroom.

I dropped my coat and twenty pfennigs on the counter, and my friend took off his jacket and put his black-red-gold club ribbon across his chest. It reached from the right shoulder to the left hip, like a brightly colored Sam Browne belt. He put his jacket back on and pulled his cap out of his pocket. He put that on before a mirror, settling the little bellboy’s hat with the tiny visor all the way down on the right side of his head.

“They don’t like it if we walk about the streets too much with caps and ribbons on,” he said byway of explanation. “But it’s all right here where we’re among friends.”

A number of young men who had queued up behind my friend now faced the mirror and went through the same ritual. The girls stood by in silence until their escorts were sufficiently arrayed. Besides myself, the girls were the only persons in the hall without a nick or scratch or scar to call their own.

We took a table near the dance floor and I looked around. The vista of organizational hats recalled to my mind a Shriners’ convention.

“How often do you meet?" I asked.

Not more than once a month, my friend told me, though smaller get-togethers were arranged whenever an innkeeper did not prove averse to caps and ribbons. “Actually, as I’ve mentioned, the public is very glad to have us back,” he said with emphasis, all the while looking about for a waiter. “But they outlawed us after World War II, and only now, when restrictions are lessening, can we meet in the open once again. Herr Ober!” he shouted, and a nervous little man in an apron spun about like a top and headed towards our table. “The gentlemen wish?” the waiter said, emptying the butts from a partly filled ash tray into a little silver snuffbox and carefully placing it in his pocket. My friend disdained to turn towards him. “Two dark,”he said over his shoulder; and as the waiter scurried off, “Outlawing us was stupid, of course, for Hitler himself disbanded us in '36 and made us join his student groups.”He smiled and laughed a toothy laugh and inhaled deeply from his cigarette. “You might even call us victims of Nazism,”he said.

2

THE waiter brought the steins of dark beer, rich and strong enough to chew upon, and we took long and healing draughts. The music hadn’t started yet, and the members were still finding seats, chatting with friends and bowing and clicking heels to acquaintances, much as they had done since 1815, I presumed. Herr Krauss came over to our table, and my friend rose a little from his chair and bowed, and Krauss stood next to us and smiled a little. “I’m certain you’ll enjoy yourself,”he said; then, losing his smile: “You must only try real hard. Well, we hope you will return real soon again.”I should get to know more about the fraternities, he added.

“Tell him!" Herr Krauss snapped at my friend and then moved on to the next table to leer at some young fellow’s date. It seemed he had established a forward observation post on my side of the room.

“God, Honor, Country, Freedom! That is the motto of the Burschenschaften,” said my friend, launching enthusiastically into his account and leaning forward with a confidential air. A clap of thunder from the drums stopped him dead in his tracks. Herr Krauss moved to the center of the floor amid restrained applause.

He said again that he hoped everybody would have fun. One of the features of German students’ life, he reassured the doubters in the audience, was having fun, and he was sure we would have just that if we let ourselves go. Not everything in life is studying, he said; there were other things which interested students as well. That remark had clearly gone over well, for several students chuckled and one or two professorial alumni good-naturedly harrumphed.

When it was evident that everyone was once again attentive, Herr Krauss referred once or twice to higher things which he declined to list by name, and spoke briefly of the world-wide comradeship of students. Comradeship, of course, was best personified in the Burschenschaffen, where fraternity life had reached full flower and where today, as was the case a hundred years ago, the ties of friendship were cemented with the ties of blood. There was hearty applause, and the student band accompanied Herr Krauss off the floor with a roll of drums. A ragtime tune was struck and the floor filled. I stayed at my table, nursing a liter of bock. A young man sitting to my left saw me looking at his cap, different from the others.

“I’m Germania,”he said, “from Hamburg. A guest here. These others are members of the Arminia fraternity.” Possibly afraid of being a bad guest, he added hurriedly, “Wonderful group! Arminia has a very noble tradition indeed. All the way back to the first days of the Burschenschaffen, in 1815, when Germany longed for unity.” He paused and took a sip of beer. “And democracy, of course. You’re an American, aren’t you? The Americans are very keen on democracy, eh?” he asked, and when I nodded, feeling that perhaps I should have apologized for our national weakness, he added, “These are no rich men’s clubs, as some of your fraternities are reputed to be. And though we wear uniforms, we’re not at all militaristic. Though no one can say we can’t fight,”he added with a quiet little smile of satisfaction. “Twenty per cent of us were killed in World War I,” he added proudly, “and in the battle of Langemarck in 1914, we marched into the French machine guns — in close formation and singing our national anthem,

“We lost the battle,” he said, shaking his head and taking another sip of beer, “But right now,” he added, picking up enthusiasm again, “we concentrate on character building. We’ve helped to mold the German character since Bismarck’s day. Before that we concentrated on national unity; but after the Kaiser was installed, we concentrated on men. There are a lot of students here today who are in bad need of the social graces. We give them that,”he said, rising to bow sharply at Herr Krauss, who had passed by again.

“Look at Herr Krauss there,” he said, indicating the peripatetic observer. “ Krauss is a good example of the type of gentleman the Burschenschaftler produce. They tell me he’s a scholar, real saber man, and a real Alter Herr on top. He takes care of the boys after they graduate, sees to it that they get good jobs with other Alte Herren. He’s a democrat, of course,” the student said, “though that doesn’t mean he can’t fight. Got the Iron Cross, first class, last war and never was a Party member — that goes without saying. There was some fuss about him in '46, they tell me; they claimed — ridiculous, I know — that he looted some art museums.

“Well, I ask you,” the student said, raising his shoulders in exasperation. “ Krauss is a numismatist and, oh, you know — well, they can get carried away. When Krauss was in Paris . . .”

“Was he an art expert for the Army?" I asked.

“Oh, he fought, of course. Every German fights,”he said with firmness. “But he also collected some art. You know — something here, a little something there. Not much. Goering took much more. And anyway, they got it all back. After the war, when the Allied officers came to confiscate it and send it back, Krauss insisted on returning it. It was a point of honor with him.”

3

MY FRIEND had caught Herr Krauss’s eye and smiled at him. Krauss disengaged himself from his chair and moved towards us. His lips wiggled a little in the suggestion of a smile and he kept his eyes on me. I offered him a cigarette. “Real Ami-blend. eh?” Krauss said, loosening a little. “You people really know how to make cigarettes and cars. Though our poor little Mercedes isn’t so bad either — eh, Germania?" he asked, and the two of them chuckled for a moment while Krauss lit his Ami-blend and took a puff.

“I’ve learned a lot about the Burschenschaften tonight, Herr Krauss,” I said, and Krauss glanced nervously at the lad from Hamburg and then turned to smile at me again. “But I should like to know something about your duels.”

“Duels?” Krauss said. “The Mensur is not a duel; it was established to stop the duels. It s just fencing.”

“Well,” I asked, “isn’t it just a little different?”

“Three minor changes,” Krauss assured me. “The saber is razor sharp, we don’t wear masks, and the target is the face. But no one can get badly hurt; there are doctors in attendance nowadays. They take good care of the boys.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Germania blurted out; “and if you’ll pardon my interruption, Herr Krauss, may I just say that I myself have had to wait two hours to start a match while doctors patched a student who had fought before me.”

“You see?” Krauss said.

“He had a bad cut on his forehead and I recall he bled a lot,” Germania continued. “But the doctors were there and they had him shipshape soon enough,” he added with a deprecating laugh.

“It builds character,” Krauss said. “We feel (hat if you don’t flinch when you see that saber edge coming at your face, you won’t flinch in later life.”

“You’re not allowed to flinch?" I asked.

“Can’t anyway,” Germania said. “The leather neckpiece is a vise that, holds the head in one position.”

“But if you do flinch, you’re disqualified,” Krauss added, then paused and grew serious. He leaned forward. “There is no danger whatsoever that someone might get killed,” he said. “I want to emphasize that point because there have been a lot of lies about us lately. Before you go into the match you’re goggled to protect the eyes, you wear a leather neckpiece to protect the throat, and the very nature of the saber slash, coming as it does from above, makes it impossible for someone to get mortally hurt.”

“If you’ll pardon me,” Germania said to Krauss, rising and bowing a little again, “if you’ll pardon me, I’d like to add that even a blow on the top of the head wouldn’t be bad.” He parted his hair for me, to illustrate his point. Krauss and I got up and peered at his scalp and saw a reddish scar. “See?” Krauss said with a sudden laugh, “You can’t split the skull. You can only slash it. It’s a sport, just like boxing. You must understand we are a very real social good. We seek to elevate German youth to courageousness and gentlemanliness.

“We produce the cream of German society,” Krauss said. “For over a century, all our officers were Burschenschaftler. All our learned men. Do you wish to take notes on this?” he asked.

“No, that’s all right. I have a good memory.”

“I meant it just for accuracy’s sake. But as I said, they all were Burschenschaftler. The scar on the cheeks of the German shows you right off who belongs and who does not. And yet, of course, anyone can join, although most of us come from families which had been members too. We haven’t changed a bit since 1815,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

My friend who had brought me to the dance came back from the dance floor and, after bowing to Germania and Krauss, seated himself beside me. “My host,” I told Herr Krauss, “said Hitler outlawed you.”

“That’s right,” Krauss said enthusiastically and smiled at my young friend. “That’s absolutely right! In 1935 he demanded we adopt the Nazi Weltanschauung, and they forbade the members of the Hitler Youth to join our fraternities.”

“You might have expected it,” my young friend said. “The HJ leader, Baldur von Schirach, held a grudge against us and was seeking his revenge. He had been expelled from Munich’s Bavaria Korps.”

“Cum, infamia, no less,” said Krauss with satisfaction. “Oh yes, we saw through them right away.”

“When they made things too tough for us in 1936,” Germania chimed in, “we fooled them by disbanding. They couldn’t force us to agree with them if we no longer existed. They took over our buildings in '37 and made us join the Nazi Students’ Bund.”

“Isn’t that what Hitler wanted anyway?” I asked.

Herr Krauss seemed most annoyed. “If you wish to be technical, yes. If you wish to be technical, he succeeded. But you must understand the subtlety of the move we made. We saved honor.”

“We have a great sense of honor, you know,” my young friend interjected. “ You know, before Hitler — he was, unfortunately, not very interested in honor — a German officer who contracted a gambling debt was expected to pay it back within twenty-four or forty-eight hours. If he didn’t, he was handed a pistol and he would blow his brains out. Why? Because he had a very real, a very dynamic, a very German sense of honor.”

“And if I may say so,” added Herr Krauss, “he had a Burschenschaftler sense of honor.” He leaned back and took a deep drag from his cigarette.

The dancers had returned by now and a very gemütlich atmosphere set in, induced by the deceptively strong German beer. Herr Krauss got up and left the table to rejoin the other Alte Herren near the entrance of the hall, and the seats filled with other couples. We talked of America for a while. All the students were immensely interested. Had I ever belonged to an American fraternity?

“If you can call it that. We had a house and kept the fraternity name, but the chapter had been expelled by the national association years before.”

Everybody laughed and someone said that this was typical of that wonderful spirit of “Who cares?” that marks America. We all sat around and drank more beer, and the band kept playing those ragtime tunes they thought were jazz, and all the dancers hopped about, up and down like marionettes, in what the Germans think of as jitterbugging.

Towards the end of the evening, the irrepressible Herr Krauss moved to the dance floor once again and led everyone in a spirited community sing. “Gaudeamus igitur” was included.

At about two in the morning, all went to the cloakroom to get their coats. The young men, their scarred faces intent upon the mirrors, removed their caps and ribbons, folded them carefully, and put them in their pockets for the way home.

At the door I met Herr Krauss again. “Auf Wiedersehen!” I said, and he smiled and glanced apprehensively at the fountain pen in my breast pocket. “You had a good time, did you?” he asked, and I assured him that the evening had been fun and interesting. “Ah, so?” he asked. ”I hope you learned a lot. Today, when anyone can print whatever he likes, one must he careful,”he said to me and laughed. “You know. People lend to misunderstand. Although we are a social good — and very democratic. We believe in a little discipline, certainly,” he said, “but we agree absolutely that democracy is fine. What it needs, of course, is a strong man to run it.” He said good-byvery urbanely now, and I left the hall.

My friend and I met the young student from Hamburg on the street. The two young Germans stopped and bowed and clicked their heels. “Arminia!” the boy from Hamburg shouted in salute. To which my friend bowed sharply and barked “Germania!” in return.