Complicity, Censorship and Criticism: Negotiating Space in the GDR Literary Sphere 9783110237962, 9783110237955

Table of contents :
Foreword
Contents
Introduction
Defining the GDR
The Intellectuals
Antifascism, Socialism and Closeness to the Ruling Elite
Censorship and Repression
The Critical Voice of Literature and the End of the GDR
Selection of Authors
Selection of Sources
Archive Material
Autobiography
Literature
Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary
Working with the Stasi: Kant as Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter
The Stasi Career Phase One: 1957–1968
The File
Motivations
Scruples and Distancing
After the Wende: The Denial
Censorship and Repression: The Publication of Das Impressum
The Writing Period
The Publication in Forum
The Interview in Vorwärts
The Ban and the Final Publication
After the Wende: A Presentation of Clarity
Criticism from Within: Kant and the Writers’ Union
The Public Face of the Writer-Functionary
The Second Face of the Writer-Functionary
After the Wende: The Third Face of the Writer-Functionary
Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Das Impressum
Conclusion
Hostile Partisan: Stefan Heym and the Search for Clarity
Working with the Party: Liberalisation through Negotiation
The Beginning of Negotiations: The Publication of Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe and the Honecker Liberalisation
The Failure of Negotiations: The Decision not to Publish, 1969–1972
Reviewers’ Reports: The Limits of Liberalisation
Changing Faces and Changing Attitudes: The Final Publication 1972–1974
Censorship and Repression: 5 Tage im Juni, Biermann and Collin
The End of Negotiations? 5 Tage im Juni, 1974
The End of Negotiations II? The Consequences of the Biermann Affair, 1976–1977
The End of Negotiations III? Collin and the Expulsions of 1979
Pre-publication: Fear of Reprisals
Post-publication and Post-prosecution: The Contours of Cold Peace
Critical Voice: Alternative Public Forums, the Writer and the State in the Late GDR
The West as Public Forum: Between Privilege and Control
The Shifting Party Line: The Beginning of the End?
Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Collin
Conclusion
Uncertain Comrade: Elfriede Brüning, Loyalty, Criticism and Power
Working with Party Policy: Brüning and the Critical Writers
Party-loyal Writers and the Eleventh Plenary
Post-Censorship or Controlled Debate? The Role of Literary Journals
Septemberreise: Petty-Bourgeois Trivial Literature?
Brüning’s Response.
The Effects of Post-Censorship: The 1974 Publication
Grumblings of Discontent: Behind-the-Scenes Criticism and Public Support
Behind-the-Scenes Criticism: The Issue of Print Runs
Public Conformity and the Failure of Negotiations
Pushing at Boundaries: Feminism in the GDR
Literature and Antifascism
Septemberreise
Wie andere Leute auch
Conclusion
Conclusion: Ambiguity, Fragmentation and the End of the GDR
Ambiguity in Relationships with Power
Ambiguity and the Evangelical Church
Ambiguity as a Feature of Everyday Life
Fragmentation and Disintegration
Bibliography
Index of Names

Citation preview

Sara Jones Complicity, Censorship and Criticism

Interdisciplinary German Cultural Studies Edited by

Scott Denham . Irene Kacandes Jonathan Petropoulos

Volume 10

De Gruyter

Sara Jones

Complicity, Censorship and Criticism Negotiating Space in the GDR Literary Sphere

De Gruyter

ISBN 978-3-11-023795-5 e-ISBN 978-3-11-023796-2 ISSN 1861-8030 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jones, Sara, 1980Complicity, censorship and criticism : negotiating space in the GDR literary sphere / by Sara Jones. p. cm. -- (Interdisciplinary German cultural studies ; 10) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-3-11-023795-5 (acid-free paper) 1. German literature--20th century--History and criticism. 2. Literature and society--Germany--History--20th century. 3. Censorship in literature. 4. Kant, Hermann--Criticism and interpretation. 5. Heym, Stefan, 1913-2001--Criticism and interpretation. 6. Brüning, Elfriede--Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. PT405.J6725 2011 830.9‘943109045--dc22 2011001791

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek 7he Deutsche NationalbibliotheN lists this publication in the Deutsche NationalbibliograÀe detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2011 Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin/New York Cover image: Anthony Marsland/Riser/Getty Images Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ’ Printed on acid-Iree paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Foreword This study has its origins in doctoral research completed at the University of Nottingham from 2005 to 2008. I would like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council for providing funding for this project. I also wish to thank my doctoral supervisor, Professor Roger Woods, for his invaluable advice and expertise throughout the process of researching and writing this study. Thanks go to Professor Matthias Uecker for offering his inexhaustible knowledge as second supervisor and Dr Franziska Meyer, not only for her continuing support and motivation, but also for pointing me towards the Elfriede Brüning collection at the Fritz-Hüser-Institut and for her assistance in preparing and publishing the interview with Brüning. The comments and advice of Dr Meyer and Professor Stephen Parker as examiners of the thesis from which this study has been developed have been invaluable. Alison Lewis’s help and advice, particularly her expertise in the area of memories of the Stasi, have been particularly important and I wish to thank her and the other members of the Department of German at the University of Melbourne for welcoming me as a visitor in September 2007. I am also grateful to Birgit Dahlke for her advice and direction at the start of my project. Thanks go to Herr Wagner of the BStU, Frau Palm of the Fritz-Hüser-Institut and the many archivists of the Bundesarchiv for their patience and practical support during my fieldwork in 2006. It has been a pleasure to work with the series editors at Walter de Gruyter and their comments and critiques have been immensely useful. I am also grateful to Elfriede Brüning for granting me permission to cite from her unpublished letters. Last, but certainly not least, thanks go to my parents and to my partner, Sean, for their unfailing patience and support. Bristol, December 2010

Contents Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Defining the GDR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Intellectuals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antifascism, Socialism and Closeness to the Ruling Elite . . . . . . . Censorship and Repression. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Critical Voice of Literature and the End of the GDR . . . . . . Selection of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Selection of Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Archive Material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Autobiography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1 8 9 14 17 19 22 22 25 29

Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Working with the Stasi: Kant as Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter . . . . . . . . . . . The Stasi Career Phase One: 1957–1968 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Motivations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scruples and Distancing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . After the Wende: The Denial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Censorship and Repression: The Publication of Das Impressum . . . . . . The Writing Period . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Publication in Forum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Interview in Vorwärts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Ban and the Final Publication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . After the Wende: A Presentation of Clarity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Criticism from Within: Kant and the Writers’ Union . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Public Face of the Writer-Functionary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Second Face of the Writer-Functionary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . After the Wende: The Third Face of the Writer-Functionary . . . . Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Das Impressum . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

34 34 35 37 41 43 50 51 54 59 61 67 71 72 74 81 86 91

viii

Contents

Hostile Partisan: Stefan Heym and the Search for Clarity. . . . . . 94 Working with the Party: Liberalisation through Negotiation . . . 95 The Beginning of Negotiations: The Publication of Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe and the Honecker Liberalisation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 The Failure of Negotiations: The Decision not to Publish, 1969–1972. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .101 Reviewers’ Reports: The Limits of Liberalisation . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Changing Faces and Changing Attitudes: The Final Publication 1972–1974 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Censorship and Repression: 5 Tage im Juni, Biermann and Collin . . . 116 The End of Negotiations? 5 Tage im Juni, 1974 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 The End of Negotiations II? The Consequences of the Biermann Affair, 1976–1977 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 The End of Negotiations III? Collin and the Expulsions of 1979 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Pre-publication: Fear of Reprisals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 Post-publication and Post-prosecution: The Contours of Cold Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Critical Voice: Alternative Public Forums, the Writer and the State in the Late GDR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 The West as Public Forum: Between Privilege and Control . . . . 132 The Shifting Party Line: The Beginning of the End? . . . . . . . . . 136 Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Collin . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

Uncertain Comrade: Elfriede Brüning, Loyalty, Criticism and Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 Working with Party Policy: Brüning and the Critical Writers . . . . . . . Party-loyal Writers and the Eleventh Plenary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Post-Censorship or Controlled Debate? The Role of Literary Journals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Septemberreise: Petty-Bourgeois Trivial Literature?. . . . . . . . . . . . Brüning’s Response. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Effects of Post-Censorship: The 1974 Publication. . . . . . . . Grumblings of Discontent: Behind-the-Scenes Criticism and Public Support . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Behind-the-Scenes Criticism: The Issue of Print Runs . . . . . . . . Public Conformity and the Failure of Negotiations . . . . . . . . . . Pushing at Boundaries: Feminism in the GDR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Literature and Antifascism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

152 152 157 157 164 167 171 171 174 178 188

Contents

ix

Septemberreise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Wie andere Leute auch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195

Conclusion: Ambiguity, Fragmentation and the End of the GDR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 Ambiguity in Relationships with Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ambiguity and the Evangelical Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ambiguity as a Feature of Everyday Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fragmentation and Disintegration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

198 201 203 204

Bibliography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 Index of Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225

Introduction Defining the GDR Since the end of the GDR, access to the large volume of material in the archives of the SED and Stasi has resulted in an increasingly complex picture of East German society and SED rule and an increasingly diverse number of models and concepts that attempt to describe this complexity.1 Writing in 1994, Michael Brie notes in reference to the competing models of GDR society that, “the dispute about the past is [also] a dispute about the social realities of the future” and “a political dispute, since the opposing political protagonists are using and abusing history as a means to power.”2 Similarly, Corey Ross argues that “probably more than most areas of historical enquiry, interpretations of the GDR have always been particularly closely connected to the present.”3 If modelling the past means to model the future of East German identity in the united Germany then any conceptualisation of the GDR must seek to negotiate a path between memories of repression and nostalgic recollections of a sense of community and security, and to encompass the complexity of the varied experiences of the citizens of the GDR and their participation in a state that existed for forty years. Brie notes that in the period immediately following the demise of the GDR the “terms ‘unjust state,’ ‘totalitarian society,’ or ‘SED dictatorship’ for the GDR [had] become firmly established, indeed dominant” and that “this happened by a process of strict and very one-sided selection from the

1

2

3

See Konrad H. Jarausch, “Beyond Uniformity: The Challenge of Historicizing the GDR,” in Dictatorship as Experience: Towards a Socio-Cultural History of the GDR, ed. Konrad H. Jarausch, trans. Eve Duffy (New York: Berghahn, 1999), 3–14 (11). For a more detailed overview of the competing discourses in the immediate post-Wende period see Corey Ross, The East German Dictatorship: Problems and Perspectives in the Interpretation of the GDR (London: Arnold, 2002), 3–20. Michael Brie, “The Difficulty of Discussing the GDR,” in Understanding the Past, Managing the Future: Studies in GDR Culture and Society 13, ed. Margy Gerber and Roger Woods (Lanham: University Press of America, 1994), 1–23 (1). Brie was professor of political science at the Humboldt University in Berlin, but was dismissed after admitting to having passed information on his students to the Stasi. He is currently the head of the Institute for Critical Social Analysis at the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation. Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 6.

2

Introduction

previous multiplicity of scholarly terms which attempted to capture the complex contradictions of East German society.”4 Two of the key theoretical texts cited by proponents of totalitarianism theories are Hannah Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism (first published in 1951) and Carl Friedrich and Zbigniew Brzezinski’s Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy (first published in 1956). Principally referring to Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, Arendt describes totalitarian movements as a “perpetualmotion mania […] which can remain in power only so long as they keep moving and set everything around them in motion” and which seek the “permanent domination of each single individual in each and every sphere of life.”5 She considers one of the key features to be the “demand for total, unrestricted, unconditional, and unalterable loyalty of the individual member” (323). Arendt states that the superiority of totalitarian propaganda lies in its “organization of the entire texture of life according to an ideology,” which results in the content of propaganda becoming “as real and untouchable an element in [the citizens’] lives as the rules of arithmetic” (363). She also places emphasis on the importance of the Leader, “not as a person, but as a function,” (374) a dichotomous view of the world and the concept of “objective enemies,” who are defined not by their actions, but by ideology and the “will of the Leader” (422). For Arendt, “terror is the essence of totalitarian domination,” (464) which destroys not only the “public realm of life,” but also “private life” (475). Friedrich and Bzrezinski’s account of totalitarianism is based on comparisons with past and contemporary tyrannies. They consider that totalitarianism is a particular form of autocracy, adapted to twentieth-century industrial society and that “fascist and communist totalitarian dictatorships are basically alike, or at any rate more nearly like each other than like any other system of government.”6 Friedrich and Bzrezinski identify six basic features or traits that are common to totalitarian dictatorship: “ideology, a single party typically led by one man, a terroristic police, a communications monopoly, a weapons monopoly, and a centrally directed economy” (21). They state that although totalitarians may seek to achieve total control, “no such control is actually achieved, even within the ranks of their party membership or cadres, let alone over the population at large” (16). What is new, according to the authors, is the “effort to resuscitate such total control in the service of an ideologically motivated movement,

4 5 6

Brie, “The Difficulty of Discussing the GDR,” 7. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 2nd enl. edn (Cleveland: World Publishing, 1958), 306 and 326. Carl J. Friedrich and Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy, 2nd edn rev. by Carl J. Friedrich (New York: Praeger, 1966), 15.

Defining the GDR

3

dedicated to the total destruction and reconstruction of a mass society” (17). The broadening of the base of legitimacy in the Soviet Union under Khrushchev is seen by the authors as “a new phase in the evolution of totalitarian leadership proper, which might be called popular totalitarianism,” which, following Barrington Moore, they describe as “‘a diffuse system of repression more or less willingly accepted by the mass of the population’” (43). The appropriateness of these models of total control in analysis of the GDR has been fiercely debated since their revival after 1989. In an essay in 2006, Lothar Fritze argues that the renaissance of the term “totalitarian,” particularly in West Germany, has been the result of the desire to delegitimise the subject of study rather than of a true assessment of the characteristics of the East German state with reference to the appropriate models: In the last fifteen years, historical research has indeed uncovered a vast amount of detailed empirical knowledge about the GDR; however, this has not included anything that would be essential for the characterisation of the whole system as ‘totalitarian’ and which was not known before 1989.7

Fritze considers that the attempt at delegitimisation and the reduction of a complex and multi-faceted reality to a single concept leads to unequivocal positions that lack differentiation.8 He calls upon social scientists to avoid such one-sided characterisations and to portray the subject of their research in all its complexity, ambivalence and contradictions.9 Similarly, Corey Ross tracks the development of the term totalitarianism from its use in the 1950s, to its rejection by many Western scholars in the 1970s and 1980s and its revival after the collapse of the GDR. He argues that Arendt’s model “bears little resemblance to the increasingly conservative and sclerotic communist systems after Stalin’s death” and that, “although more appropriate for the GDR than Arendt’s model,” Friedrich and Brzezinski’s concept of totalitarianism “does not account for internal changes within the governing system” and “paints an unconvincingly monolithic picture of ‘totalitarian regimes’ which generally does not stand up to close

7

8 9

Lothar Fritze, “Delegitimierung und Totalkritik: Kritische Anmerkungen nach fünfzehn Jahren Aufarbeitung der DDR-Vergangenheit,” Sinn und Form, 58.5 (2006): 645–46. Cf. Angela Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht: Herrschaft und Selbstbehauptung in einem autoritären politischen System (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2002), 65. Borgwardt argues that the term “totalitarian state” is still frequently used “as a war-cry against political repression on the basis of an emotionally-charged anti-Communism [...] and proves itself to be of little use as an instrument of subtle analysis.” Unless otherwise stated, all translations from German are my own. Fritze, “Delegitimierung und Totalkritik,” 646. Ibid., 658.

4

Introduction

scrutiny.”10 Ross considers that in such models “the would-be ‘totalitarian’ party’s ideological claims, rather than the actual social conditions and mechanisms of rule, serve as the primary measure of reality. As a result, the concept, however defined, cannot adequately grasp the peculiarities of the systems it proposes to classify.”11 Moreover, Ross argues that “totalitarian concepts are clearly inadequate when analysing developments outside of this realm [the apparatus of power] such as the social and cultural developments which help to shape and sustain dictatorial rule.”12 Konrad H. Jarausch similarly criticises interpretations which focus on the repressive nature of GDR politics and society, as being motivated by anticommunism and which take “communist propaganda claims largely at face value, and consider(s) East German society [to be] thoroughly politicized, organized by subsidiaries of the ruling party so as to leave no space for a normal private life.”13 Jarausch argues that the task of the GDR historian “consists of coming to terms with the contradictions of the GDR experience so as to recover the various shades of grey, characteristic even 10 11

12 13

Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 22. Ibid., 34. Cf. Mary Fulbrook, “Methodologische Überlegungen zu einer Gesellschaftsgeschichte der DDR, in Die Grenzen der Diktatur: Staat und Gesellschaft in der DDR, ed. Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1996), 274–97 (283). Fulbrook argues that simplifying concepts, whether underscored with the word totalitarianism or not, tend to overlook the complexity and “reciprocal interconnections” [wechselseitige Verschränkungen] without which stability and change in the forty-year history of the GDR cannot be explained. Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 34. Jarausch, “Beyond Uniformity,” 3–4. Mario Keßler and Thomas Klein criticise totalitarianism theory along the same lines. See Mario Keßler and Thomas Klein, “Repression and Tolerance as Methods of Rule in Communist Societies,” in Jarausch, Dictatorship as Experience, 109–21 (111). Martin Sabrow states that viewing the regime “from above” “concentrates on static and unchanging intentions or goals, rather than focusing on the actual practice of rule” and argues for a cultural-historical approach examining “the non-material structures of East German realities which shaped patterns of action and thought over a period of forty years.” Sabrow does, however, endorse many of Arendt’s thoughts on totalitarianism, notably the “‘transformation of fact into fiction’,” “the absolute control of human life” and the erasure of “the boundaries between individuals and society as a whole, rulers and the ruled, fact and fiction, truth and falsehood,” but Sabrow states that this theory is “limited by the fact that it declares its own reality to be the only existing one.” Martin Sabrow, “Dictatorship as Discourse: Cultural Perspectives on SED Legitimacy,” in Jarausch, Dictatorship as Experience, 195–211 (197 and 207). Cf. Mary Fulbrook, “Ein ‘ganz normales Leben’? Neue Forschungen zur Sozialgeschichte der DDR,” in Das war die DDR: DDR-Forschung im Fadenkreuz von Herrschaft, Außenbeziehungen, Kultur und Souveränität, ed. Heiner Timmermann (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004), 115–34 (117–19). Fulbrook argues for the concept of “normalisation,” the possibility that certain social groups at certain times might live “‘a completely normal life’.” See also Mary Fulbrook, “Historiografische Kontroversen seit 1990,” in Views from Abroad: Die DDR aus britischer Perspektive, ed. Peter Barker, Marc-Dietrich Ohse and Dennis Tate (Bielefeld: W. Bertelsmann, 2007), 41–51.

Defining the GDR

5

of life under a dictatorship.”14 He describes the GDR under Honecker as “post-totalitarian, since it largely replaced brute force with indirect incentives” and coins the terms “welfare dictatorship” [Fürsorgediktatur] in an attempt “to capture both the egalitarian aspirations of socialism and its dictatorial practice.”15 In the same volume, Jürgen Kocka also questions the use of the term “totalitarian” to describe the GDR. Noting that, although the GDR may have shown many of the characteristics outlined by Friedrich and Brzezinski, “this definition applied more fully to the early years of the GDR than to the development of its latter years” and that its association with the more violent and extreme regimes of Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia makes its use in reference to the post-Stalinist “‘People’s Democracies’” problematic.16 Kocka also considers that the term “‘post-totalitarian’” would seem more appropriate, indicating the “decline in violence and diminishing mobility as well as the lack of total control, characteristic of post-Stalinist systems,” which, according to Kocka, was expressed as “increasing inflexibility and stagnation” in the GDR (24). Kocka calls for historians to approach the GDR from a multiplicity of perspectives, not solely from those that focus on the state “‘from above’,” and “to open up the study of social structures and processes, perceptions, actions, and encounters which – although seldom entirely untouched by the dictatorship – nevertheless possessed their own inner logic, and often their own intrinsic value” (24). Addressing the issue of exclusively top-down conceptualisation of the GDR, Mary Fulbrook has developed the term “participatory dictatorship.” With this model, Fulbrook seeks to “underline the ways in which the people themselves were at one and the same time both constrained and affected by, and yet also actively and often voluntarily carried, the ever changing social and political system of the GDR.”17 Fulbrook notes that analyses of individual areas of GDR society “reveals a world that is not often represented in traditional political histories of the GDR” and “in which there was far more openness and genuine debate about how to improve the basic conditions of everyday life than might be thought” (9). She argues that “people living in the GDR were active participants in a more complex maze of practices, and inhabited a more complex moral and political universe, than has frequently been posited” (13). According to Fulbrook, this means

14 15 16 17

Jarausch, “Beyond Uniformity,” 5. Ibid., 6. Jürgen Kocka, “The GDR: A Special Kind of Modern Dictatorship,” in Jarausch, Dictatorship as Experience, 17–26 (23–24). Mary Fulbrook, The People’s State: East German Society from Hitler to Honecker (London: Yale University Press, 2005), 12.

6

Introduction

that models “emphasising power, repression and fear [do] not do justice to the very different memories of many of those who lived and worked under this regime” (10). Jarausch also notes that the “public struggle between the hard and soft views of the GDR […] revolves around a clash of different memories, depending upon whether one was a protagonist, a victim or merely a bystander of the SED regime.”18 Jarausch states that detailed analysis “suggests a considerable variety in actual lives beneath the normalizing uniformity of dictatorship” and calls for historians, through a focus on actual East German people, to consider the “interrelationship […] shifting patterns and […] precise implications” of the varied facets of GDR society.19 Analysts who question the usefulness of totalitarian theories for any study of the GDR thus emphasise the complexity, differentiation, ambiguity and ambivalence of GDR society and call for researchers to investigate the everyday experiences of those living in the GDR rather than focusing solely on the ideological claims of the Party and the overarching structures of rule. What new insights can be achieved, if, following this impulse, one segment of GDR society is analysed in detail and in all its complexity and contradictions? What, in turn, can detailed examination of one sector of society feed back into a broad conceptualisation of the GDR? What are the limits of dictatorship when viewed through the lens of the network of personal links and interactions between rulers and ruled in a specific social structure?20 This study addresses these questions through a focus on the processes of one particularly complex arena of interaction between Party functionaries and individuals of varying political outlooks and stances: the arena of literary production. I examine the relationship between writers and representatives of the cultural apparatus, power equations within the processes of literary production, strategies of communication between the different actors in these processes, repression and the implementation of the Party line and shifts and changes within cultural directives. Through an examination of concrete processes, negotiations and interactions within the context of institutional structures, combining the “triad of structure, mechanisms and agency,”21 I aim to look at GDR cultural history and 18 Jarausch, “Beyond Uniformity,” 5. 19 Ibid., 8. 20 Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen identify the network of personal relationships that ran through official structures of power as a new “limit of the dictatorship” caused by the removal of the line drawn between representatives of power and society. See Richard Bessel and Ralph Jessen, “Einleitung: Die Grenzen der Diktatur,” in Bessel and Jessen, Die Grenzen der Diktatur, 7–23 (16). 21 This approach is suggested by Simone Barck, Christoph Classen and Thomas Heimann as being particularly productive in the analysis of the nature of communication in the

Defining the GDR

7

probe the concept of the ambiguity and ambivalence of individual experience, while also drawing broader conclusions from commonalities and patterns that emerge from these individual accounts. What particular contribution can an analysis of culture make towards our understanding of the GDR? In their analysis of totalitarianism Friedrich and Brzezinski group literature and the arts among the “islands of separateness […] in the totalitarian sea.”22 In the same volume, Gail Lapidus argues that the struggles between writers and regime over questions of cultural policy, particularly in the Soviet Union, “reveal the extent to which the writers and artists constitute an island of separateness, resisting total assimilation to the totalitarian system.”23 However, this view of cultural production focuses solely on the element of repression of artistic freedom and insists on a dichotomous view of Geist (intellect) versus Macht (power), with the former defending its integrity against the totalitarian demands of the latter. As Stuart Parkes argues, this opposition of the two, “the assumption that the worlds of literature and politics are entirely distinct” has a long tradition in Germany. Parkes notes that the work of Heinrich Mann, in particular, “is suffused with statements that contrast the two realms, with ‘Geist’ invariably seen in a most positive light and ‘Macht’ viewed with deep distrust.”24 However, this dichotomous approach does not contribute a great deal to an examination of the interactions between these groups and the negotiation and compromise between the various actors in the processes of cultural production.25 The potential objections to this analysis of culture thus mirror many of the objections to the use of totalitarian models for the analysis of GDR society in general. Lapidus’s placing of cultural production in a position of distinction from the rest of society would suggest that its usefulness for analysis of GDR society in general is limited. By describing the failure to completely GDR and gaining an understanding of the “specific institutional and individual spheres of media.” See Simone Barck, Christoph Classen and Thomas Heimann, “The Fettered Media,” in Jarausch, Dictatorship as Experience, 213–39 (234). 22 Friedrich and Brzezinski identify three other such areas outside of totalitarian control: the family, the churches and the universities and technicians (Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy, 279). 23 Gail W. Lapidus, “Literature and the Arts,” in Friedrich and Brzezinski, Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy, 329–39 (339). 24 Stuart Parkes, “The German ‘Geist und Macht’ Dichotomy: Just a Game of Red Indians?,” in Politics and Culture in Twentieth-Century Germany, ed. William Niven and James Jordan (New York: Camden House, 2003), 43–62 (43–44). 25 Indeed, in his analysis of the interaction between intellect and power in Germany in the modern period, Parkes notes: “Within all the periods under discussion, it would be possible to cite instances where particular writers, artists, and other intellectuals lived in harmony with the political authorities.” “The German ‘Geist und Macht’ Dichotomy,” 46.

8

Introduction

assimilate cultural production into the totalitarian regime as indicating that this area is somehow different or “separate” from the rest of society, such approaches tend to rule out the possibility that the underlying tensions in the sphere of cultural production might be replicated in other spheres of activity. However, this study takes the view that cultural production and the experiences of those involved in its processes cannot be seen in such isolation from the society of which they are a product. I will present case studies from the area of cultural production and will also consider the extent to which the structures of power, the strategies of communication and the tactics of negotiation seen here are reflected in other areas of GDR life.

The Intellectuals The intellectuals of the GDR have been the subjects of much media and academic interest both before and after unification. The “Literature Debate” [Literaturstreit] following the publication of Christa Wolf’s Was bleibt (1990) (What remains, 1993) saw bitter attacks on GDR writers for their apparent lack of resistance to the SED and what was viewed as their legitimisation of the regime through their decision to remain, and in many cases publish, in the country. As Thomas Anz notes, the debate led to the question of how the moral integrity of GDR intellectuals should be judged and, furthermore, if their continued commitment to the ideals of socialism, despite the failure of “really existing socialism,” can be justified.26 The opening of the Stasi files and the revelations that many prominent intellectuals had worked with the State Security Service sparked further criticism of GDR authors and led Manfred Jäger, among others, to consider exactly what the relationship had been between GDR intellectuals and the SED regime.27 Since 1989, a number of commentators have sought to answer these questions through developing theoretical models of the GDR intellectual. I have identified three core areas in these accounts of intellectual involvement in the GDR: antifascism, socialism and closeness to the ruling elite; censorship and repression; the critical voice of literature and the role of intellectuals in the end of the GDR. It is beyond the scope of this study 26 See Thomas Anz, ed., Es geht nicht um Christa Wolf: Der Literaturstreit im vereinten Deutschland (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1995), 46. The term “really existing socialism” [real existierender Sozialismus] was the official self-definition of the state from the 1970s and was intended to differentiate socialism as practiced in the GDR from other strands of socialist thought, dismissed as utopian. It was also used by critics of the system to highlight the gap between the Marxist ideal and social reality. 27 See Manfred Jäger, “Auskünfte: Heiner Müller und Christa Wolf zu Stasi-Kontakten,” Deutschland Archiv, 2 (1993): 142–46.

The Intellectuals

9

to give a detailed account of the multiple positions taken in these debates; however, in the following, I will draw the broad contours of this discussion, identify key themes, and outline the position of this study in relation to the issues raised. Antifascism, Socialism and Closeness to the Ruling Elite Herfried Münkler describes antifascism as the political “founding myth” [Gründungsmythos] of the GDR. This founding myth was based not only on the resistance to fascism carried out by those who came to take power, but also on the communist interpretation of fascism as the work of the most aggressive forces of capitalism, which reorganisation of society into a socialist order would overcome.28 This self-characterisation as the antifascist German state not only drew a line between the GDR and the past (Weimar Republic and Third Reich), but also separated East Germany from the West, which was accused of not having truly broken with its Nazi past. Münkler notes that for many who had been supporters of Nazism, but not directly involved with its crimes, this was a welcome interpretation of fascism, as it largely cleared them of any individual responsibility.29 Jürgen Danyel also notes that the permanent recourse to the tradition of resistance to National Socialism bound citizens more strongly and durably to the state than any other element of SED ideology.30 In a series of articles published since 1989, Wolfgang Emmerich outlines the effect of antifascism as a “loyalty trap” for GDR intellectuals, principally with respect to writers born in the mid- to late–1920s who had experienced and participated in Nazism as young adults.31 Emmerich 28 Herfried Münkler, “Antifaschismus und antifaschistischer Widerstand als politischer Gründungsmythos der DDR,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 45 (1998): 16. 29 Ibid., 20. 30 Jürgen Danyel, “Die Opfer- und Verfolgtenperspektive als Gründungskonsens? Zum Umgang mit der Widerstandstradition und der Schuldfrage in der DDR,” in Die geteilte Vergangenheit: Zum Umgang mit Nationalsozialismus und Widerstand in beiden deutschen Staaten, ed. Jürgen Danyel (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995), 31–46 (41). Cf. Jürgen Danyel, “Die geteilte Vergangenheit: Gesellschaftliche Ausgangslagen und politische Dispositionen für den Umgang mit Nationalsozialismus und Widerstand in beiden deutschen Staaten nach 1949,” in Historische DDR-Forschung: Aufsätze und Studien, ed. Jürgen Kocka (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1993), 129–47 (142). Here Danyel argues that the bad conscience of those who had played a role in the Nazi regime resulted in pressure to conform and stifled criticism vis-à-vis the new political elite – an effect that was strengthened, according to Danyel, by the position of moral superiority occupied by this elite as a result of their resistance to and persecution by the Nazis. 31 Wolfgang Emmerich, “Between Hypertrophy and Melancholy – The GDR Literary Intelligentsia in a Historical Context,” Universitas, 8 (1993): 273–85.

10

Introduction

states that for these individuals, “one faith, a ‘total’ view of the world, was replaced by a new faith, a new totalitarian, closed world view: Marxism” (emphasis in original).32 These fellow-travellers of the Nazi regime, filled with shame, shock and guilt, were confronted with the Party, whose leadership was made up of antifascist resistance fighters and exiles, who offered the promise of redemption and absolution and who declared those who joined the SED to be the victors of history. The result was, in Emmerich’s view, the “voluntary-involuntary bond of the repenting sinner with antifascism, as the opposite of what he once belonged to: fascism.”33 For Emmerich, the loyalty trap of antifascism became a straight-jacket for those intellectuals who fell into it, leaving them to soften their criticism of the SED regime for fear of being excluded from the antifascist consensus: Whoever wanted to describe the GDR regime as it was […] or even acted according to his own critical judgment, automatically lost the basic antifascist consensus, according to which being an antifascist was identical with being a good GDR citizen and vice-versa.34

In Emmerich’s view, even those writers who later became openly critical of the reality of GDR socialism clung to the “double pattern of finding sense and meaning: to the (newly discovered or imagined) antifascism as well as to the socialist eschaton.”35 The socialist ideal was conserved in the “shrine of utopia” (Ibid.). Similarly, Joachim Lehmann argues that this loyalty trap, the fear that criticism would only serve the enemy in the West, led to the literary intelligence of the GDR standing almost without exception behind the SED in times of historical crisis: “the fear of giving munitions to the enemy camp and of being expelled from the community of antifascists as a parasite, was more powerful than the outrage caused by the terror and lies.”36 Wolfgang Bialas argues that the bringing together of a “‘true antifascism’” and “democratic new start” seemed to justify for many intellectuals unreserved

32 Ibid., 278–79. 33 Ibid. 34 Wolfgang Emmerich, “Deutsche Intellektuelle: was nun? Zum Funktionswandel der (ostdeutschen) literarischen Intelligenz zwischen 1945 und 1998,” in After the GDR: New Perspectives on the Old GDR and the Young Länder, ed. Laurence McFalls and Lothar Probst (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 3–27 (10). 35 Wolfgang Emmerich, “Deutsche Schriftsteller als Intellektuelle: Strategien und Aporien des Engagements in Ost und West von 1945 bis heute,” Zeitschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Linguistik, 31 (2001): 41. See also Wolfgang Emmerich, “Heilsgeschehen und Geschichte – Nach Karl Löwith,” Sinn und Form, 46 (1994): 910. 36 Joachim Lehmann, “Die Rolle und Funktion der literarischen Intelligenz in der DDR: Fünf Anmerkungen,” Der Deutschunterricht, 5 (1996): 62.

The Intellectuals

11

commitment to the political system that represented this new start.37 The East Germany literary critic, Werner Mittenzwei presents a more differentiated view of the individual responses of East German intellectuals to the narrative of antifascism. Nonetheless, in line with Emmerich, Lehmann and Bialas, he states that the second generation of East German writers whose “turning away from fascism […] happened by way of Auschwitz” wanted to fight against barbarism side by side with those who had liberated Auschwitz and that their future political decisions were influenced by these past events.38 Emmerich contends that the tradition of antifascism led to an “intimate, child-like, familial loyalty on the part of the fallen children, who had been brought back into grace by the socialist Überfathers.”39 He argues that this symbiotic relationship was also a result of Marxist-Leninist interpretations of the role and potential of literature. Literature in the GDR was viewed from the outset as having a central function in the building and development of socialist society. This resulted, according to Emmerich, not only in art being instrumentalised for the purposes of propagating the socialist world view, but also in enormously increased status for the socialist writer.40 It is the commitment to the antifascist tradition and the socialist cause which leads Bialas to describe the relationship between writers and representatives of power as symbiotic: “it is the historical-philosophical justification for their necessity in the name of a teleology of higher goals and values that allows intellectual aristocrats and power potentates to enter into a symbiotic union.”41 Similarly, Lehmann argues that the conflicts between writers and the state in the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s were based in this very real consensus: “the union of literary intelligence and Party, of ‘intellect and power,’ sealed with the founding of the GDR state, was felt to be a highly valuable achievement that could not be sacrificed due to a crisis in the relationship.”42 Gregor Ohlerich describes the “structural agreement” between the Party and socialist writers as a threefold consensus: “firstly, they understood

37

Wolfgang Bialas, Vom unfreien Schweben zum freien Fall: Ostdeutsche Intellektuelle im gesellschaftlichen Umbruch (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1996), 166. 38 Werner Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen: Literatur und Politik in Ostdeutschland 1945– 2000 (Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch, 2003), 126. See also Irma Hanke, “Wendezeiten: Deutsche Schriftsteller in der Übergangsgesellschaft,” in Deutschland: Eine Nation – doppelte Geschichte, ed. Werner Weidenfeld (Cologne: Verlag Wissenschaft und Politik, 1993), 309–20 (311). 39 Emmerich, “Deutsche Schriftsteller als Intellektuelle,” 40. 40 Emmerich, “Between Hypertrophy and Melancholy,” 276. 41 Bialas, Vom unfreien Schweben zum freien Fall, 17. 42 Lehmann, “Die Rolle und Funktion der literarischen Intelligenz in der DDR,” 64.

12

Introduction

themselves as socialists, secondly they accepted that literature had a moral and social function and thirdly they retained the concept of a social utopia as a central category.”43 Following Bourdieu, Ohlerich describes the relationship between the Party and intellectuals as a “‘structural complicity’,” with each group needing the other for the realisation of a socialist society.44 Building on the term “loyalty trap,” Ohlerich develops the concept of a “utopia trap,” in which, through a desire to build a better socialism, intellectuals in the GDR passed over fundamental problems, felt unable to voice substantial criticism and failed to recognise, “that this relationship was maintained at the cost of their credibility and cleared the way for political appropriation.”45 Mittenzwei again approaches the issue of the relationship between writers and the state from a different perspective, and does not see GDR intellectuals as necessarily losing their role as critics of power through their close relationship with the ruling elite. However, in common with the commentators above, he does consider that East German writers in the early years had the role of educator and voice for the ideals of the Party. He states that the SED needed writers as “interpreters and representatives of their cause and their ideas” to help win over a population who still viewed the Russians with fear and who lived in a country whose industry had been destroyed by war.46 Mittenzwei describes how SED functionaries in the 1940s and early 1950s had a naïve respect for art and valued it for its effect and influence on individuals, but this respect for the educational function of art also led them to mistrust those who produced it.47 According to Mittenzwei, intellectuals returning from exile saw this close relationship with

43 Gregor Ohlerich, “Eine Typologie des sozialistischen Intellektuellen,” in Timmermann, Das war die DDR, 527–40 (534). 44 Ibid., 534. 45 Ibid, 536–38. Another, far harsher, assessment of this relationship is given by Paul Noack who states that through their engagement for an discredited political goal, GDR intellectuals had “defined themselves out of their own freedom,” that they became “instruments in the hands of the Party, that punished every deviation from their line as an attack on a secular faith.” Noack suggests that it was a fear of losing their prominent position that prevented GDR intellectuals from admitting their loss of belief in the system and a desire to belong and to have a purpose that made socialism attractive to so many. See Paul Noack, Deutschland, deine Intellektuellen: Die Kunst sich in Abseits zu stellen (Stuttgart: Bonn Aktuell, 1991), 54–58. Andreas Huyssen notes of this “double bind” of antifascism that, while it acted as both the “moral basis of a postfascist intellectual identity” and a “muzzle” for opponents of the regime, writers such as Christa Wolf also “criticized the antifascist liturgy in the GDR as an obstacle to a better coming-to-terms with the past, as an obstacle even to the construction of a socialist future.” Andreas Huyssen, “After the Wall: The Failure of German Intellectuals,” New German Critique, 52 (1991): 134–35. 46 Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 73. 47 Ibid., 75–76.

The Intellectuals

13

those in power as the chance to realise the ideas they had developed in their literature: “they had, as Brecht put it, been invited into the kitchen, that is, the place where it was decided what people were going to eat.” 48 One of the most controversial aspects of the relationship between writers and representatives of power in the GDR was the willingness of a minority to inform on friends and colleagues for the Stasi. Hermann Vinke describes the hysterical atmosphere in this regard in the early 1990s and the competition between the major newspapers to exclusively cover the next revelation regarding the contact of prominent East Germans with the State Security Service.49 Writers who admitted to meeting with the Stasi and to passing on information frequently gave as their motivation Party discipline, loyalty to the state and a willingness to serve the socialist cause.50 In this context, in an article published in 2003, Emmerich links the willingness of many authors of the second generation to inform on colleagues and friends to the commitment to socialism and antifascism.51 The intense academic and media interest in writers who had worked as informants or “Inoffizielle Mitarbeiter” (IM) thus represents another strand in the discussion surrounding the relationship between “intellect” and “power” in the GDR.52 In this study, I will explore further the relationship between writers and the State Security Service, both from the perspective of those who informed for the Stasi and those who were the victims of Stasi observation, and consider 48 Ibid., 79. 49 Hermann Vinke, “Vorwort,” in Akteneinsicht Christa Wolf: Zerrspiegel und Dialog, ed. Hermann Vinke (Hamburg: Luchterhand Literaturverlag, 1993), 9–13. 50 For example, Frauke Meyer-Gosau cites Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller as individuals who stated that their willingness to work with the Stasi was based on a fundamental identification with the state. See Frauke Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam: DDRSchriftsteller über ihre Kooperation mit der Staatssicherheit,” in “Feinderklärung: Literatur und Staatssicherheit,” ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold, special issue, Text + Kritik, 120 (1993): 107. 51 Wolfgang Emmerich, “Übergriff und Menschenwürde: Autoren der mittleren Generation zwischen Stasi-Kooperation und Verweigerung,” in Die Stasi in der deutschen Literatur, ed. Franz Huberth (Tübingen: Attempto, 2003), 87–110. 52 Examples of academic works with this focus include Peter Böthig and Klaus Michael, eds, MachtSpiele: Literatur und Staatssicherheit (Leipzig: Reclam, 1993); Karl Corino, Die Akte Kant: IM ‘Martin,’ die Stasi und die Literatur in Ost und West (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1995); Karl Deiritz, ‘Zur Klärung eines Sachverhalts – Literatur und Staatssicherheit,” in Verrat an der Kunst? Rückblicke auf die DDR-Literatur, ed. Karl Deiritz and Hannes Krauss (Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch, 1993), 11–17; Jäger, “Auskünfte: Heiner Müller und Christa Wolf zu Stasi-Kontakten”; Alison Lewis, Die Kunst des Verrats: Der Prenzlauer Berg und die Staatssicherheit (Wurzburg: Konigshausen & Neumann, 2003); Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam”; Vinke, Akteneinsicht Christa Wolf; Ian Wallace, “Writers and the Stasi,” in Re-assessing the GDR: Papers from a Nottingham Conference, ed. J. H. Reid (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 115–28; the section on IM in Joachim Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur: Schriftsteller und Staatssicherheit in der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik (Berlin: Christoph Links, 1996).

14

Introduction

in detail the motivations and mindset of writers and of the MfS and the impact of the opening of the files on memories of this interaction. What does this consensus of antifascism and commitment to socialism look like when explored in detail? How do individual writers react to the privileges and positions of power offered to or withheld from them by a Party anxious to control artistic output? In this study, I carry out a close examination of the interaction between writers and representatives of power from the perspective of individual tactics of negotiation and strategies of engagement. I explore the complexities of the apparently “intimate” relationship between functionaries and authors and consider how different writers, from different political backgrounds, interpret and respond to this intimacy, both before and after unification. I will also consider, in this context, the concepts of ambiguity and ambivalence brought forward by historical analyses of GDR society as a whole. These would seem particularly relevant to a sphere in which the potential critics of the Party are bound to the regime by a meta-ideology which is difficult to escape, and in which those who would represent “intellect” are offered positions in the structures of “power,” including roles as informers for the State Security Service. Censorship and Repression The interest in censorship and repression of literature and writers in the GDR is highlighted by the large number of documentations dedicated to particular points of crisis, often described as turning points in GDR literary history, or the censorship of specific texts. Such volumes were particularly prominent in the period immediately following the opening of the archives of the SED and the Stasi. Examples include analysis and documentation of the expulsion of Wolf Biermann in 1976 in In Sachen Biermann (On the Matter of Biermann) and Biermann und kein Ende (Biermann and No End in Sight);53 documentation of the expulsion of nine writers from the Writers’ Union in 1979 in Protokoll eines Tribunals (Protocol of A Tribunal);54 and the catalogue to an exhibition on censorship held in the Literaturhaus Berlin shortly after the Wende.55 Similar interest was shown in the impact 53

Roland Berbig et al., eds, In Sachen Biermann: Protokolle, Berichte und Briefe zu den Folgen einer Ausbürgerung (Berlin: Christoph Links, 1994); Dietmar Keller and Matthias Kirchner, eds, Biermann und kein Ende: Eine Dokumentation zur DDR-Kulturpolitik (Berlin: Dietz, 1991). 54 Joachim Walther et al., eds, Protokoll eines Tribunals: Die Ausschlüsse aus dem DDRSchriftstellerverband 1979 (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1991). 55 Ernest Wichner and Herbert Wiesner, eds, Zensur in der DDR: Ausstellungsbuch: Geschichte, Praxis, und “Ästhetik” der Behinderung von Literatur (Berlin: Brinkmann und Bose, 1991).

The Intellectuals

15

of observation of writers by the Stasi, particularly following revelations of the complicity of colleagues in this form of repression after the opening of the Stasi files in 1992. Notable examples include Aktenkundig (On File), edited by Hans-Joachim Schädlich; the special editions of europäische ideen, edited by Andreas Mytze, and Joachim Walther’s Sicherungsbereich Literatur (Secured Area: Literature).56 Following these documentations were a number of volumes dedicated to the detailed examination of the processes of censorship in the GDR. One important work in this thematic area is Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer (Every Book an Adventure), edited by Simone Barck, Martina Langermann and Siegfried Lokatis. This work focuses on the different actors in the processes of censorship in the 1960s: publishers, functionaries, literary critics and writers. In her conclusion to this detailed analysis of literary production, Barck points towards the complexity of the system of control: “the system of censorship in the GDR was a complicated network of bureaucratic subsystems, sealed off from each other and connected by twisting pathways – it was frequently unfathomable even to the most experienced individual.”57 She notes that the rapid changes in cultural policy made book production an “incalculable risk.”58 With a similar focus on the institutions of censorship, in 1993 Wichner and Wiesner published a collection of essays analysing the documents displayed at the exhibition in the Literaturhaus.59 In his essay in this volume, Manfred Jäger highlights a second important feature in the discussion of censorship in the East German state, that of self-censorship. Jäger states that the willingness to edit one’s own texts or to avoid particular topics altogether, was based not only on the desire to circumvent conflict with those in power, but also on a readiness, “to bow to the ‘good cause,’ consider the points of view of your superiors, to work hard to develop the right consciousness.”60 Jäger argues that the political socialisation of the

56 Hans Joachim Schädlich, ed., Aktenkundig (Berlin: Rohwohlt, 1992); Andreas Mytze, ed., “StasiSachen 3,” special issue, europäische ideen, 81 (1993) and Andreas Mytze, ed., “StasiSachen 4,” special issue, europäische ideen, 84 (1993). 57 Simone Barck, “Nachbemerkung,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer: Zensur-System und literarische Öffentlichkeiten in der DDR bis Ende der sechziger Jahre, ed. Simone Barck, Martina Langermann, and Siegfried Lokatis (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997), 432–37 (432). 58 Simone Barck, “Nachbemerkung,” 435. Cf. Simone Barck and Siegfried Lokatis, eds, Zensurspiele: Heimliche Literaturgeschichten aus der DDR (Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 2008), 8. Here Barck and Lokatis describe censorship as “a dynamic power play with varying participants from all parts of society.” 59 Ernest Wichner and Herbert Wiesner, eds, Literaturentwicklungsprozesse: Die Zensur der Literatur in der DDR (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1993). 60 Manfred Jäger, “Das Wechselspiel von Selbstzensur und Literaturlenkung in der DDR,” in Wichner and Wiesner, Literaturentwicklungsprozesse, 18–49 (22–23).

16

Introduction

second generation of East German writers, the sense of belonging and commitment to socialism described above, prevented them from expressing a “radical and definitive no” and led them to continue believing in the “ability of the leading class of functionaries to take advice” – a leading class who seemed unable to realise that the writers’ suggestions could, in their view, only serve the great common cause.61 According to Jäger, the commitment to socialism coloured the interaction between censors and the censored, there was no clear division between the two parties, but rather the author was forced to agree to the changes demanded of him or her: “at the end of the day, the result was always self-censorship, as the producer of the text had to endorse or eventually agree to what was put to him with gentle or forceful pressure.”62 Jäger contends that the only way of avoiding this “procedure for convincing unequals” [Überzeugungsprozedur unter Ungleichen] was to refuse to engage in official cultural production.63 This study will probe further these concepts of complexity, ambiguity and change in literary production in the GDR through analysis of individual examples of censorship and repression. Bringing together Jäger’s concept of the role of authors in the censorship of their own texts and Barck’s view of the maze-like nature of the system of control, I analyse the methods used by individual authors in their negotiation of this system and their own interpretations of their involvement in and the effect of censorship, both before and after unification. When viewed from behind the scenes, what was the effect of the most dramatic moments in GDR cultural history on the everyday processes of literary life? Taking the individual as my starting point, I explore the impact of some of those events represented as key turning points in the GDR on this complex interaction between the various institutions of censorship and the writer seeking to produce critical works.

61 62

63

Ibid., 24–25. Ibid., 26. Mittenzwei notes that several members of the literary intelligentsia actually occupied positions within the institutions responsible for censorship: “They [the intelligentsia] not only suffered under censorship, they also carried it out on behalf of the state” (Die Intellektuellen, 249). Simone Barck, Christoph Classen and Thomas Heimann argue that this passing of the mechanisms of control to journalists, artists and politicians blurred the boundaries between rulers and the ruled. See “The Fettered Media,” 214. See also Sylvia Klötzer and Siegfried Lokatis, “Criticism and Censorship: Negotiating Cabaret Performance and Book Production,” in Jarausch, Dictatorship as Experience, 241–63 (257). Jäger, “Das Wechselspiel von Selbstzensur und Literaturlenkung,” 37.

The Intellectuals

17

The Critical Voice of Literature and the End of the GDR Alongside the emphasis on the closeness of the literary intelligentsia to the ruling elite and the analyses of the systems of repression and control, are discussions regarding the function of literary intellectuals as critical voices within the GDR. One notable study in this field is David Bathrick’s The Powers of Speech. Noting the commitment of the majority of those writers celebrated as dissidents in West Germany to socialism and antifascism, Bathrick argues that “the widespread habit of Western scholars to construct a clearly articulated bifurcation between the Stalinist hierarchy, on the one hand, and the opposition […] on the other, does not apply to the development of a critical discourse by many of the East German dissidents.”64 He considers that “GDR writers were at once the creators of a new audience and a variant of the official voice” and that those who “continued to publish and speak within the official socialist public sphere ended up functioning, perhaps oxymoronically, as reform-dedicated Staatsdichter [state scribes].”65 Bathrick notes the high institutional status of many GDR writers, but argues that “some were increasingly willing to use this position to provide an alternative voice to that of the status quo”66 and that “it was precisely the realm of the cultural public sphere that provided a modicum of space for critical two-way discussions of social, moral, and even philosophical significance.”67 Several other commentators have also considered this function of critical writers as an alternative public sphere [Ersatzöffentlichkeit]. Drawing from an essay by Monika Maron published in Der Spiegel in February 1990, Theo Buck argues that the function of critical literature in the GDR was to act “as an alternative public forum […] In the climate created by the Party’s police state, the resistant little seedling of criticism flourished and slowly but surely grew into the strong plant of well-developed readiness to

64 David Bathrick, The Powers of Speech: The Politics of Culture in the GDR (London: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 11. 65 Ibid., 11. 66 Ibid., 30–31. See also Hanke, “Wendezeiten,” 310. 67 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 41. See also David Bathrick, “Language and Power,” in The Power of Intellectuals in Contemporary Germany, ed. Michael Geyer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 138–59 (146–47). Similar arguments are put forward by David Rock, “Voices of Writers, Opposition Movements and the Churches: Their Role in Preparing the Way for the Wende,” in Voices in Times of Change: The Role of Writers, Opposition Movements, and the Churches in the Transformation of East Germany, ed. David Rock (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000), 1–25 (7) and Stuart Parkes, “Intellectuals and the Transformation of East Germany,” in Rock, Voices in Times of Change, 27–44 (29 and 30).

18

Introduction

resist.”68 Mittenzwei describes critical writers as the “interpreters of public opinion,” taking over the discussion of the most urgent existential difficulties where this was not possible in the public sphere.69 He argues that in this manner literature became a powerful force of opposition against hardened structures.70 Lehmann similarly notes that the claim that writers “increasingly took over the role of ‘speaker’ – in a society whose members were denied the right to participate” is partially true, but considers that this function of literature was restricted to an educated elite and that the majority were indifferent or even hostile to the socialist experiment.71 This conclusion is, however, at odds with more recent research on levels of acceptance of and participation in the socialist system, seen particularly in Fulbrook’s concept of a “participatory dictatorship.” The assessments of Buck, Mittenzwei and Lehmann point towards a second key question in this debate, that of the role played by these critical voices in the processes of change that led to the Wende. Buck considers that “literature acted as an essential pacemaker on the road to revolutionary protest against a dictatorially impoverished life” and cites this as the reason for the involvement of writers at the first mass protests in the autumn of 1989.72 However, he argues that with the opening of the Wall and the desire for rapid unification on the part of the majority, the writers who remained committed to a socialist alternative “were pushed into the background,” as “the critical function of their writing automatically ceased.”73 Similarly, Mittenzwei notes that with the fall of the Wall and the growing calls for unification, the intellectuals who sought to reform the GDR lost their function as interpreters for the masses: “the masses changed over to other needs. Literature and art were cast back into the small circle of experts.”74 Irma Hanke notes that writers were heavily involved in the in68 Theo Buck, “The German ‘October Revolution’ in the GDR and the Writers,” in German Literature at a Time of Change 1989–1990: German Unity and German Identity in Literary Perspective, ed. Arthur Williams, Stuart Parkes and Roland Smith (Bern: Peter Lang, 1991), 21–46 (33). 69 Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 279–80. 70 Ibid., 290. 71 Lehmann, “Die Rolle und Funktion der literarischen Intelligenz in der DDR,” 65. 72 Buck, “The German ‘October Revolution’,” 35. See also Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 56. 73 Buck, “The German ‘October Revolution’,” 37. 74 Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 362. See also Lothar Probst, “Die Revolution entläßt ihre Schriftsteller,” Deutschland Archiv, 6 (1990): 921–25. These debates also feed into the question of “exit” versus “voice” in the fall of the GDR, that is, the role played by the mass exodus of GDR citizens upon the opening of the borders in neighbouring countries versus that played by oppositional groups who refused to leave and demanded reform of the socialist system. Corey Ross argues that the former was the condition of the latter, that the emigration crisis weakened the SED and encouraged dissent towards the regime.

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vestigative commissions, round tables and citizens’ committees that sprung up in the period between the fall of the Wall and unification and that they contributed to the process of reform through newspaper articles. However, at the moment of collapse it was clear, in Hanke’s view, that writers, like other intellectuals had no clear concept for change and economic reform, but had rather had only ever reacted within the limits of system, rather than criticising it with concrete alternatives.75 What then were the possibilities for speaking out and criticising social and cultural policy in the GDR? What tactics did intellectuals of various political standpoints use in order to express critical views? How effective were these tactics and what did this effectiveness depend upon? Was criticism restricted to a minority of public opponents of the regime, as suggested by the above, or were there other opportunities for bringing about change within the system? Where were the boundaries between acceptable discussion and hostile action and how did these boundaries shift over time? How do these writers interpret and reinterpret this behaviour and their criticism of cultural policy both before and after unification? This study approaches these questions through detailed analysis of the efforts of individual writers to criticise particular elements of Party policy and their reflections on these actions after the Wende. Bathrick’s analysis of literature as a variant of official discourse points once again towards the ambiguity of cultural discourse and the ambivalent position of those producing literature. I will consider to what extent this ambiguity is reflected in individual voicing of complaints and criticism both within the system and beyond it.

Selection of Authors Emmerich argues that one can better understand the GDR and the lives of those living in the state by looking at individual biographies and patterns of behaviour in order to study “variations in self-legitimation and the construction of different forms of habitus in the literary and political field.”76 This study follows this impulse, analysing the areas of complicity, censor-

75 76

He considers that the “‘real revolutionaries’ of 1989 were the emigrants and the masses who rejected the parameters of dialogue offered by the regime and demanded the basic rights and freedoms enjoyed by the Germans in the Federal Republic” (The East German Dictatorship, 141–44). A similar argument is advanced in John C. Torpey, Intellectuals, Socialism, and Dissent: The East German Opposition and its Legacy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995), especially 124–25 and 153–83. Hanke, “Wendezeiten,” 312–14. Emmerich, “Übergriff und Menschenwürde,” 89.

20

Introduction

ship and criticism from an individual perspective. This approach necessarily restricts the numbers of writers analysed in detail and I will therefore consider the questions raised above through case studies of three authors who demonstrate varieties of behaviour, self-legitimation and habitus: Hermann Kant, Stefan Heym and Elfriede Brüning.77 The focus of previous studies on the interaction between GDR literary intellectuals and representatives of power has largely been restricted to those writers who were considered critical of the regime or labelled as “dissidents” in the West. Bathrick’s focus is on Marxist critics of the Party; Angela Borgwardt considers Stefan Heym, Christa Wolf and Wolf Biermann in her study of power relations in the cultural sphere and, in a similar volume, Ann Stamp Miller focuses on Heiner Müller, Christa Wolf and Biermann.78 In her 2007 publication Brückenschläge (Building Bridges), while concentrating on the aesthetic rather than political and on elements of the authors’ works that bridge the caesura of 1989, Astrid Köhler also selects the writers to be studied on the basis of their critical stance towards the SED: these writers were the “uncomfortable ones” [Unbequemen] and almost all of them had experience of literary censorship in the GDR.79 The focus of many documentations on repression and censorship also inevitably places the spotlight on those who were the victims of draconian measures and whose works could not be published. Although the critical aspect of literary culture in the GDR was certainly an important one, this means that other facets of the system of control, censorship and literary production have tended to be sidelined. Furthermore, the analysis of critical behaviour in isolation from those who publicly conform to the official Party line is problematic. As Corey Ross argues in relation to dissident groups: [...] any examination of opposition is simultaneously an examination of conformity. Not only did the former take place in the midst of the latter, but the boundaries between the two were fluid and ever-changing, and more often than 77 This study will not, therefore, include detailed discussion of the most well-known, welldiscussed case of Christa Wolf. This is in part due to the large volume of excellent scholarship that has already been published on this author. However, it is also a result of the intention to look at individuals who would appear to occupy clear-cut political positions and to subject these positions to closer scrutiny. Wolf differs from the authors selected for close examination in this study, not only in terms of the extent of her international reputation, but also in her willingness to engage in self-examination and critical exploration of the complexity of her relationship to representatives of power, both in the GDR and after the Wende. 78 Ann Stamp Miller, The Cultural Politics of the German Democratic Republic: The Voices of Wolf Biermann, Christa Wolf, and Heiner Müller (Boca Raton: Brown Walker, 2004). 79 Astrid Köhler, Brückenschläge: DDR-Autoren vor und nach der Wiedervereinigung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 15.

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not ran through individual people as they were continually confronted by the moral choices and pressures of life under the constraints of dictatorship.80

The fluid boundaries between opposition and conformity and the dependence of the former on the existence of the latter indicates that an analysis of writers from various points across the spectrum of resistance and compliance may reveal new insights and lead to a greater understanding of the motivations, tactics and self-image of the many and various political positions possible for GDR intellectuals. This principle underpins the choice of authors for this study. The focus of previous analyses on those openly critical of the regime also implies that the behaviour of Party-loyal writers does not warrant investigation, that it is clear-cut. The concept of fluid boundaries and the models of ambiguity and ambivalence outlined above, however, suggest that this is unlikely to be the case. These writers were also confronted with moral choices, pressures and constraints and the choices that they made reveal much about the system in which they made them. For these reasons this study focuses on three authors from very different political positions, different backgrounds and different roles within the cultural sphere. A teenager and young adult during World War II, Hermann Kant is a writer of the second generation who, in public, largely conformed to the official Party line on cultural policy and who himself occupied high-ranking positions within the cultural apparatus, including President of the Writers’ Union from 1978–1989. Stefan Heym, in contrast, was one of the most outspoken critics of the regime who nonetheless remained in the state to the end. Heym was not a Party member, but as a writer with an international reputation and a background of antifascist exile, he enjoyed a high degree of prestige both in and outside of the GDR. Like Hermann Kant, Elfriede Brüning also conformed to the official Party line on all major issues of cultural policy. However, unlike both Kant and Heym, while being widely published in the GDR, she did not enjoy an international reputation and did not occupy any high-ranking roles within the cultural apparatus. Her position within and relationship to the processes of literary production was thus quite different. These three writers have in common a commitment to socialism and to the existence of a socialist state on German soil, although their interpretations of what this might mean in relation to the really existing socialism of the GDR, were quite different. They all also identify themselves as antifascists, but each has a very different relationship to the founding legend of antifascism: Kant fits with the archetype of the young Nazi soldier converted to the socialist cause in a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp; Heym was 80 Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 99.

22

Introduction

himself a victim of Nazi persecution and spent the 12 years of Nazi rule in exile first in Prague and then in America; Brüning was a member of the KPD from 1930 and of the Union of Proletarian-Revolutionary Writers [Bund proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftsteller (BPRS)] from 1932. She carried out illegal activities on behalf of the BPRS until her arrest along with several other members of the organisation in 1935. However, she remained in Germany throughout the war and considers herself to be a member of the “inner emigration.” In view of the significance placed on the founding myth of antifascism by analysts of GDR literature, this range of experience of fascism and antifascism is important for a broader understanding of the relationship between writers and the ruling elite. This study is divided into three core chapters, each focusing on one of the three authors. These chapters are, in turn, divided into three main sections, focusing on the key aspects of closeness to the ruling elite, censorship and repression, and critical voice. The study is cumulative in structure, with each case being compared to the previous one(s) as well as with other examples from the GDR intelligentsia.

Selection of Sources What sources are available to the GDR historian aiming to probe the complexities and ambiguities of the system? What issues arise from the analysis of these different sources and what particular contribution can they make to our understanding of the GDR? This study draws on three major sources on GDR society and culture: non-fictional archive material, autobiography and the literary output of those living in the East German state. Here, I will draw the contours of the major questions arising from the analysis of these sources and outline the methodological approach of this study in relation to these issues. Archive Material One major source that has become available to historians of the GDR is the large volume of reports, letters, protocols and other documentation found in the archives of the SED, block organisations and the Stasi. However, the value of this material for historical analysis has been fiercely contested. How can reports and documents written by a regime so apparently unaware of the shifting demands of its own population be trusted? Are these sources not the product of ideological indoctrination and subordination? As Fulbrook notes, many commentators expressed the concern that

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these sources were full of lies and should be approached with the greatest caution.81 However, Fulbrook herself considers that such a fundamental scepticism vis-à-vis this material is not appropriate: “of course these sources – like all sources – must be evaluated critically, but I do not believe that they are so dangerous and misleading as many former victims, and also perpetrators, claim today” (emphasis in original).82 What then are the key considerations when examining these texts? One principal aspect that Fulbrook names is that of perspective: “different perspectives result from the different interests of those who were responsible for the production of the original material.”83 The position of the author, the context in which he or she was writing and the purpose of any individual document must be taken into account and the reader must be able to master the particular vocabulary and discourse being employed.84 Similarly, Manfred Wilke and Michael Kubina assert that the historian approaching the files is not dealing with “objective facts,” but rather with the “perception of such.”85 They note the importance of questioning the purpose of the documents, the addressee and his or her expectations, the competency of the writer, his or her position, motivations and the pressure to legitimise his or her function. However, Wilke and Kubina contend that despite these issues, and the problem of a language drenched in ideology, this language does describe a reality.86 They thus point towards the referentiality of these texts: events are filtered through the lens of ideology, pressure to report success, and a particular vocabulary, that is, they are reported from a particular perspective, but the text still refers to past events external to it. Particularly controversial in respect of the value for analysis of the history of the GDR are the files of the State Security Service. The opening of the files to both victims of state observation and researchers interested in the workings of this institution was hotly debated in the immediate postWende period.87 After the opening of the files, discussion regarding the 81 82 83 84 85

Fulbrook, “Methodologische Überlegungen,” 275. Ibid., 275. Ibid., 276. Ibid., 279. Manfred Wilke and Michael Kubina, “Von der Aussagekraft der Akten,” in “Feinderklärung: Literatur und Staatssicherheit,” ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold, special issue, Text + Kritik, 120 (1993): 89. 86 Ibid., 90. 87 For an overview of some of the key issues see Silke Schumann, “Die Entstehung des Stasi-Unterlagen-Gesetzes,” in Vernichten oder Offenlegen? Zur Entstehung des Stasi-Unterlagen-Gesetzes: Eine Dokumentation der öffentlichen Debatte 1990/1991 (Berlin: BStU Abteilung Bildung und Forschung, 1995), 3–63. See also Torpey, Intellectuals, Socialism, and Dissent, 187–91.

24

Introduction

value of this material for historical research continued, not solely among historians, but also among those affected. Roger Engelmann argues that it was overwhelmingly the victims of the Stasi who emphasised the value of the files and former IM or officers of the Stasi who called into question their own “written legacy.”88 However, as will be seen in chapter one, the reactions of both groups were more complex than this initial assessment would suggest. In their introduction to the collection of essays, Aktenlage (State of the Files), Engelmann and Klaus-Dietmar Henke argue that the central position of the Stasi in the system of rule of the SED and the infiltration of almost all social spheres makes these files an essential source for historical investigation of the GDR and that these files show “clear superiority […] as a historical source in comparison with sources from other provenances,” particularly in respect of areas viewed as “problematic, highly sensitive, or even dangerous” in the eyes of the regime. Nonetheless, Engelmann and Henke add that this positive judgement should not lead to an uncritical reading of the files, as these were written for a particular purpose and with a particular perspective.89 Outlining some of the issues involved in the interpretation of these texts, Engelmann divides the documents in the Stasi archive into the “remains of actions” [Handlungsüberreste] and “reports” [Berichte]. “Remains” are, according to Engelmann, documents that are primarily part of a past reality, and include laws, contracts and certificates. “Reports” are sources that give information on particular actions or events that happened independently of these texts. However, for Engelmann, “reports” are also “remains” and vice versa and their categorisation depends on the aim of the investigation. A hand-written, signed report by an IM is primarily a “report,” which must be interpreted with the appropriate methodological tools; however, it is also “remains,” as it gives the “certain evidence” [gesicherte Auskunft] that an IM reported under that particular name in that particular manner.90 Engelmann advises particular caution in the interpretation of reports written not by the IM, but by the Stasi officer, as this individual acts as a “mediating instance between the verbal IM report

88 Roger Engelmann, Zu Struktur, Charakter und Bedeutung der Unterlagen des Ministeriums für Staatssicherheit (Berlin: BStU Abteilung Bildung und Forschung, 1994), 4. 89 Klaus-Dietmar Henke and Roger Engelmann, “Einleitung,” in Aktenlage: Die Bedeutung der Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes für die Zeitgeschichtsforschung, ed. KlausDietmar Henke and Roger Engelmann (Berlin: Christoph Links, 1995), 9–20 (11–12). See also Siegfried Suckut, “Die Bedeutung der Akten des Staatssicherheitsdienstes für die Erforschung der DDR-Geschichte,” in Engelmann and Henke, Aktenlage, 195–206. 90 Roger Engelmann, Zu Struktur, Charakter und Bedeutung, 12–13. See also Roger Engelmann, “Zum Quellenwert der Unterlagen des Ministeriums für Staatssicherheit,” in Engelmann and Henke, Aktenlage, 23–29 (34–35).

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and the source available today.”91 Engelmann lists the factors that must be taken into account when analysing “reports”: the position of the individual reporting to the events (reporting from their own memory or knowledge or giving second-hand information on past events); the formal function of the report and possible informal aims of the individual reporting; the particular interests of the individual reporting and the addressee of the document.92 I examine further specific problems that arise from the study of Stasi files and other archive material in the individual chapters of this study. Autobiography Ulrich Schröter notes similar problems with the analysis of the files, particularly the question of perspective and the selective nature of the information recorded, and advocates comparison of these sources with other archive material and eye-witness reports.93 One source, which might be

91

Engelmann, Zu Struktur, Charakter und Bedeutung, 14. See also Engelmann, “Zum Quellenwert,” 36. Similarly Ulrich Schröter states that although IM reports might contain errors of detail, the fact that a conversation did take place between the individual concerned and the officer cannot be disputed: “So far, it is only in isolated cases that reports of meetings have been proven to be fictional.” Ulrich Schröter, “Das leitende Interesse des Schreibenden als Bedingungsmerkmal der Verschriftung – Schwierigkeiten bei der Auswertung von MfS-Akten,” in Engelmann and Henke, Aktenlage, 40–46 (41). One possibly fictional report can be found in Günter de Bruyn’s IM file. Here a file note apparently giving de Bruyn’s own account of his reaction to the Biermann expulsion corresponds neither with de Bruyn’s own account of these events nor with that found in other sources. See Sara Jones, “‘Ein reines Phantasieprodukt’ or ‘Hostile Biography’? – Günter de Bruyn’s Vierzig Jahre and the Stasi files,” in German Life Writing in the Twentieth Century, ed. Birgit Dahlke, Dennis Tate and Roger Woods (Rochester, N.Y.: Camden House, 2010), 196–207 (203–204). A second example is the case of the actress Jenny Gröllmann. Gröllmann was accused by her ex-husband, Ulrich Mühe, of have informed for the Stasi on the basis of evidence from the files. However, the Stasi officer who authored the reports later admitted that he had fabricated the meetings and registered Gröllmann as an IM without her knowledge, and, according to an article and interview in Stern, a detailed analysis of the documents revealed that Gröllmann could not have attended many of the recorded meetings, as she was on stage at the time. See Dieter Krause and Werner Mathes, “Interview mit Jenny Gröllmann: ‘Ich muss das zu Ende bringen – meinetwegen bis zum Tod’,” stern, 30 (2006) and Dieter Krause and Werner Mathes, “Jenny Gröllmann: Die Geistertreffs mit IM ‘Jeanne’,” stern, 30 (2006). 92 Engelmann, “Zum Quellenwert,” 37. 93 Schröter, “Das leitende Interesse des Schreibenden,” 41–42. Armin Mitter and Stefan Wolle similarly advocate comparing a wide range of different sources: newspapers, official SED documents, memories of those affected, literature, art, photographs and placards. See Armin Mitter and Stefan Wolle, Untergang auf Raten: Unbekannte Kapitel der DDRGeschichte (Munich: C. Bertelsmann, 1993), 19.

26

Introduction

used for comparison in this context, is the autobiographies of those who lived in the GDR. However, the use of autobiography as a historical source is also pitted with problems. In his analysis of the genre, Günter de Bruyn notes that one of the key features of autobiography is that it is a selective perspective on a past life. The selection is twofold, firstly based on the author, his or her view of him or herself and his or her aims and intentions in writing, and secondly the selective nature of memory – the possibility of forgetting or of reinterpreting the past according to present circumstance.94 In an earlier assessment, Roy Pascal argues that the process of creating a coherent history from an individual life requires selection, and this selection depends on who this individual is at the time of writing and who they believe themselves to be.95 An autobiographer tends towards prejudice, blindness and forgetting, but, for Pascal, the aesthetic pleasure of reading an autobiography is not its accuracy in relation to historical facts, but rather the result of a unity between reflections, style and character. A historian attempts to find out what an individual was at a particular time; the autobiographer tries to rebuild the past, but feels that much of what was once valid has changed in value.96 The relationship between autobiography and the life of the author is also a highly contested aspect of the genre. In 1975, Philippe Lejeune ar94 Günter de Bruyn, Das erzählte Ich: Über Wahrheit und Dichtung in der Autobiographie (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1995), especially 12, 39 and 60. Wilhelm Dilthey considers that the memory carries out a process of selection based on the significance of a particular event for the individual’s understanding of his or her life as he or she sees it at the time of reproducing these events. See Wilhelm Dilthey, “Das Erleben und die Selbstbiographie,” in Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 2nd enl. edn ed. Günter Niggl (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998), 21–32 (24) (Dilthey contribution first published in 1927; volume first published in 1989). Similarly, Georges Gusdorf argues that gaps and distortion of memory are not coincidental, but related to the attempt by the individual to imbue his or her life with purpose or reason and to place the emphasis on a particular version of his or her past. See Georges Gusdorf, “Voraussetzungen und Grenzen der Autobiographie,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 121–47 (139) (first published in 1956, trans. Ursula Christmann). 95 Roy Pascal, “Die Autobiographie als Kunstform,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 148–57 (150) (first published in 1959, trans. Hildegard Heydenreich). 96 Pascal, “Die Autobiographie als Kunstform,” 154–55. In an earlier analysis still, Werner Mahrholz argues that the contribution autobiography might make to historical analysis is not as a source of facts, but rather, “the clearest reflection of the most recent attitudes of the individual to his surroundings, to his time, to the thoughts and feelings that dominate it.” Werner Mahrholz, “Der Wert der Selbstbiographie als geschichtliche Quelle,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 72–74 (72) (first published in 1919). De Bruyn describes autobiography as “writing history from below,” that is, the self and history are inextricably entwined and, in autobiography, history is explained through personal experience. Das erzählte Ich, 20 and 47–48.

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gued that the unity of author, narrator and protagonist is a prerequisite of autobiography and this aspect forms the basis for Lejeune’s “autobiographical pact,” which results in a particular mode of reading.97 In some manner, either through the use of a title which clearly suggests that the work is autobiographical (“History of my Life,” “Autobiography”), an introductory paragraph or through repetition of the author’s name in the text, the writer indicates that author, narrator and protagonist are the same: the reader might dispute the similarity of the three, but they cannot dispute this identity.98 Although identity does not necessarily equate to similarity, Lejeune argues that autobiography, like scientific or historical discourse, is referential, because it claims to give information about something beyond the text, the life of the author, and thus submits itself to verification. It is essential, according to Lejeune, that this referential pact be entered into and kept, but the important thing is not that this should result in the greatest possible similarity between author and protagonist; it is more important that we are sure that this similarity was intended.99 However, in the 1980s and 1990s issues of the self, the constitution and construction of the subject and problems of autobiographical narration led to a questioning of this relationship between reality and fiction and reality and textuality in the presentation of the self and one’s own life.100 The decisive rejection of the possibility of mimesis in art and literature by the deconstructionists and Paul de Man’s concept of autobiography as generating a particular figure of reading or understanding which creates the fiction of referentiality led Michael Sprinker to declare the end of auto97 Philippe Lejeune, “Der autobiographische Pakt,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 214–57 (217) (first published in 1973, trans. Hildegard Heydenreich). 98 Ibid., 231–32. 99 See ibid., 244–50. Wulf Segebrecht also points towards the expectation of the reader of a text marked in some way as being autobiographical that the author and speaking subject are identical. See Wulf Segebrecht, “Über Anfänge von Autobiographien und ihre Leser,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 158–69 (160 and 162) (first published in 1969). Cf. Elizabeth W. Bruss, “Die Autobiographie als literarischer Akt,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 258–79 (273–74) (first published in 1974, trans. Ursula Christmann). Bruss identifies three rules for the “autobiographical act”: the author takes responsibility for the creation of the text and the protagonist is identical with the author, who also exists outside of the text; the information in the autobiography is true, was true or could have been true and the reader is free to check the veracity of this information; even if the information given in the text is proved to be false, the autobiographer is expected to be convinced of the truth of his or her statements. Bruss notes that these rules may be and often are broken, but the autobiographer must behave as if he or she had fulfilled these conditions. 100 See Günter Niggl, “Nachwort zur Neuausgabe,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 593–602 (593).

28

Introduction

biography in 1980.101 The influence of deep psychology on questions of identity and the fragmentation of the self also had a lasting impact on the genre and on interpretations of it. Many see the construction of certain modern autobiographies, with their kaleidoscopic character, disparate fragments of memory and fragmented self, as being referential to this new concept of identity.102 More recently, building on Lejeune’s concept of a referential pact, Dorrit Cohn has suggested that “the referential nature of autobiography can only be theoretically secured by a shift of emphasis from its content to its speaker.” It is the “reality of its speaking subject,” that is the identity between author and narrator, that defines the genre rather than whether “the subject lies or fantasizes about his past” or not. This, for Cohn, allows theorists to incorporate scepticism regarding “notions of stable identity, truthful introspection, unified selfhood, authentic memory, the translatability of experience into language, and the narratability of life” without accepting the concept of autobiography as being fiction.103 Following Cohn, in this study I also interpret autobiography as a referential genre; however, this referentiality does not assume the existence of a unified self, but rather, as Cohn suggests, is based on the assertion of an identity between author and protagonist: the writer of autobiography creates a particular face, which he or she posits as being identical with him or herself. This identity might be an illusion or even a lie, but the form of the illusion can reveal much about its creator, as it is a presentation of the self that the creator imagines him or herself to be or would like to be perceived as being, or indeed both. The structure of the autobiography, gaps and ellipses in the narrative, might themselves point towards the lack of stable identity and the difficulty of narrating one’s past experiences. The narration of personal experience and the selection this involves promise to be particularly useful in a study of ambiguity and ambivalence in this experience, particularly if what is not said is analysed in relation to those aspects the author chooses to highlight.104

101 Ibid., 594–95. See also Linda Anderson, Autobiography (London: Routledge, 2001), 12– 14 for a more detailed explanation of de Man’s interpretation of autobiography as prosopopoeia or the giving of a face. 102 Niggl, “Nachwort zur Neuausgabe,” 596–97. 103 Dorrit Cohn, “Fictional versus Historical Lives,” in The Distinction of Fiction (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 18–37 (31). 104 For a detailed analysis of the relationship between autobiography and history and the potential use of life writing for the study of the habitus (plural) of groups and individuals, see Roger Woods, “Introduction: The Purposes and Problems of German Life Writing in the Twentieth Century,” in Dahlke, Tate and Woods, German Life Writing in the Twentieth Century, 1–24.

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Comparison of the issues involved in the analysis of archive material and autobiography demonstrates that the problems of these text genres for historical analysis are very similar. The question of perspective, subjectivity, selection and language are common to all referential texts: there is no objective version of the past to be found in this material. The methodological approach of this study is, therefore, to compare these two sets of sources, subjecting both to critical analysis with regard to the issues highlighted above. Within each section of each chapter I analyse both non-fictional historical documents such as correspondence, reports and protocols and compare these with the autobiographical works of the individual author. The aim is not to establish which source is more reliable or valuable, but rather to bring together a range of different material and explore the contradictions and tensions between these different texts in order to produce a more nuanced picture of the life of intellectuals in the East German state and the difficulty of remembering intellectual involvement in the GDR in the political climate of post-unification Germany. Literature In his discussion of the methods of everyday history for analysis of the GDR, Thomas Lindenberger states that an important aspect of this analysis is the manner in which participants interpret their actions in social relationships, and key to this is their understanding of themselves and of their relationship to society. Lindenberger suggests that beyond autobiography, interviews and private documentation, an important source in this regard is published pictures and narratives in the widest sense. For Lindenberger, the ambiguity of literature, its multiplicity of meanings, offers a corrective to the ritualised, limited and one-dimensional nature of communication in the sphere of power. The analysis of literature thus supports the exploration of “the existence and mixture of different social modes of perception and different patterns of interpretation of social reality.”105 Might the literary output of these authors therefore be a third source for their perception of their relationship to power and their role in literary production in the GDR? Fictional literature is evidently a very different source from that of autobiography and archive material, as the author does not enter into the autobiographical pact or claim referentiality for the work. However, if, fol105 Thomas Lindenberger, “Alltagsgeschichte und ihr möglicher Beitrag zu einer Gesellschaftsgeschichte der DDR,” in Bessel and Jessen, Die Grenzen der Diktatur, 298–325 (318–19).

30

Introduction

lowing Lindenberger, we consider literary works to be an expression of the author’s relationship to society, and a source that offers promise of ambiguity and multiplicity of meanings, then a comparison of autobiography and archive material with fictional expressions of the interaction between “intellect” and “power” might offer further insights into the complexity of this relationship. This is particularly relevant if the blurred boundaries between fiction and autobiography are taken into account. In his analysis of autobiographical narratives by East German writers both before and after the Wende, Dennis Tate notes that in the GDR the development of “Prosa” and the concept of subjective authenticity, which “combines the awareness of the potential of multi-level narrative provided by modernist fiction with the integrity of self-analysis to which autobiography has traditionally aspired,” make such sharp divisions problematic.106 Tate highlights the shifting perspectives in the “autobiographical projects” of the works of wellknown GDR writers as evidence of an “intimate long-term relationship between autobiographically based fiction and explicit autobiography.”107 The fictional texts selected for analysis in this study have thus been chosen for their position as works that might be considered to occupy the boundaries between fiction and non-fiction and therefore reflect this intimate relationship between the genres. These texts are set and written in the GDR and have one or several protagonists whose life story shares much with that of the author. Following the analysis of non-fictional historical documents and autobiography as outlined above, each chapter considers aspects of the interaction between “intellect” and “power” in one or more fictional works. Linda Anderson notes of Jacques Derrida’s autobiographical text Circumfessions, which ran along the bottom of the pages of an outline of his work by the critic Geoffrey Bennington, that this “multiplicity of discourses” indicates that “autobiography […] already has a relation to other 106 Dennis Tate, Shifting Perspectives: East German Autobiographical Narratives before and after the End of the GDR (New York: Camden Hause, 2007), 22. A comparable concept of “fluid boundaries” between the two genres is put forward by Hans Glagau. See Hans Glagau, “Das romanhafte Element der modernen Selbstbiographie im Urteil des Historikers,” in Niggl, Die Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 55–71 (60–61 and 66) (First published in 1903). For Glagau, the literary element of autobiography is also a result of the reworking of the material by the author into a unified whole. See also de Bruyn, Das erzählte Ich, 21–22 and 66. Gusdorf argues that the experiences of the author are the starting point of all works of art. See “Voraussetzungen und Grenzen der Autobiographie,” 144. Ingrid Aichinger argues for a strict separation of “literature” [Dichtung] and “autobiography” in order to maintain a workable genre distinction, but also notes that this separation is not always straightforward. See Ingrid Aichinger, “Probleme der Autobiographie als Sprachkunstwerk,” in Niggl, Autobiographie: Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, 170–99 (174–75 and 187) (first published in 1970). 107 Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 9–10.

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texts; there is no singular text of the self.”108 This is reflected in Derrida’s 1995 essay Archive Fever [Le mal d’archive]. In his analysis of the “archive of psychoanalysis,” Derrida uses the term “archive” to include all sources that are saved or stored and that leave an impression, including letters, fiction and even physical markings on the body.109 Derrida notes that the “technical structure of the archiving archive also determines the structure of the archivable content” and that “archivable meaning is also and in advance codetermined by the structure that archives” (emphasis in original).110 These various sources, autobiography, archive material and literature, might be considered to be part of the archive, in the broader sense, of the individual and of the system in which he or she lived, but these sources structure the material differently and conserve different aspects of this experience. This comparison of different sources, of different memories and voices, can therefore be productive in the attempt to do justice to the multiple histories of intellectual involvement in the GDR.

108 Anderson, Autobiography, 84. 109 Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). See particularly 20 and 25. 110 Ibid., 16–18.

Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary Hermann Kant’s post-Wende autobiography, Abspann (Closing Credits, 1991) was one of the most heavily criticised books of the immediate post-Wende era.1 Critics highlighted the incongruence between Kant’s public role as Party functionary and supporter of the SED and his portrayal of himself in Abspann as a critic of SED cultural policy. Günter de Bruyn classed it as one of the “quickly produced books designed to justify behaviour” [schnell verfertigte Rechtfertigungsbücher];2 Paul Gerhard Klussmann labelled Kant a liar3 and Reinhard Andress finds the portrait Kant paints of himself to be “embroidered and unbelievable.”4 Fritz Rudolf Fries suggests that, in his autobiography, Kant is attempting to justify his actions in the GDR and adjust his ideological standpoint to the predominant one in the united Germany: “what Kant has produced […] is […] in the style of the times, an attempt at reconciliation with the ‘class enemy’.”5 Is Kant’s portrayal of his relationship with power simply dishonest or is it revealing of a particular mindset, common to other GDR writers and functionaries? What can archive material not intended for publication demonstrate regarding Kant’s interaction with representatives of power in 1

2 3 4

5

See Frank Thomas Grub, “Bestandsaufnahmen und Selbstvergewisserungen – Tagebücher und Autobiografien nach 1989,” in Autobiografisches Schreiben nach 1989: Analysen von Erinnerungen und Tagebüchern ehemaliger DDR-Schriftsteller, ed. Hermann Heckmann (Bonn: Janos Stekovics, 2003), 289–351 (331). Günter de Bruyn, “Scharfmaul und Prahlhans: Der Abspann des Hermann Kant,” Die Zeit, 19 September 1991, as cited in Grub, “Bestandsaufnahmen und Selbstvergewisserungen,” 331. Paul Klussmann, cited in Grub, “Bestandsaufnahmen und Selbstvergewisserungen,” 331– 32. Reinhard Andress, “Hermann Kants Erinnerungsbuch Abspann: Ein Beispiel von Legendenbau,” seminar, 34.2 (1998): 147. Wolfgang Emmerich considers that Kant is attempting, “to justify himself.” Wolfgang Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 2nd edn (Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch Verlag, 2000), 482. Christine Cosentino describes the work as “Hermann Kant’s self-justifying, striving book of memoirs.” Christine Cosentino, “Überlegungen zu Formen autobiographischen Schreibens in der östlichen Literatur der neunziger Jahre,” glossen, 12 (2001). http://www.dickinson.edu/glossen/heft12/ autobio-graphien.html (accessed on 9 January 2006). Fritz-Rudolf Fries, “Von der Einsamkeit des Langstreckenläufers,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 39 (1991): 131.

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the GDR as both writer and functionary? Are the tensions seen in Kant’s autobiography between his public and behind-the-scenes roles reflected in this material? How does Kant’s role in the GDR change over time and what do these changes and tensions reveal about GDR cultural life and the relationship between “intellect” and “power”? How does Kant reflect on his role in the GDR literary sphere after the Wende? In this chapter, I seek to answer these questions through analysis of Kant’s interaction with representatives of power throughout his career as writer and functionary in the GDR. I analyse pre-Wende archive material, particularly Stasi files and internal Party reports and correspondence relating to the publication of Kant’s 1972 novel, Das Impressum (The Imprint), his involvement in the expulsion of nine authors from the Writers’ Union in 1979, and his negotiation with other Party functionaries over the publication of the second edition of Erich Loest’s Es geht seinen Gang oder Mühen in unserer Ebene (It Takes its Course or Troubles in our Midst) in 1978. I compare these documents with Kant’s post-Wende autobiographical and journalistic accounts of these events and his literary portrayal of “intellect” and “power” in the GDR in the 1950s and 1960s in his novel Das Impressum. Analysis of the tensions and differences between these sources can point towards tensions in Kant’s behaviour as both writer and committed Party member and in his perception of his behaviour in different social and political contexts. This in turn can lead to a greater understanding of the complexity of Kant’s position in the GDR, which cannot be encompassed in the terms “state scribe” or “Party acolyte.”6 This analysis reveals the difficulty of discussing this position in the political climate of the early 1990s amidst the conflicting evidence of pre-Wende archive material and literature shaped by the conflicts of the Cold War and post-Wende autobiographical accounts and journalism shaped by post–1990 political discourse. Comparison of different sources written in a different context and with a different addressee and purpose can also reveal the complex communication strategies used by GDR intellectuals both in their pre-Wende negotiations with representatives of power and their post-Wende negotiation of the manner in which they wish to be received in the united Germany. Born in 1926, Hermann Kant is a representative of the middle generation of GDR writers who experienced World War II as teenagers and young adults. Kant was recruited to the Wehrmacht in 1944, but after only six weeks of service was captured on the eastern front. His imprisonment in Poland lasted four years and he would rework his experiences there in his

6

Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 5.

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Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary

1977 novel Der Aufenthalt (The Stopover).7 Kant’s first novel Die Aula (The Auditorium, 1965) was received positively in both East and West Germany.8 Although conforming to the tenets of Socialist Realism, it was considered in the West to go beyond these tenets in its setting, humour and the social makeup of its characters.9 An active Party member, Kant was Vice-President of the Writers’ Union from 1969 and its President from 1978. He was also a member of the SED-Bezirksleitung in Berlin between 1974 and 1979 and a member of the Central Committee of the SED from 1986. Archive material from the BStU reveals that Kant worked as a Stasi informant, an Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter, between 1957 and 1976. Since the publication of Abspann, Kant has produced four novels, Kormoran (Cormorant, 1994), Okarina (Ocarina, 2002), Kino (Cinema, 2005) and Kennung (Identification, 2010).10

Working with the Stasi: Kant as Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter11 The Stasi Career Phase One: 1957–1968 In his autobiography, Kant flatly denies having ever acted as a “scout, nark or peeper in the secret services”; he describes the attempt to recruit him by various agencies, but states that, ultimately, all of their efforts were unsuc-

7 Hermann Kant, Der Aufenthalt (Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1977). 8 Hermann Kant, Die Aula (Berlin: Rütten & Loening, 1965). 9 Malcolm Humble argues that Die Aula, though conforming to the tenets of Socialist Realism, differed from other novels in the GDR until that point by the inclusion of humour and a wide spectrum of talent, qualifications and responsibility among the working class. Humble also notes that the open-endedness of the novel may demonstrate an attempt to apply new narrative techniques developed mainly by novelists in the West. Commenting on Kant’s later works he notes that Kant’s “concept of literature allows treatment of what had been considered taboos, a more differentiated view of the positive hero, scope for criticism of certain cultural and social phenomena […] However, there is no doubt that every one of his works is inconceivable without the backbone of ideological commitment.” Malcolm Humble, “Hermann Kant,” in The Writer and Society in the GDR, ed. Ian Wallace (Tayport: Hutton Press, 1984), 21–33 (23–24 and 32). Cf. Manfred Jäger, “Wandlungen und Widersprüche in der Literaturpolitik, vorwiegend dargestellt am Beispiel Hermann Kant,” in Kulturlandschaft DDR: Die Gesellschaft der DDR im Spiegel ihrer Literatur, ed. Eveline Valtink (Hofgeismar: Evangelische Akademie, 1990), 37–61 (44). Jäger states that, in comparison with other GDR novels of the time, Kant found “a more spirited tone […], that was at that time so novel that it was perceived as daring or, at the very least, cheeky.” 10 Hermann Kant, Kormoran (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1994); Okarina (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 2002); Kino (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 2005); Kennung (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 2010). 11 A different version of this section (pages 34–50) has appeared as: Sara Jones, “Conflicting Evidence: Hermann Kant and the Opening of the Stasi Files,” German Life and Letters, 62.2 (2009): 190–205. Material reused with permission.

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cessful, as he out-manipulated them, demonstrating cleverly that he could not be trusted with undercover operations.12 Similarly, when, on the opening of the files in the archive of the BStU in 1992, Der Spiegel published an extensive report on Kant’s regular involvement with the Stasi as an informer between 1957 and 1976,13 Kant responded once again by denying ever having been, “an informant for the ministry in question.”14 In this respect, the very existence of the lengthy IM file 2173/70, recording the information provided by Hermann Kant, as “Kontaktperson” (contact person, KP) Kant and as “Geheimer Informator” (secret informer, GI)15 and IMS “Martin”16 stands in contradiction to Kant’s presentation of his connection with the MfS after the Wende. In this chapter, I ask what contribution the Stasi files themselves can make towards our understanding of Kant’s conception of and motivations for working with the MfS. These sources are then compared with Kant’s post-Wende statements on his involvement with the secret police in Abspann, newspaper articles and a recent collection of interviews with Irmtraud Gutschke,17 both in order to analyse the contradictions and tensions between these different sources and to gain a greater understanding of Kant’s complex position both in the GDR and within post-Wende political discourse. The File The Ministery for State Security [Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, MfS] dates Kant’s involvement with the Stasi from 6 August 1957,18 when Kant 12 13 14 15

16

17 18

Hermann Kant, Abspann: Erinnerung an meine Gegenwart (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1991), 230, 246–48 and 256–57. Subsequent references cite this edition and are given in parenthesis in the text. “‘Vermisse das Wort Pinscher’: Ein Staatsschriftsteller im Stasi-Dienst: Die Spitzel-Karriere des Genossen Hermann Kant alias IM ‘Martin’,” Der Spiegel, 41 (1992): 323–36. Hermann Kant, “Ich, der Geheime,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 6 October 1992: 33. This was the term most frequently used by the Stasi for civilian collaborators in the 1950s and early 1960s. The term “Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter” (IM) became more widely used after the implementation of “Guideline 1/68” in 1968. See Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 470. IMS = Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter zur politisch-operativen Durchdringung und Sicherung des Verantwortungsbereichs. Literally “unofficial co-worker for the politically operative penetration and protection of the area of responsibility.” This category of IM corresponded most closely to the image of the “ordinary nark,” who generally kept his or her ears and eyes open and reported on friends, colleagues or neighbours in his or her particular environment. See Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 561. Gutschke was born in Chemnitz in 1950 and has worked as an editor and journalist for Neues Deutschland since 1971. See Bundesbeauftragte für die Unterlagen des Staatssicherheitsdienstes der ehemaligen Deutschen Demokratischen Republik (BStU) Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (MfS) AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 9.

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was the research assistant of Professor Alfred Kantorowicz at the Germanistisches Institut in Berlin. On 14 October 1957, Kant is registered as a “Kontaktperson,”19 by which time Kantorowicz had moved from the GDR to West Germany. As “KP Kant,” he meets regularly with the officers of the Hauptabteilung (main division, HA) V20 and reports his impressions of his former superior, Kantorowicz, and on the political attitudes of the group surrounding Dieter Borkowski (journalist and political writer) and Andreas Simonides (Germanist at the GDR Academy of Sciences, who emigrated to the West in October 1958). On 12 November 1958, Lieutenant Dreier reports that Kant agreed to meet regularly with Stasi officers,21 and, at this same meeting, gave a verbal declaration of his support for the MfS (although he refuses to put this in writing). However, it is not until 9 August 1960 that the MfS takes the decision to start the process of formally recruiting Kant as an IM, specifically with the purpose of reporting on the preparations for the approaching Writers’ Congress to be held in May 1961.22 Nonetheless, Kant continues to work as “KP Kant,” reporting on meetings of the PEN, the Writers’ Union and the preparations for the Writers’ Congress, until 4 October 1962, when the HA V begin to use the code-name “Martin.”23 On 26 November 1962, First Lieutenants Schindler and Treike draw up the plan to recruit Kant formally as a Geheimer Informator for the HA V.24 A file note dated 18 February 1963 records that the registration of Kant as GI “Martin” takes place on the 1 February 1963 and, although Kant does not commit in writing to working with the Stasi, subsequent reports are filed under this code-name.25 From 1963–1966, Kant meets regularly with his Stasi officers and reports on the situation in the Writers’ Union and the 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

See BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 175–76. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 64– 68. This was the precursor of the HA XX and responsible for the observation of the state apparatus, art, culture and underground. See BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 181–82. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 78– 81. See “Beschluß für das Anlegen einer IM-Vorlaufakte (9.8.60),” and “Plan zur Aufklärung des GI-Kandidaten Kant (10.8.60)” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 92 and 102–04. See BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 8 and Bl. 213–18. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 126–36 See BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 48–54. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 136– 41. See BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 9 and 25. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 149–51. Walther notes that in the “Directive Nr. 48/55” of 30 November 1955, Minister Ernst Wollweber described the caution with which intellectuals, considered particularly sensitive individuals, should be approached and stated that a written undertaking or “Verpflichtung” was not always necessary: “the written undertaking is not the decisive factor, but the positive co-operation of the candidate.” Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 475.

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PEN, the activities of colleagues in both East and West, the mood among fellow writers and the behaviour of those whom the Stasi considered to be dangerous critics, such as Wolf Biermann, Günter Kunert and Stephan Hermlin.26 Motivations What do the documents in Kant’s file reveal about his motives for agreeing to meet with the Stasi? In line with the discussion surrounding the loyalty trap of antifascism outlined in the introduction, Meyer-Gosau considers Kant’s motivations to be a result of his fundamental identification with the state and the Party and of Party discipline. Furthermore, she argues that these reasons for becoming an Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter were typical for Kant’s generation, citing Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller as other examples of this pattern of behaviour.27 The files themselves indicate that ideological commitment to the GDR and the socialist project and the importance of Party discipline were indeed key reasons for Kant’s decision to work as an IM. In the report dated 12 November 1958, Dreier records that Kant stated that, despite being unwilling to give a written declaration, he (Kant) felt that as he occupied a position of trust in the Party, he would give them all the information they required.28 In a file note dated 26 January 1969, in which First Lieutenant Schönfelder suggests Kant be reregistered as an IMS, Schönfelder declares that Kant’s initial recruitment was on the basis of “political and ideological conviction.”29 However Schönfelder’s statement should not be taken at face value. Walther notes that political and ideological conviction was, for the Stasi, the most desirable motivation for collaboration; however, he points out that, in the field of literature, this was given as the method of recruitment in ninety percent of IM files and this could mask other motives, for example financial or career-related.30 Similarly, Schröter questions the high percentage of IM who are recorded as reporting on the basis of ideological

26 See Corino, Die Akte Kant, 151–237 27 Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam,” 107. Similarly, Emmerich argues that Kant’s decision to work for the Stasi was the result of a commitment to the state and Party, which in turn was a result of identification with the state as the “antifascist” alternative to West Germany. Emmerich states that this was a motivation common among Kant’s generation. See “Übergriff und Menschenwürde,” 92–98. 28 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 181–82. 29 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 55–56 (Bl. 55). Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 243–45 (243). 30 Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 486.

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conviction and considers that this might be the result of a blindness on the part of Stasi towards the reality of the position of the informer and a reinterpretation by the officer writing the file of the informer’s fear of the consequences of refusing to collaborate.31 Walther notes that some IM in the literary scene informed because they believed that they might influence the literary and social development in the GDR for the better.32 MeyerGosau argues that the attempt to instrumentalise the officers of the MfS with a view to effecting some improvement of SED policy is linked to the concern for the welfare of the socialist state and identification with the Party and notes that this too is a motivation frequently given by the writers of Kant’s generation.33 The documents in Kant’s file contain hints that this desire to influence cultural policy may also have been a second motivation for his willingness to meet with the Stasi officers. One example of this attempt to influence Party policy is seen in a report of a meeting between Kant and Stasi officers dated 10 September 1966, in which Kant is asked about the situation in the Writers’ Union and the atmosphere among writers in the wake of the Eleventh Plenary of the Central Committee of the SED. Working within the framework of a desire for prestige through the production of world-class literature and the demand that socialist writers produce literature related to the socialist present, Kant informs the Stasi that, at that time, no “significant new contemporary literature” [Gegenwartsliteratur] is being produced; since the works of Christa Wolf and Erik Neutsch have been “withdrawn for unknown reasons,” no new works of prose are on the horizon; there are no films with contemporary themes and no proletarian heroes in television features, and the theatres of the GDR are not performing plays relating to the present for fear of criticism from the Party. Kant makes clear that the state of uncertainty among writers and other artists is a direct result of the Eleventh Plenary. Furthermore, he is very critical of the newly appointed First Secretary of the Union, Gerhard Henniger, noting that when a leading functionary in the Soviet Writers’ Union had enquired about new con-

31 32 33

Schröter, “Das leitende Interesse des Schreibenden,” 45–46. Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 467. Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam,” 108. Heiner Müller, for example, declared that he had used his contact with the Stasi to promote the performance of his plays in the GDR and to express criticism, which he hoped would be relayed to those in power. See Jäger, “Auskünfte: Heiner Müller und Christa Wolf zu Stasi-Kontakten,” 142. See also Heiner Müller, “Giftgeschwollene Atmosphäre,” in “StasiSachen 4,” ed. Andreas Mytze, special issue, europäische ideen, 84 (1993): 59–60. Here Müller states that, particularly in the latter years of the GDR, it was no longer possible to have a sensible conversation with Party functionaries and that he had attempted to influence policy through meeting with the Stasi, who was also better informed.

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temporary literature he had been disappointed when directed by Henniger towards Erwin Strittmatter’s Ole Bienkopp, published three years earlier.34 Kant thereby indicates that this situation is also damaging to the image of the GDR in the eyes of the Soviet Union and thus, once again, working within the Stasi’s terms of reference, couches his criticism in the language of commitment to the image of the state. In his work on language and power relations, Pierre Bourdieu argues that discourse is not solely a collection of signs intended to be understood and decoded, but is endowed with an implicit wealth which is intended to be valued and appreciated. The aim of conveying information is not the only goal: the speaker also aims to gain a certain material or symbolic “profit” from his or her utterances.35 The value given to a particular discourse depends on the ability of the speaker to endow his or her language with the most favourable “criteria of appreciation” and these criteria are defined, according to Bourdieu, by the social context, that is, the “expressive style” (pronunciation, vocabulary, syntax) given the highest symbolic value in that particular situation or, in Bourdieu’s terms, in that particular linguistic “market.”36 Kant’s use of the terminology of Party loyalty and commitment to the image of the state in his interaction with the Stasi indicates the way in which this intellectual used, in Bourdieu’s terms, the “legitimate language” of a particular “market,” that is, the official terminology and dominant narratives of the Party, to endow symbolic value to his words and to achieve a particular goal. It is not possible to judge from these sources to what extent Kant was using this dominant language rhetorically and to what extent he believed in what he was saying. However, for Bourdieu, the adaptation to the dominant expressive style, particularly in relation to what is acceptable and what is likely to be sanctioned, is not the result of conscious calculation,37 and, as will be demonstrated in the second half of this chapter, Kant would consistently employ similar language in negotiations regarding the publication of Das Impressum, indicating that, consciously or not, Kant knew of the importance of the use of the dominant expressive style in his negotiations with those in power. It is, however, important to consider that although Kant may use the linguistic market of inner-Party communication in a particular way, he cannot say everything without fear of sanction. Here Michel Foucault’s reflections on the limits of discourse may be of use. Foucault points out

34 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 II/2, Bl. 10–21. 35 Pierre Bourdieu, Ce que parler veut dire: L’ économie des échanges linguistiques (Paris: Fayard, 1982), 59–60. 36 Ibid., 60. 37 Ibid., 75–76.

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that within discourse there are procedures of exclusion. We know that we do not have the right to say everything in every circumstance and that not everyone has the right to speak on every subject: taboos, rituals and privileges shape the nature of discourse in a given society.38 Drawing on Foucault’s work, Bathrick identifies two “rhetorical strategies” in “official Marxist-Leninist discourse in the GDR” that work to control, select and order this discourse. The first is its organisation “around a dualistic structure by which judgements concerning cultural and societal norms are coded evaluatively,” that is, the “system of binarisms” that determine value.39 The second strategy is that of the “major stories” told by official discourse, notably, the “foundational narratives about the genesis of the German socialist state.” For Bathrick, these narratives determine not only the official Party line on a particular issue, but also “precisely the way abstract historiographical and theoretical conceptualizations were translated into the lingua franca […] of everyday ethical and political life.”40 Seen in this light, in order to pass on criticism effectively to the Stasi without fear of sanction, Kant is compelled to work within the dominant value system of official discourse, that is, within a set of restrictive codes that determine what is considered “good” and “bad” literature and “progressive” or “reactionary” behaviour. This, in turn, is heavily determined by the major narrative of antifascism and re-construction under the guidance of the SED and the Soviet Union. Kant’s reiteration of the official discourse surrounding the need for “contemporary literature,” individual commitment to the Party and his reference to the helping hand of the Soviet Union can be read in this vein. The attempt to use the Stasi to express criticism of Party policy is also indicative of a particular view of the GDR and of the most effective communication strategies. As will be discussed in the course of this chapter, Kant demonstrates a reluctance to express criticism publicly, preferring instead to use the semi-public sphere of behind-the-scenes communication in correspondence with Party officials or in Party meetings. The interaction with the Stasi can be seen as a result of this reluctance to express criticism in public and as another point on the scale of public and private communication, representing the most discreet manner of passing on critical views, while remaining in the semi-public sphere of inner-Party discussion. Joachim Walther, in his extensive study on the role of the Stasi in the literary sphere, links this mode of thinking to the belief in the possibility of reforming the practice of really existing socialism in line with the real uto38 Michel Foucault, L’ordre du discours (Paris: Gallimard, 1971), 11. 39 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 15–16. 40 Ibid., 16–17.

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pia of socialism, “rethroning the old ideals with the help of the Stasi” and adds that many IM believed that only the Stasi was capable of and willing to pass on critical opinions to the SED leadership.41 It is also important to note that Kant is only critical of the very specific area of cultural policy and never calls into question the power of the Party or the organisation of the state. Scruples and Distancing What then was Kant’s attitude towards his role as Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter? Did he view this method of putting across criticism of cultural policy as an acceptable response to the social and political context? Alison Lewis notes that the files of the MfS served a “dual bureaucratic purpose”: not only did they record the actions and attitudes of potentially subversive subjects, but they also monitored the attitude of the informers themselves.42 In this respect, the files are also a useful source of information on Kant’s approach to the MfS and his collaboration with them, or at least the Stasi officers’ perception of this. Meyer-Gosau argues that Kant was, for the MfS, the ideal informer, ready and willing to collaborate.43 Closer analysis of the files indicates, however, that Kant’s position was more ambivalent. In a file note dated 7 December 1960, recording a meeting with Kant on the 30 November 1960, Lieutenant Paroch describes Kant’s response to a request for information regarding the Writers’ Congress in the following terms:

41

Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 514–15. This method of passing on critical opinion or of attempting to manipulate the Stasi is fiercely contested by those who were the victims of observation. Lutz Rathenow, for example, notes: “In order to pass on information to the MfS, with the aim of confusing or placating it, it was enough to speak the sentences one wanted to be overheard into a tapped telephone. The removal of distance always meant losing self-control.” Lutz Rathenow, “‘Akten-Einsicht’: Was einem zehn Jahre später zu den eigenen Stasi-Protokollen einfällt,” in Mentalitätswandel in der deutschen Literatur zur Einheit, 1990–2000, ed. Volker Wehdeking (Berlin: E. Schmidt, 2000), 237–42 (241). In reference to IM in the Evangelical Church, Joachim Gauck argues that working with the Stasi, even in an attempt to retain space for critical discussion, could lead to an internalisation of the thoughts and behaviour of the SED and legitimisation of the regime. He does not deny the need for compromise with the state, but rejects co-operation with the Stasi as a legitimate form of compromise. He notes that there were occasionally concrete reasons to speak to the Stasi regarding arrests or other forms of repression, but that these conversations did not need to take place in secret. See Joachim Gauck, “Von der Würde der Unterdrückten,” in Schädlich, Aktenkundig, 256–75 (262–64). 42 Alison Lewis, “Reading and Writing the Stasi File: On the Uses and Abuses of the File as (Auto)Biography,” German Life and Letters, 56.4 (2003): 389. 43 Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam,” 110.

42

Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary

“without hesitation, Comrade K[ant] declared himself ready to pass on such information.”44 However, only a few months earlier, in an assessment of Kant dated 25 August 1960, Lieutenant Dreier states that he suspects that Kant may not always have behaved honestly in their meetings. Furthermore, although Dreier feels that Kant had always shown a “partisan attitude,” he wanted to know more than necessary about the workings of the MfS and he was not, of his own accord, interested in working more closely with the Stasi.45 Kant is described as being particularly reserved at moments when he is asked for information pertaining to close friends or colleagues. In their recommendation for the recruitment of Kant, dated 26 November 1962, First Lieutenants Treike and Schindler state that, although the candidate is prepared to give information at meetings, he still has reservations when it comes to informing on those close to him.46 Meyer-Gosau notes this hesitation to inform on private friends in both Kant’s and Christa Wolf’s IM files and links this to the motivation of commitment to the state and to the Party: private friends could not be considered a potential threat.47 Kant’s scruples regarding the relaying of information pertaining to individuals he considered friends are most clearly demonstrated in the files relating to Stephan Hermlin. Kant and Hermlin had been friends since the middle of the 1950s and, as Karl Corino notes, the files indicate that Kant made an effort, “not to ‘drop Hermlin in it’ in his reports to the MfS.”48 For example, in a report on a meeting with Kant on 14 September 1965 (dated 16 September 1965), regarding the election of Biermann as a member of the PEN-Zentrum Ost-West in April 1965, Kant is recorded as stating that he could not make out who had nominated Biermann.49 However, in a report dated 7 February 1966 relating to the Party meeting of the Writers’ Union on 4 February 1966, it becomes clear that Kant is aware that Hermlin was responsible for the nomination. Kant is recorded as criticising Hermlin’s statement to the Party meeting that, “on the questions relating to the writers he was of a different opinion, but he would bow to party discipline.”50 However, in this report, his emphasis is on Hermlin’s

44 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 46–47 (Bl. 46). 45 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 164. Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 105–07. 46 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 48–54 (Bl. 53). See also BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 55–56 (Bl. 55). 47 Meyer-Gosau, “Hinhaltender Gehorsam,” 107. 48 Corino, Die Akte Kant, 31. 49 “Aktenvermerk: Über die Aufnahme von Wolf Biermann in das PEN-Zentrum Ost-West (16.9.1965),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 216–17 (216). 50 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 A/I, Bl. 189–93, (Bl. 189–190). Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 225–31 (225–27).

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assurance that he did not want to stand against the Party, but to promote a young talent for the GDR. Furthermore, Kant is recorded as stating that, in a private conversation, Hermlin refused to be placed in the same category as outspoken critics, such as Stefan Heym.51 This suggests that initially Kant refused to name Hermlin as Biermann’s nominator, but, when this later became common knowledge, attempted to demonstrate that Hermlin should not be considered an enemy of the state. In the plan for the recruitment of Kant of November 1962, Kant’s links and contacts with journalists and writers are given as the reason for his usefulness as a potential GI; Hermlin is named as one of these links and Treike notes, rather sinisterly, that Kant has Hermlin’s trust.52 Furthermore, the Stasi officers repeatedly record the continued observation of Hermlin under the list of “tasks” [Aufträge] given to Kant.53 This hints that Kant was pressed for information on Hermlin. The Stasi’s reports of Kant’s reluctance to inform on those closest to him and Kant’s emphasis on Hermlin’s loyalty to the state point towards an attempt by Kant not to arouse the suspicions of the Stasi officers by refusing to report on Hermlin, but, at the same time, a desire not to give information that might harm his friend. It is also interesting to note that, in his portrayal of Hermlin to the Stasi, Kant does not paint a wholly positive picture, which again might arouse suspicions of bias, but rather criticises particular aspects of his behaviour: notably those aspects that were also criticised by others in the more public arena of Party meetings. After the Wende: The Denial How then does Kant present his interaction with the Stasi after the Wende? In contrast to Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller, Kant did not attempt to justify or explain his involvement with the Stasi after the Wende, but rather simply denied it. Before the revelations of Kant’s Stasi involvement in Der Spiegel in 1992, Kant’s emphasis in post-Wende journalism and in his autobiography had been on his role as a critic of dogmatic policy, as the 51 52 53

BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 A/I, Bl. 189–93, (Bl. 189–190). Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 225–31 (225–27). BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 48–54 (Bl. 51–52). See, for example: “Treffbericht: Informationen über DDR-Schriftsteller (1.3.63),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 151–55 (154); “Treffbericht: Über Günter Kunert, Wolf Biermann, Stephan Hermlin und andere (29.4.63), in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 166–73 (170); “Treffbericht: Über Stephan Hermlin, Wolf Biermann, Peter Hacks und andere (7.1.64),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 186–91 (189); BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 II/2, Bl. 2–8 (Bl. 8). Reprinted in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 232–37 (235).

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Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary

champion of the independence of the Writers’ Union and as an opponent of censorship.54 Lewis notes that, “in the early nineties […] the reading public and the feuilletons expected and demanded of perpetrators that they include reference to their files in their autobiographies.”55 Kant wrote his autobiography before the opening of the Stasi files; however, reception of the text demonstrates that a confession of his Stasi past was still expected from the autobiographer. Karl Corino opens his introduction to Die Akte Kant (The Kant File) with a quotation from Abspann and compares extracts from the text with the documents in the files, concluding that Kant creates “a pious fairy-tale” in his autobiography.56 Reinhard Andress describes Kant’s failure to mention his Stasi contact in Abspann as demonstrating the extent of his lack of integrity in his search for self-knowledge, a search that, following Lejeune, Andress argues should be the purpose of all autobiography.57 What can the texts themselves reveal about the reasons behind Kant’s failure to discuss this aspect of his life in his autobiography and his denial of his Stasi contact in post-Wende journalism? Is Kant denying Stasi contact altogether or only rejecting the presentation of this contact in the pre-Wende archival material, which also forms the basis for the post-Wende accusations? Barbara Miller notes that a “substantial number of former IM deny all contact with the MfS until irrefutable evidence from the files renders any further denial futile.” Miller argues that this pattern may be the result of a combination of “intentional dishonesty” and “some element of suppression,” but one must also consider the impact of “terminological considerations […]. Few IM were aware of the nomenclature or of the wider structure of the IM system,” thus “the entire ‘Stasi’ debate is carried out using what are for the majority of IM previously unfamiliar linguistic concepts.”58 As seen above, in his response to the Spiegel article, in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Kant denies ever having been, “an inform-

54 See for example, Artur Arndt, “Gespräch mit Hermann Kant,” Sinn und Form, 43.5 (1991): 853–78 and Heinrich Fink, “Gespräch mit Hermann Kant,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 38 (1990): 65. Of Kant’s autobiography, Julian Preece notes that Kant “is careful to slip in accounts of his heroic deeds, acts and statements of everyday resistance, though astute enough not to give them pride of place.” Julian Preece, “Damaged lives? (East) German memoirs and autobiographies, 1989–1994,” in The New Germany: Literature and Society after Unification, ed. Osman Durrani, Colin Good and Kevin Hilliard (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 349–64 (358). 55 Lewis, “Reading and Writing the Stasi File,” 395. 56 Corino, Die Akte Kant, 9 and 20–21. 57 Andress, “Hermann Kants Erinnerungsbuch,” 146. 58 Barbara Miller, “‘Wiederaneignung der eigenen Biographie’: The Significance of the Opening of the ‘Stasi’ files,” German Life and Letters, 50.3 (1997): 373–74.

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ant for the ministry in question.”59 Furthermore, in an article in Neues Deutschland of 27 October 1992, Kant adds: Never in my life has someone approached me with the assertion that he is my contact officer [Führungsoffizier], and never has an officer or any other official declared me to be his formal or informal co-worker – even the terms themselves have only become known to me since the Gauck-nonsense [Gauckelei] started here in Germany.60

As Karl Corino notes, it is indeed very unlikely that the officers who worked with Kant would introduce themselves as “contact officers” nor would they have informed him of his status as an Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter.61 Kant’s denial of the relevance of these terms to his own past and his comment that he was even unaware of the existence of this terminology until the opening of the archives open up the possibility that the accusations of Stasi contact were put to him in unfamiliar terms. That Kant’s view of his own behaviour differed from the view of IM prevalent in the debates of the early 1990s is further demonstrated by Kant’s comments in the Frankfuter Allgemeine Zeitung that he did speak to Stasi officials in the context of his role as a functionary, but when they had attempted to recruit him, he had stressed that he felt unable to take on any role within the secret service for fear that this might restrict or endanger his activities as functionary, journalist and writer. He states that any registration of him as an IM was, therefore, without his knowledge.62 As stated above, the Stasi files do indicate that Kant never signed a formal agreement to work with the Stasi and that he felt that co-operating with the Stasi was part of his duty as a Party functionary. For the Stasi, this did not preclude Kant from being an IM; however, the officers would not necessarily have informed Kant of his status and, after the Wende Kant claims that he continued to perceive these conversations to be part of his role as a functionary, not part of a wider network of informing. Kant’s emphatic rejection of this material after the Wende suggests that it is either alien to his memory of his contact with the MfS or to the manner in which he perceives himself and wishes others to perceive him, or indeed both.63 59 Kant, “Ich, der Geheime.” 60 Hermann Kant, “Für die Wahrheit will ich geradestehen, gegen Angedichtetes möchte ich angehen,” Neues Deutschland, 27 October 1992: 3. 61 Corino, Die Akte Kant, 10 and Karl Corino, “Tabuisieren, Ausklammern, Verschweigen: Stasi als Nicht-Thema,” in Huberth, Die Stasi in der deutschen Literatur, 33–67 (41). Walther also notes that IM would not usually be informed of the use of this terminology in their file. See Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 480. 62 Kant, “Ich der Geheime.” See also Hermann Kant, “‘Rede’ in Marburg,” in “StasiSachen 3,” ed. Andreas Mytze, special issue, europäische ideen, 81 (1993): 11–12. 63 In a 2007 collection of interviews with the Neues Deutschland journalist and editor, Irm-

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Complicit Critic: Hermann Kant and the Writer as Functionary

In this respect, Kant reacts to the material contained in the archives of the BStU in a similar, if more extreme, manner to other prominent figures. In the case of Günter de Bruyn and his 1996 autobiography, Vierzig Jahre (Forty Years), for example, there is a tension between the use of the file to reconstruct his own biography and a denial of the validity of this second perspective on his life. De Bruyn states that without the files he would have remembered his brief involvement with the Stasi differently, but rejects much of the material as being motivated by the desire of the Stasi officers to please superiors or of the IM to avoid harming him or even as a product of pure fantasy.64 In her 1999 text, Pawels Briefe (Pavel’s Letters, 2002), Monika Maron relies not on the files, but on her memory and the testimony of others to reconstruct her behaviour during the brief period in which she worked with the Stasi. Although she does not deny her involvement, she implicitly rejects the file itself as a source of information on her past, even though, as Lewis has demonstrated, the files suggest that she attempted to use her contact with the MfS as a means of critiquing the system – and in a far more confrontational manner than Kant.65 Gabriele Eckart rejects her file as a source of information on her past behaviour, stating that it presents a false view of the length of time over which she was an informer, but embraces the material as evidence that it was not her father who pumped her for information, but rather the writer Paul Wiens and his wife.66 Miller argues that the reading of one’s Stasi file, “can have a marked impact on [one’s] understanding of self, and thus on individual and collective reconstructions of auto/biography,” but that many victims of the traud Gutschke, Kant calls into question the reliability of any of the material contained within the files of the MfS through pointing towards apparent gaps in the material published by Corino. However, Kant states that he has not read his file and does not intend to do so; he thus both denies the validity of the material reproduced in Die Akte Kant and yet bases his denial on Corino’s selection of documents. See Irmtraud Gutschke, Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen (Berlin: Das Neue Berlin, 2007), 83. 64 See Günter de Bruyn, Vierzig Jahre: Ein Lebensbericht (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1996), 190–202. Subsequent references will be given after the abbreviation Vierzig in parenthesis in the text. See also Günter de Bruyn, “Dieses Mißtrauen gegen mich selbst: Schwierigkeiten beim Schreiben der Wahrheit. Ein Beitrag zum Umgang mit den StasiAkten,” in “StasiSachen 4,” ed. Andreas Mytze, special issue, europäische ideen, 84 (1993): 63–66 and “Gespräch mit Günter de Bruyn,” in “StasiSachen 4,” ed. Andreas Mytze, special issue, europäische ideen, 84 (1993): 66. See Jones, “’Ein reines Phantasieprodukt’,” for a closer analysis of the interaction between de Bruyn’s autobiography and the Stasi files. 65 See Alison Lewis, “Erinnerung, Zeugenschaft und die Staatssicherheit: Die Schriftstellerin Monika Maron,” Der Deutschunterricht, 6 (2005): 22–33. For a less generous assessment of Maron’s involvement with the Stasi see Karl Corino, “Tabuisieren, Ausklammern, Verschweigen,” 50–55. 66 Gabriele Eckart, “Brief an den Vater,” in “StasiSachen 3,” ed. Andreas Mytze, special issue, europäische ideen, 81 (1993): 19–25.

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Stasi have “an ambivalent relationship to the files”: on the one hand they reject much of the material as inaccurate, yet on the other hand hope that it will help them reconstruct their past.67 The examples of Kant, de Bruyn, Maron and Eckart indicate that this ambivalent relationship between the files and the reconstruction of biography and construction of autobiography is not only seen in the statements of the victims of the Stasi. In the reactions of both IM and those observed by the secret police there is a tension between the acceptance of the material as an aid to the memory and a rejection of it as an invalid second perception of the self. In this respect, the files form, to use the terminology of Alison Lewis, a “hostile biography,” not only when the author is hostile to the subject, as Lewis describes,68 but also when the portrayal of the individual in the files does not correspond to his or her memories. However, Kant may also be using terminological considerations in order deliberately to confuse the issue, that is, he may be aware that the face he creates for himself after the Wende does not represent the whole story. Gaps in his treatment of his contact with the Stasi in his autobiography, written before the opening of the files, point towards this conclusion. In his discussion in Abspann of his apparent escape from collaboration with the MfS, Kant presents the traditional image of the spy as secret soldier being given missions to fulfil in the West. He is asked not to inform on colleagues or friends, but to find out if a particular building is still in place between Pöseldorf and Alster (Abspann, 256–57). Similarly, in his portrayal of the attempted recruitment by Russian and Polish secret service agents, the focus is on their interest in the West and documents relating to his newspaper directed at West German students, that is, in foreign intelligence, rather than informing on his fellow citizens (Abspann, 245–47). He discusses at length his contact, or rather his lack of contact, with Markus Wolf, the former head of international, rather than domestic, espionage (Abspann, 262–64). Moreover, a large section of text is devoted to the accusations of Joachim Seyppel in 1983 that Kant “occupied the position of a Lieutenant Colonel in the Ministry for State Security.”69 Kant reminds the reader that he took Seyppel to court and won (Abspann, 261).70 Indeed, Kant is not being dishonest when he maintains that he was not a high67 Miller, “‘Wiederaneignung der eigenen Biographie’,” 369 and 372. 68 Lewis, “Reading and Writing the Stasi File,” 383. Similarly, Mary Fulbrook notes the reluctance of many of those who were observed by the Stasi to view their files for fear that the alien perspective on the self might represent a challenge to one’s own identity. See The People‘s State, 247. 69 Cited in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 14. 70 For a more detailed discussion of the Kant/Seyppel case see Corino, “Tabuisieren, Ausklammern, Verschweigen,” 36.

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ranking officer of the MfS, as this does not rule out an involvement as IM. Kant sets this account of his contact with secret services in the context of the heightened interest in the early 1990s in the issue of the Stasi and the role of IM: he states at the start of the chapter: “it is indeed never insignificant whether or not someone was a spy, but currently it is considered particularly important that an individual was not a scout, nark or peeper in the secret services” (Abspann, 230). However, Kant denies being a “spy” principally in the context of a secret agent of international espionage, or a paid employee of the state, not as an individual who informs on friends, colleagues and neighbours. He misunderstands – willingly or unwillingly – the terminology of the debates of the early 1990s. As discussed above, this misunderstanding may be the result of a lack of knowledge of the extent of the system of informers in the GDR and of the significance of his “conversations” with the Stasi officers. However, the tension between Kant’s discussion of the spy as a secret soldier of international espionage and his use of the terms “scout” [Späher] and “peeper” [Spanner] suggests that he is, in 1991, well aware of the use of GDR citizens in domestic intelligence by the Stasi and is blurring the boundaries between the two, allowing him, by denying the former, seemingly to deny the latter. Furthermore, Kant does engage with the accusations that he was a “nark,” [Spitzel] in the general understanding of the term, in his denial of the charges by Kantorowicz in 1964 that Kant had spied on him for the Stasi. Corino notes that it is indeed very unlikely that Kant informed on Kantorowicz while he was still resident in the GDR, as Kantorowicz moved to the West only two weeks after Kant’s first recorded contact with the MfS.71 Kant denied the accusations just as fervently when they were first published in April 1964.72 Thus he engages only with things he has not done, rebutting only a very specific allegation, rather than addressing his lengthy service as KP “Kant” and GI/IMS “Martin.” The Stasi files themselves, specifically where they show his reluctance to inform on those close to him and his attempts to protect Hermlin, indicate that Kant was well aware that his “conversations” with the Stasi might have serious consequences for those he named. Kant further clouds the issue of terminology and the exact nature of his relationship with the MfS in his discussion of meetings with Stasi officials in the collection of interviews with Irmtraud Gutschke, first published in

71 72

Corino, Die Akte Kant, 20. See Hermann Kant, “Wie ich ein Türke wurde,” Neues Deutschland, 22 April 1964. Reprinted in Hermann Kant, Zu den Unterlagen: Publizistik 1957–1980 ed. Leonore Krenzlin (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1981), 60–65. The original accusations were published in Die Welt on 3 April 1964.

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2007. In contrast to his portrayal of these events in his autobiography, Kant must, in 2007, engage with the material relating to his Stasi contact now available in the public sphere, notably the documents reproduced in Corino’s Die Akte Kant. In reference to this material, Kant states that he was never, as suggested by the files in Corino’s text, given a “task” [Auftrag] by an officer of the MfS. He states that even the keenest “MfS Union Officer” [MfS-Verbandsbeauftragte] had never given him missions to fulfil, but rather that they came to him to ask his opinion on particular writers or situations.73 However, the issue of whether or not Kant was given clear “tasks” by the Stasi, or if this detail of the reports is, in fact, a product of the fantasy of the individual officer, does not address the wider question of the nature of these meetings. In a similar manner to his discussion of the accusations by Seyppel and Kantorowicz, Kant only engages with his file in terms of a denial of particular details, rather than dealing with the larger issue of his exact relationship with the Stasi. As in his newspaper articles in 1992, in this collection of interviews Kant points towards the official nature of his meetings with the Stasi: he describes the officer he met with as the “Union Officer,” suggesting a formal arrangement in which a particular member of the Stasi worked officially with the Union, and he notes that Gerhard Henniger was also reporting to the MfS in his role as First Secretary.74 However, Kant does not state explicitly that the meetings he is referring to here are those he readily admits to having in the context of his position as Vice-President and President of the Writers’ Union. Furthermore, in reference to these meetings, Kant comments: “of course, today, an outsider might say one should not speak to such people. But for me it was a part of my state, a state that I wanted to survive.”75 This statement that he viewed the MfS as a necessary part of the state is strikingly similar to the defence of commitment and Party discipline given by other members of his generation who admit to having collaborated unofficially with the Stasi.76 Kant further blurs the contours of the debate and the reader is left uncertain as to whether Kant is again discussing his contact with the Stasi as a leading cultural functionary or confirming the evidence of the files that he also worked with the MfS on an unofficial basis.

73 74 75 76

Gutschke, Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen, 114. Ibid., 113. Ibid., 114. For example, Meyer-Gosau cites Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller as individuals who stated that their willingness to work with the Stasi was based on a fundamental identification with the state (“Hinhaltender Gehorsam,” 107).

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Thus even fifteen years after the opening of the files of the MfS, Kant still seems unable to offer his reader any clarity on the issue of his relationship with this organ of oppression. This ambiguity in Kant’s reflections on his role in the GDR and the nature of his relationship with the Stasi reflects a lack of clarity in his position during the existence of the GDR and his ambivalent relationship with the MfS. The complexity of Kant’s attitude towards the MfS requires us to reconsider that key feature of the debate about intellectuals in the GDR: the loyalty trap. Kant’s case demonstrates that there was no simple identification with the repressive practices of the SED and indicates that the loyalty trap of antifascism, while it might lead those committed to the state to inform on colleagues and friends, did not make this decision clear-cut even in the minds of those as dedicated to the Party and to socialism as Kant. Indeed, for writers such as Kant, the strength of the loyalty trap made this moral choice more complex than for those more critical of the regime, who rejected any form of collaboration with the State Security Service completely. As will be seen, the ambivalence in Kant’s relationship with power extended to other areas of his role as both functionary and writer and involved a complex balancing act between public adherence to the Party line and behind-the-scenes criticism of cultural policy.

Censorship and Repression: The Publication of Das Impressum Perhaps the clearest sign that Kant may have been aware of the consequences of informing and a further indication of the lack of clarity in his attitude towards the MfS is the long break in his meetings with the officers between January 1967 and October 1969.77 Karl Corino notes that the period in which Kant broke off his contact with the Stasi was the period in which he was writing his novel, Das Impressum.78 The novel was finished in February 1969 and, before publication in book form, began to be serialised in the magazine, Forum, in April 1969.79 However, after objections to the manuscript both by leading Party functionaries, such as Bruno Haid (head of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade [Hauptverwaltung Verlage und Buchhandel] and Deputy Minister for Culture) and readers at Kant’s publisher, Aufbau Verlag, this serialisation was broken off in July 1969. Haid permitted the setting of the manuscript in August 1969, 77 See Corino, Die Akte Kant, 42. 78 Ibid., 245. 79 See Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR (SAPMO) Bundesarchiv (BArch) DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 28 and BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 174.

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but the novel was not printed until 1972. Is there a connection between Kant’s problems with the publication of his novel and his decision to renew contact with the Stasi? How does this publicly loyal writer and functionary negotiate the publication of a work viewed as critical and how does he present these negotiations after the Wende? I seek to answer these questions through analysis of the publication process of Das Impressum, comparing Kant’s presentation of this conflict in Abspann with the portrayal of these events in pre-Wende archival material. The Writing Period Das Impressum recounts the development of one individual in the GDR, David Groth, from errand boy to his nomination as minister, and it is this event that acts as the framework for the account of Groth’s life story, which is told in anecdotal and frequently humorous episodes. The publication history of Das Impressum began two years before Kant produced the finished manuscript in February 1969. In a report of a meeting with IM “Kant” (Fritz-Georg Voigt, head of Aufbau Verlag) 80 on 24 November 1969 (dated 25 November 1969), First Lieutenant Gütling records IM “Kant”’s statement that after a reading from the manuscript at the Seventh Party Meeting of the SED in April 1967, both the Aufbau Verlag and leading functionaries in the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade prophesied that this novel, “would, like ‘Die Aula,’ be a very good book that would reflect the development of our society and cultural policy in all phases.”81 Moreover, the novel was not only included in the planned publications of the Aufbau Verlag, the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade also incorporated the work as a “publishing commitment” [Verpflichtung des Verlagswesens] in the overall plan for the twentieth anniversary of the founding of the GDR. According to this report, on the basis of Kant’s reputation and the positive reception of readings from the manuscript and without knowledge of the whole text, Bruno Haid presented the work to publishers as “exemplary for the contemporary literature of the GDR” and hinted to the Writers’ Union that Kant should be recommended for the National Prize for Literature on the occasion of the twentieth 80 It is, of course, far more likely that Voigt selected this code name in honour of the eighteenth-century philosopher than in deference to his troublesome author; however, it is faintly amusing to imagine the Stasi officer running Voigt’s file trying to separate “Kant” from Kant. In order to make this process somewhat easier for the reader of this study, references to the informant “Kant” (as opposed to the writer Kant) will always be proceeded by the abbreviation IM and in inverted commas. 81 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 172–84 (Bl. 174).

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anniversary.82 This demonstrates that, based on the success of Kant’s novel Die Aula both in East and West Germany, Haid felt that Kant represented a socialist writer, whose commitment could not be called into question and whose work was of an international literary standard and could be used to promote the image of the GDR. However, this enthusiastic promotion of the work created a situation in which, when the novel was found to be lacking in ideological terms, it could not be brushed under the carpet. In the same report, IM “Kant” apparently notes that, after reviewing the manuscript and finding it unsuitable for publication, the publisher aimed, against its better judgement, to work with the author to produce a text that could be printed in time for the twentieth anniversary and thereby make good the promises of Haid and fulfil the yearly plan.83 In this respect Kant’s reputation, if it could not guarantee the publication of the novel, did allow him the time to negotiate with the publisher and Party functionaries. The effect of Haid’s public promotion of the work indicates the importance of the role of the public sphere in negotiations with literary intellectuals. The knowledge of Das Impressum in the public realm before its rejection by the publisher and the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade made Party functionaries unwilling to suppress the novel altogether. The extent to which a text is known can become even more important when the work or writer is recognised in the West. In the transcript of a report by Hermann Kant to the meeting of the heads [Leitungssitzung] of the Berlin Writers’ Union on 1 September 1969 and regarding the problems with Das Impressum, Kant notes that, before the work had been assessed by Aufbau, he had already agreed to pass the rights to publication of the work in West Germany to Luchterhand Verlag, who also planned to promote the novel as a contribution to the twentieth anniversary celebrations. Kant points out that as the Western publisher has already produced, “page-length advertisements and editorial announcements in the West German press,” a failure to produce the text would lead to a “damaging and negative scandal.”84 This not only demonstrates the importance of fears for the reputation of the GDR in decisions regarding the publication and promotion of critical works, it also shows that Kant was aware of this fear and used it as a tool for negotiation. Working within the terms of reference of the Party and using the vocabulary of protecting the image of the state, Kant promotes the publication of his works by stressing a commitment to the GDR and its international reputation. However, by ensuring that the existence of his work is known in the West before publication in the East, he creates the 82 Ibid. 83 Ibid., Bl. 173–75. 84 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 28–33. Quotation on Bl. 32.

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situation in which there is a risk of damage to the image of the GDR if his work is not published. Kant thus actively cultivates ambiguity in his position within the Party and uses the dominant expressive style of the Party to promote the publication of a work that leading members of the SED have assessed as being harmful. Kant’s attempt to gain benefit from the knowledge of the text in West Germany does not go unnoticed. In the report of the meeting with IM “Kant” on 24 November 1969, IM “Kant” is recorded as stating that Kant allowed Luchterhand to promote the novel at the Frankfurt Book Fair despite instructions from Aufbau Verlag to the contrary. IM “Kant” allegedly states that he believes Kant was attempting, “to play the GDR publishing houses off against West Germany.”85 This suggests that functionaries recognised the tactics Kant was using, but, in the complex position between the desire to control and the importance of image, felt unable to react with further repressive measures. David Bathrick argues that the emergence of GDR dissidents was not only the result of GDR cultural policy, but also of the Western media: Kulturpolitik [cultural policy] und Kulturindustrie [cultural industry], sometimes hand in hand, two sides of a very complicated system by which writers were elevated to international acclaim – or morally relegated to the dustbin of orthodoxy.86

The fear of the GDR cultural functionaries that suppression of a manuscript already known to a Western publisher might cause a sensation indicates that the functionaries were also aware of this dynamic and wanted to prevent Kant, a writer professedly loyal to the Party, being transformed into a dissident. That Kant actively played on this fear is also seen in a hand-written and undated note regarding a conversation between Kant and Aufbau Verlag. Kant is reported as stating that the book must appear in 1969 or not at all: “puts him in the same category as Biermann, Heym. Really not his intention.”87 Kant thereby suggests that a failure to print Das Impressum would create another dissident and negative publicity for the GDR; however, through assuring the publisher that this was not his intention, he implies this situation is not of his doing and, once again, frames his argument for the publication of the novel in terms of his own commitment to the image of the state.

85 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 172–84 (Bl. 184). 86 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 4. 87 See Konrad Franke, “‘Deine Darstellung ist uns wesensfremd’: Romane der 60er Jahre in den Mühlen der DDR-Zensur,” in Wichner and Wiesner, Literaturentwicklungsprozesse: Die Zensur der Literatur in der DDR, 101–27 (123).

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The Publication in Forum Another decisive factor in Kant’s negotiations with his publisher and with Party functionaries was the pre-publication of the novel in Forum. Kant passed the manuscript to the editor of Forum, Klaus Hilbig, at the same time as he passed the text to Aufbau Verlag in March 1969. In his report to the meeting of the heads of the Writers’ Union on 1 September 1969, he notes that before the publication in Forum, Haid had reminded Kant and Hilbig that the text published in Forum must be identical to the text produced in book form. Kant states that he accepted this as a sensible demand and assured Haid that this would be the case. However, Kant states that he found it unusual that Haid criticised the fact that Hilbig and Kant were preparing to publish the text in Forum before he had accorded the text the permission to print [Druckgenehmigung]. Kant argues that this has never been necessary for works previously published in magazines and newspapers and that the responsibility for a text usually lay with the editor in chief. Indeed, as Simone Barck notes, newspapers and journals did not undergo the official process of gaining permission to print [Druckgenehmigungsverfahren], but were granted a yearly renewable licence to print. The responsibility for the material printed in the journal or newspaper lay principally with the editor in chief of the publication.88 Haid’s concerns regarding the lack of permission to print indicate unease on the part of this leading functionary at the publication of a high profile work, specifically a work that he himself had endorsed, before he or the publisher had had the opportunity to assess the manuscript. Haid’s demand for assurance from Kant that the publication in Forum and the book publication be identical suggests that Haid suspected that Kant might be intending to use the publication in Forum as leverage in his later negotiations with his publisher and with Party functionaries. As will be seen below, these suspicions were not completely unfounded. Forum began printing sections of the manuscript in April 1969, but, in his report to the meeting of the heads of the Berlin Writers’ Union on 1 September, Kant notes that in May 1969 Hilbig informed him that Haid had forced him to stop the serialisation. Kant states that he then turned to Kurt Hager (the Politburo member responsible for culture) and Arno Hochmuth (head of the Department for Culture of the Central Committee of the SED), pointing out the effect of stopping the printing of a work of the Vice-President of the Writers’ Union immediately after the Writers’

88 Simone Barck, “Veröffentlichungspraxen und Diskussionsstile,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 348–91 (348–49).

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Congress, and that he believed he had achieved results: the next chapter would be published and only one edition of Forum would appear without a section of Das Impressum. However, on his return from a fourteen-day holiday in August 1969, Kant realised that the latest edition of Forum did not contain the next chapter: Haid had once again instructed Hilbig not to continue with the publication. Kant points out that this has happened with no explanation for the reader, which has led to speculation and rumour.89 This episode demonstrates Kant’s use of the publication in Forum as a tool for negotiation. Again, working within the framework of commitment to the state and to upholding the image of the GDR, when threatened with a stop on publication, Kant points to the effect of this on the reputation of the publisher, who is unable to produce its only contemporary novel in time for the twentieth anniversary celebrations. 90 Although it may appear that Kant was unsuccessful in his negotiations with Haid regarding the publication in Forum, it can be seen that the printing of the first few chapters was of benefit to him in discussions with his publisher and with Party functionaries. In the meeting with the Stasi on 24 November 1969, IM “Kant” (Fritz-Georg Voigt) is recorded as noting the difficult situation in which the publication in Forum has put the publisher. It is now common knowledge that Kant has written a new novel, that it was finished by April 1969 and, as Aufbau Verlag is Kant’s usual publisher in the GDR, everyone is now waiting for them to produce the book; however, the publisher is apparently aware that it is impossible to produce two different versions of the same book within the space of a year and it was thus necessary to work with the author quickly to produce a text, which could appear in the subsequent editions of Forum. IM “Kant” is reported as considering that Kant was attempting to use the publication in Forum to put pressure on the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade to grant the permission to print and to ensure that the publisher could not make any significant changes to the manuscript.91 In a similar manner to his granting of publishing rights to Luchterhand Verlag and allowing the West German publisher to continue advertising the novel after it became unclear if it could appear in the GDR, Kant can be seen to be using the existence of the work in the public sphere to promote its publication in book form and, once again, to be cultivating the ambiguous position of professions of loyalty to the official Party line combined with the use of the public sphere to put pressure on the Party to permit the printing of a work viewed as being at odds with this Party line. 89 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 28–33 (Bl. 28–32). 90 Ibid., Bl. 28–32. 91 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 172–84 (Bl. 178).

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In the transcript of the meeting with IM “Kant” on 18 November 1969, IM “Kant” states that, despite requests from Aufbau and from Haid to delay publication until they had assessed the text, Hilbig pressed ahead with the serialisation.92 In a letter to Hager dated 24 July 1969, the Department for Sciences [Abteilung Wissenschaften] also blames Hilbig for beginning the publication despite warnings from Haid regarding the lack of permission to print.93 Ernst-Peter Wieckenberg (former editor in chief of the West German Beck Verlag) notes that, in his dealings with GDR publishers, he observed that many critical works owed their publication to the courage of the publisher.94 Hilbig’s support for the novel and his insistence on publishing before approval from Haid indicates that this editor and publisher was indeed prepared to take risks in order to promote a work, which might otherwise be censored and, as seen above, the publication in Forum granted Kant additional leverage in his negotiations regarding the book publication.95 However, Roland Links96 notes that publishers could not always afford to demonstrate civil courage and were forced to keep critical novels, which they personally loved, but which could not be recommended for publication, for their personal enjoyment only, in what Links describes as a “poison cabinet.”97 That the approach of publishers towards critical manuscripts was indeed complex and not uniform across the publishing world is demonstrated by the actions of the Aufbau Verlag in comparison to the behaviour of Hilbig. The lengthy report of the meeting with IM “Kant” referred to above, indicates that Aufbau Verlag proceeded more carefully regarding the publication of Das Impressum than Hilbig. IM “Kant” is recorded as admitting

92 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 157–60 (Bl. 157). 93 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 14–15 (Bl. 15). 94 Ernst-Peter Wieckenberg, “Wir wußten sehr viel...Erinnerungen an Literaturgeschäfte mit der DDR,” in “Feinderklärung: Literatur und Staatssicherheit,” ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold, special issue, Text + Kritik, 120 (1993): 102. See also Elmar Faber, “Was von den Träumen blieb…:Als Verleger in der DDR. Ein Interview (1992),” in Die Allmacht des Geldes und die Zukunft der Phantasie, ed. Elmar Faber (Leipzig: Faber und Faber, 2003), 116–34 (123). 95 In this context, Ulrike Schuster notes that in the 1960s and 1970s successive editors of Forum felt strongly committed to the concept of the journal as “an actual Forum for debate and argument.” Hilbig’s support for Kant’s problematic text can be viewed as part of such a commitment. See Ulrike Schuster, “Zeitgeist im Forum: Über die Kultur des Streits zwischen 1947 und 1983,” in Zwischen “Mosaik und Einheit”: Zeitschriften in der DDR, ed. Simone Barck, Martina Langermann, Siegfried Lokatis (Berlin: Christoph Links, 1999), 297–303 (302–03). 96 From 1954–1978, Links was reader/senior reader in the publishing house Volk und Welt and, from 1979–1990, head of the Kiepenheuer Verlag in Leipzig. 97 Roland Links, “Literatur als Lebenswelt: Frühe Erfahrungen eines späteren Verlegers in der DDR,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 10 (1994): 10.

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that the publisher did not anticipate any problems with the text, due to the success of Die Aula, and thus was prepared to accept the novel as part of its “commitment to competition” [Wettbewerbsverpflichtung] for that year. However, in contrast to Haid, they did not promote the novel in any fashion before receiving the manuscript.98 In the list of individuals who reviewed the manuscript and considered that it could not be published due to its political and ideological outlook and literary quality, four out of six are editors in the publishing house and one is Voigt himself; the remaining two assessors are Haid and a “literature expert.”99 Furthermore, IM “Kant” is recorded as stating that when Voigt became aware that Hilbig intended to publish the original manuscript he contacted Haid directly and asked him to intervene.100 Similarly, in July 1969, the publisher reportedly asked Haid to speak directly to Kant to encourage him to agree to further changes to the manuscript. When Kant returned the manuscript insisting that he had completed all the changes Haid requested, according to IM “Kant,” they submitted the text to the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade, but accompanied the manuscript with a note stating that they were not satisfied with the text.101 Although Gütling records that IM “Kant” admits that it was Aufbau Verlag who passed the manuscript to the Western publisher, according to this report, Voigt felt that this was the only way of preventing the head of Luchterhand contacting Hilbig and thereby discovering the problems surrounding the novel.102 This indicates that the complex strategies of negotiation and varying responses to moral and political choices, seen in the behaviour of GDR writers, are reflected in the behaviour of GDR publishers.103 It is interesting to note, however, that leading Party functionaries did not perceive the publisher’s caution to be adequate. In the course of IM 98 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 172–84 (Bl. 174). 99 Ibid., Bl. 175. Other than Voigt and Haid, the names of the assessors have been blanked out by the BStU. 100 Ibid., Bl. 176. 101 Ibid., Bl. 179. 102 Ibid., Bl. 182–84. Material from the Aufbau Verlag itself also indicates that it was Aufbau who passed the manuscript to Luchterhand. See Franke, “‘Deine Darstellung ist uns wesensfremd’,” 121. 103 In their analysis of the Academy of Arts journal, Sinn und Form, Stephen Parker and Matthew Philpotts argue that the ideal-type habitus of the editor in chief “is founded on a central duality between the dispositions of the Poet and of the Professional,” and, in the context of this internationally prestigious journal published in the GDR, “between the demands of autonomy and heteronomy.” This concept of a “dual habitus” meshes well with the efforts to balance political demands with the desire to promote good literature, seen in the behaviour of the editors discussed above. See Stephen Parker and Matthew Philpotts, Sinn und Form: The Anatomy of a Literary Journal (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 167–176 (quotations from 168 and 172).

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“Kant”’s lengthy report, he notes that Aufbau Verlag, and Voigt in particular, had been criticised by both Hager and Haid: in the first instance for not being firmer with Kant and in the second for passing the manuscript to Luchterhand Verlag.104 In an MfS report by Major Brosche, dated 12 November 1969 and recording a conversation with Haid, Brosche notes that Haid considers that the problems with Kant have shown some serious weaknesses in the management of the Aufbau Verlag and that he perceived the passing on of the manuscript to be a sign that Aufbau were washing their hands of the dispute. Haid is recorded as criticising Voigt for failing to prevent Kant from publishing in Forum and for passing the manuscript to Luchterhand Verlag. According to Brosche, Haid even suggested that he might dismiss Voigt and replace him with Hans Bentzien (head of Verlag Neues Leben).105 This report does not contradict any of the statement of events given by IM “Kant,” but it does portray them in a different light. Where IM “Kant” is recorded as suggesting that Haid might take some of the blame for promoting an unknown text, in the meeting with Haid, the events are portrayed in such a manner as to point the finger of blame firmly at Voigt. These varying perspectives on the same event are indicative of the caution with which such reports should be approached. Any analysis of these texts must take into account the motivations of the addressee. Voigt is under pressure to demonstrate that Aufbau Verlag was not responsible for Das Impressum being known in the public sphere in an ideologically unacceptable form and Haid demonstrates a need to divert any blame away from himself and towards the publisher. Furthermore, these accounts are filtered through the Stasi officer and thus only the material considered of political or operational interest is recorded. It is unlikely that Voigt or Haid would completely falsify the actions of the publisher or that the Stasi officer would add completely new material, as this would be, respectively, easily identifiable as a fabrication or useless in operational terms;106 however, the light in which Voigt and Haid portray these actions, the perspective from which they view them is susceptible to change according to their aims, their addressee and the context in which they are reporting.

104 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 172–84 (Bl. 180 and 183). 105 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 146–48. Franke also notes that Voigt was criticised for allowing the printing of the manuscript in Forum and given the task of conducting a “principle critical discussion” with Kant (“‘Deine Darstellung ist uns wesensfremd’,” 119–20). 106 See Engelmann, Zu Struktur, Charakter und Bedeutung, 14–15 and “Zum Quellenwert,” 36. Engelmann also notes the tendency towards playing down problems in reports from the workplace of which the document by Voigt could be considered a form. See “Zum Quellenwert,” 37.

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The Interview in Vorwärts Kant’s problems with the publication of Das Impressum were further intensified by his behaviour during a tour of West Germany in October 1969, specifically by an interview he gave to the journalist Joseph Scholmer. The interview was subsequently published in the SPD magazine, Vorwärts, on 6 November 1969.107 Kant’s statement in this interview that he did not consider the recognition of the GDR by West Germany to be a precondition of talks between the two states met with severe disapproval on the part of the leading functionaries of the SED: this statement stood in contradiction to the policy of the SED regarding the attempts of the new SPD government under Willi Brandt to start dialogue with the East German state. In Abspann, Kant states that this interview led to the temporary stop on the publication of the work in Forum becoming a permanent stop on the publication of the novel in both the magazine and in book form (Abspann, 300). Archive material from November 1969 indicates that Kant’s behaviour in the West certainly did not help him in his negotiations towards the book publication. In Brosche’s report of the 12 November 1969, Haid is recorded as setting Kant’s interview in Vorwärts in the context of the publication of the novel and the growing interest in the book in West Germany. Furthermore, according to this document, Haid feels that, “through the pre-publication [of Das Impressum in Forum] and his behaviour in West Germany, Hermann Kant wanted to put the GDR under pressure and force through the official approval [for the printing of the novel].”108 In a memo from Roland Bauer (secretary of the Berlin District Authority for Science, Popular Education and Culture [Bezirksleitung Berlin für Wissenschaft, Volksbildung und Kultur]) to Paul Verner (secretary of the SED District Authority [Bezirksleitung] in Berlin) dated 26 November 1969, Bauer reports that the head of the department of cultural policy and literature in the radio station, Deutschlandsender, had instructed his employees, “following on from the order given a week ago […], that nothing can be broadcast by or about Hermann Kant,”109 thereby placing Kant in a similar position regarding the GDR public sphere to that of more outspoken critics of the regime. As stated above, Kant had no contact with the Stasi between 1967 and October 1969. It was on his return from the tour of West Germany, during which the interview with Scholmer took place, that Kant renewed his contact with the MfS officers. According to the report by Lieutenant 107 Reprinted in Zu den Unterlagen, 286–90. 108 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 146–48 (Bl. 147). 109 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 43.

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Pönig, dated 31 October 1969, the meeting with Kant on 30 October 1969 took place at Kant’s request. The information Kant gives at this meeting is filed as a transcript of a cassette recording and therefore Kant’s voice is not filtered through that of the Stasi officer. Kant reports on the tour and, specifically, on the behaviour of West German citizens, which he considered to be suspicious: the approaches of a former student of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Faculty [Arbeiter- und Bauernfakultät, ABF] in Godesberg, the failure to book him a hotel and the offer of lodgings by another former ABF student in Düsseldorf, and Manfred Bieler’s assertions to a book shop owner that Kant works for the Stasi.110 According to Pönig, Kant’s reasons for bringing this to their attention and for renewing contact was a desire to be active in the defence of socialism, to be not only an “owner of a Party membership book” [Parteibuchträger] but also a “comrade” [Genosse]. Although Pönig’s assessment cannot be taken at face value, the transcript of the meeting not only shows Kant renewing contact with the Stasi, but also demonstratively showing support for the regime and vigilance regarding Western secret services in the midst of his problems with the publication of Das Impressum and immediately after having behaved in a manner that would bring severe disapproval from leading Party functionaries. Kant’s new attitude towards the MfS may, of course, be authentic, rather than calculated; however, the timing of Kant’s renewed contact with the Stasi and his reported sudden fervent expressions of commitment do suggest that this was an attempt to prevent the MfS from considering him to be dangerous. Parallels between Kant’s behaviour in his renewed contact with the Stasi in 1969 and his behaviour in the semi-public and public spheres after the printing of the interview in Vorwärts further support this argument. In a handwritten report by Gerhard Henniger dated 19 November 1969 and found in Kant’s MfS file, Henniger states that the Party Trade Organisation [Betriebsparteiorganisation, BPO] of the Writers’ Union had discussed the interview with Kant in a meeting that lasted four hours. According to Henniger, all of the members of the BPO criticised Kant to a greater or lesser degree and that, at the end of the discussion, Kant declared that he now realised that his interview had been a political mistake, in which he had not represented the Party line.111 On 20 November 1969, under the title “Auskunft an Bedürftige,” (Information for the Needy)112 Kant published a rebuttal to the rumours that he was in conflict with the Party in their attitude towards the Brandt government in Neues Deutschland. In a 110 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/1, Bl. 222–26. 111 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 149–52 (Bl. 149). Henniger does not give a date for this meeting. 112 Reprinted in Zu den Unterlagen, 73–77.

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report of a meeting with Kant dated 19 December 1969, Pönig notes that Kant stated that this article was written “in the interests of the Party” and that Hager had approved its content before its publication.113 As the Stasi files show Kant’s increased expressions of commitment to the Party and state in his contact with the MfS, the above demonstrates that Kant also sought to demonstrate his Party discipline and loyalty in internal Party meetings and in the public sphere. Analysis of the article itself reveals that a public display of loyalty from Kant was all the more necessary because of Western speculation of a rift between Kant and the Party. In this article, Kant notes that where previously he was described as a “Party scribe and Party functionary,” he is now viewed as “a sort of Arminius Monument to an inter-German sense of community.”114 This feeds into the discussion above regarding the fear of Party functionaries that dissidents might be “created” by celebration of apparently critical views in the West German media. The publication of “Auskunft an Bedürftige” and his expressions of loyalty to the Stasi and to the BPO of the Writers’ Union indicate that Kant himself was, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, also reluctant to be classed as dissident either by members of his own Party or by the West. In this respect Kant can be seen to be repositioning himself within the space he created in his earlier negotiations towards the publication of the novel. Where previously his public position of loyalty was countered by his use of this position to promote the publication of a work viewed as critical, here, when he risks being pushed into open conflict with the Party, Kant shifts to a position of greater clarity and congruence between his public and behind-the-scenes face. The Ban and the Final Publication Das Impressum was not published in book form until 1972. Although, as discussed above, the interview in Vorwärts may have made the temporary stop on publication of the novel more permanent, other reasons were given for the decision to discontinue the publication in Forum and, ultimately, prevent the publication in book form in 1969. What can these reasons reveal about the relationship between Kant and the Party in this period? What lay behind the decision to finally publish the text in 1972? Was this a result of a changes made by Kant or a shift in the official view of the text?

113 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 3, Bl. 191–94 (Bl. 192). 114 “Auskunft an Bedürftige,” 73.

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In her “Observations on Hermann Kant’s Impressum” [Bemerkungen zum Impressum von Hermann Kant], dated 24 July 1969, Lucie Pflug (head of the Publishing Section [Sektor Verlage] in the Central Committee Department for Culture) indicates that the problem with the novel is a failure to present a socialist perspective. Pflug states that it is not clear why David Groth should become a minister of the GDR and Kant’s presentation of “historical snippets, gossip, little digs at our politics and resentments of various kinds,” suggests that the era of building the socialist nation is not defined by “the accomplishment of difficult, beautiful and great tasks” but rather “dealing with petty-bourgeois, and above all ethical and moral prejudices.”115 For Pflug, this aspect of Das Impressum could be accepted if the novel did not also call into question basic issues of SED policy. These basic issues include Kant’s apparent trivialising of class warfare, a failure to attack the theory of the convergence of East and West fervently enough, a mocking of the procedure for acceptance into the Party and a failure to portray in detail the involvement of Western agents in the June 1953 uprising. For Pflug, it is these aspects which make the novel unfit for publication.116 Similarly, in the “Statement on Hermann Kant’s Impressum” [Stellungnahme zum Impressum von Hermann Kant], which is unsigned and undated, but originates from the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade and was passed to Hager on 24 July 1969, the author accuses Kant of “journalistic banter […], occasional humour and superficial observations without the historical point of view that would have been appropriate here.”117 These assessments of the novel also indicate that Kant reacted to many of these criticisms with a willingness to make changes to the manuscript. Pflug notes that the manuscript she is reviewing demonstrates the alterations that the publisher had managed to persuade Kant to agree, above all, to delete particular passages. Furthermore, she adds that these changes have led both publisher and the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade to support a publication of the text in its current form, feeling that the positive elements outweigh the negative.118 The “Statement on Hermann Kant’s Impressum” sent to Hager on 24 July 1969, shows clearly the extent of the changes Kant had been prepared to make: the destruction of a barn roof, originally the result of a stray Soviet grenade, is now the result of a bundle of West German flyers; the procedure for entry into the Party has been made less “silly” (although the author feels it still lacks the necessary 115 116 117 118

SAPMO BArch, DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 1–7 (Bl. 1). Ibid.. SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 23–27 (Bl. 23). SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 1–7 (Bl. 1).

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serious tone); Kant has reduced his criticism of the GDR television service to the criticism of one individual; the political sentiment of the youths at the German FDJ Congress [Deutschlandtreffen] of 1950 has been made clearer; Kant has taken the edge off his portrayal of a contradiction between writers and the working class.119 The author of the statement concludes that even with these changes the manuscript does not achieve the level expected of the author of Die Aula, but that the publisher wants to go ahead, because they do not feel able to push the author to make further alterations and fear a failure to publish would lead to “an unnecessary, agitated discussion among the writers.” The author adds that the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade (where the report originates) would also support a publication of the manuscript in its current form if Kant cannot be persuaded to make further amendments, adding: “it would then be a matter of organising a thorough and clear critical discussion of the book in literary criticism.”120 Kant is pushed to make alterations and the threat of a refusal to publish is used to encourage him to comply; however, the publisher and the Main Office would not necessarily carry out this threat if the author stuck to his guns. This process is similar to that described by de Bruyn regarding his negotiations with his publisher, Eberhard Günther, concerning Märkische Forschungen (1978). When, after a long process of negotiation, de Bruyn refuses to make any further alterations to the text, Günther, seemingly courageously, declares that it will appear as it stands; however, de Bruyn is aware that this courage stems from previous discussion between Günther and Höpcke regarding which changes were only desirable and which were essential (Vierzig, 248). The differing views of Pflug, the publisher and the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade also demonstrate that decisions regarding publication in the GDR were the result of a lengthy process of discussion, in which different views were presented. Simone Barck also notes this variety of voices within the process of gaining permission to print in the GDR, stating that even after the process of centralisation which followed the founding of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade in 1963, one must be cautious when speaking of “‘the’ state literary policy in the GDR […] as before, numerous forces had an effect on the Ministry for Culture, and even within the Main Office [for Publishing and Book Trade] […] there were competing directives on cultural policy.”121 It is also note-

119 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 23–27. See Franke, “‘Deine Darstellung ist uns wesensfremd’,” 120–25 for further discussion of the changes Kant was prepared to make at this stage and analysis of archive material from Aufbau Verlag in this context. 120 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 23–27. 121 Barck, “Nachbemerkung,” 433.

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worthy that all the partners involved in the discussion work within the same framework of criticism. None fully support the text, noting the same political issues, but they disagree on the seriousness of these problems. Pflug considers that the text’s questioning of fundamental political issues makes it unfit for publication; however, both the publisher and the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade feel that the positive elements of the text and the negative consequences of not publishing outweigh these critical elements. Both publisher and the Main Office, therefore, couch their support for the work in expressions of commitment to the image of the GDR and thus work within the ideological and linguistic framework of the Party. This is further demonstrated by the Main Office’s suggestion that literary criticism be used to curtail the impact of the work after publication. Rather than contradict the critical assessments of the works by other Party functionaries, the author of this report instead suggests a different method of dealing with this critical text: using what Wolfgang Emmerich has described as “post-censorship” [Nachzensur].122 What about evaluations of the novel after the publication of the interview in Vorwärts? Do these indicate a change in attitude towards Kant and his text? In an anonymous “Assessment of the Novel, Das Impressum, by Hermann Kant” [Einschätzung des Romans Das Impressum von Hermann Kant] for the Central Committee Department of Culture, dated 27 November 1969, Kant is accused of deviating from the image of the “socialist idea of man and its aesthetic and ethical function as a role model” and of failing to demonstrate a positive development in his main protagonist, David Groth: it is not clear to the reader what particular abilities make him suitable to be a GDR minister. The author of the report criticises “David Groth’s constantly recurring sceptical and ironising reflections on political events.” Thus, in this assessment, written after the interview in Vorwärts, the main criticisms levelled at the novel have not changed. However, in this later report, the author assumes a critical intention on Kant’s part to a far greater degree than in either of the earlier appraisals of the manuscript. He or she accuses Kant of using the episodic narrative style, “to cover up the clear lack of a relationship to real life in the novel and to cleverly vary his basic ‘anti-dogmatic’ line, allowing it to constantly recur”123 and adds that this “supposedly anti-dogmatic criticism” includes the satirical characterisation of older Party members. Moreover, the author of the report states that Kant attempts to undertake a “retroactive ‘reckoning’” with the crimes of Stalin, demonstrating that he has failed to understand the significance

122 Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 51. 123 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2/024/65, Bl. 45–49.

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of the Twentieth Party Meeting of the CPSU (at which the crimes of Stalin were revealed) and failed to recognise the “completely clear and consistent stance of our Party to the questions raised in this regard.”124 The author of the report asserts that, in the novel, Kant is conducting a polemic against certain views and attitudes in the cultural policy of the Party and concludes that a decision cannot be made on the book until it has been principally reworked. This sharpening of the criticism against Kant and the novel, and particularly the view that Kant had political intentions against the policies of the Party in writing the text, indicates that the interview in Vorwärts may indeed have worsened Kant’s prospects for pushing through the publication of Das Impressum. This effect of the displeasure of leading Party functionaries at Kant’s behaviour in the West also further demonstrates the importance of the reputation of an author in the publication of their works. In a letter from Kempke of the Department for Sciences [Abteilung Wissenschaften] of the SED to Hager, dated the 5 August 1969, Kempke reports that, after making minor changes to the text after a meeting with Haid on 31 July 1969 and resubmitting it for publication, Kant declared that he would make no further alterations. In his statement to the Party Leadership [Parteileitung] of the Berlin Writers’ Union on 1 September 1969, Kant states that following his conversation with Haid on 31 July 1969, he had made all of the changes Haid deemed necessary and that Haid had assured him that the permission to print would be given if he did so. However, Haid had subsequently prevented Forum from continuing the pre-publication. Kant states that he is, therefore, no longer willing to work with Haid on this basis.125 This indicates either that Kant was aware that the publisher and Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade were pushing for further changes, but would not stop the publication of the text if he refused to make them at this stage, or that he was willing to suffer the work not being published at all. Similarly, Konrad Franke notes that after the refusal to grant permission to print in August 1969, Aufbau Verlag stated that: “Hermann Kant […] was not open to genuine co-operation with the publishing house from the start”126 However, after his interview in Vorwärts, and in line with his decision to renew contact with the Stasi and to publicly affirm his loyalty to the Party in “Auskunft an Bedürftige,” Kant appears to take a new stand on his willingness to work with functionaries towards the publication of his text. In a file note dated 22 April 1971, Pönig reports that Kant is currently working intensively on editing Das Impressum in cooperation with 124 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2/024/65, Bl. 45–49. 125 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 28–33 (Bl. 31). 126 Franke, “‘Deine Darstellung ist uns wesensfremd’,” 122.

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Hans Bentzien of Verlag Neues Leben, “because he did not find a genuine partner for this work in Aufbau Verlag.”127 As noted above, in 1969, Haid threatened to replace Voigt with Bentzien as head of Aufbau due to Voigt’s handling of the conflict with Kant. An undated and unsigned file note of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade indicates that the cooperation between Kant and Bentzien was at the initiative of Haid: A partnership between Hans Bentzien […] and Hermann Kant, initiated by the Main Office for Publishing and the publishing house, eventually led to the author beginning work on crucial passages that the publishing house had constantly recommended be reworked.128

However, despite Bentzien’s apparent success in persuading Kant to rework the manuscript, the author of the file note states that the text is not a new version of the novel and that the main objections still hold true. Nonetheless, Kant’s changes have resulted in fewer “political and literary weak spots and the publication can go ahead” (Ibid.). The permission to print was granted on 10 August 1971, but Neues Deutschland was reportedly instructed to publish a critical review of the text and not to organise a readers’ discussion.129 This source thus indicates that the final publication was the result of a combination of readiness on Kant’s part to make further changes to the text, despite his declarations in July 1969 that this version was final, and a more liberal approach on the part of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade towards the perceived political flaws of the novel. In this regard, it is interesting to note that Kant’s original manuscript was submitted for publication shortly after the 1968 Prague Spring, which, as Walther notes, the SED and MfS considered to be inspired by intellectuals, artists and the media and which led to an increased distrust of these groups.130 The granting of the permission to print in 1971 and the publication in 1972 took place, however, after Honecker’s accession to power in May 1971 and within the context of the beginnings of a period of liberalisation in cultural policy: a period in which other contentious works, such as Stefan Heym’s Lassalle, were also being considered for publication.

127 128 129 130

BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 I/2, Bl. 6–7 (Bl. 7). SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/65, Bl. 51–53 (Bl. 51–52). Ibid., Bl. 52. Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 74. See also Gesine von Prittwitz, “Das Ministerium für Staatssicherheit und der Kulturbetrieb,” Zeitschrift des Forschungsverbundes SEDStaat, 3 (1997): 25.

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After the Wende: A Presentation of Clarity How then does Kant present the conflict surrounding the publication of his novel and the interview in Vorwärts after the Wende? Kant begins his lengthy discussion of the publication process of the novel by pinning the blame for the stop on publication on Walter Ulbricht personally. For Kant, it is Ulbricht who denied Das Impressum the “imprint” (Abspann, 285). Although it cannot be ruled out that Ulbricht did play a part in the discontinuation of the publication in Forum, the pre-Wende archive material does not reflect this. Kant thereby claims for his novel, and its censorship, a degree of importance, which would lead to Party functionaries of the very highest level being involved in the decision making process (Abspann, 286). This emphasising of the significance of this case of censorship not only reflects the importance this episode played in Kant’s life, it can also be seen as part of the wider attempt by Kant to create an image of himself as a critic of the GDR and demonstrate distance from the SED regime. However, despite this initial emphasis on the significance of this case of censorship, Kant’s own description of the process of publication remains vague. He states that the publication in Forum was stopped and that he was withdrawn from the public eye and encouraged to rework the text. However, the reader receives no details as to who was behind this process or Kant’s response and he describes the attitude of the functionaries in mocking tones: “nobody wanted to describe Das Impressum as banned; it just wasn’t allowed. […] Strictly speaking, people just wanted a better book from the author. They meant well for the one as for the other” (Abspann, 286). Rather than portraying the long list of objections to the novel, as shown in the pre-Wende archive material, Kant states that the only reason he was given was by Haid and was reduced to the statement that the novel was “firstly philo-Semitic, secondly anti-Semitic and thirdly pornographic.” Kant adds that this ridiculous assertion made any discussion of the objections to the text impossible and makes no mention of the many meetings he had with Haid, Hager and Hochmuth regarding these objections (Abspann, 287).131 By failing to mention the numerous ideological objections to his text Kant avoids exposing his own willingness to make changes to the manuscript.

131 In the collection of interviews with Gutschke, Kant expands on this description, recalls Haid’s equally ridiculous explanation for the assertion that the novel was “anti-Semitic, philo-Semitic and pornographic” and suggests again that he was helpless in the face of these idiotic reasons for the stop on publication (Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen, 81).

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In Abspann, Kant also makes no mention of his attempts to negotiate with Party functionaries through the use of the publication in Forum and the contract with Luchterhand Verlag. He states vaguely that Haid was not powerful enough to stop the publication in Forum, but that he needed Kant’s help: “he was a helper, who helplessly needed me if he was going to carry out his task” (Abspann, 287); however, he makes no indication of the nature of the help Haid required and whether he was prepared to provide it. As discussed above, pre-Wende archive material indicates that Haid was indeed powerful enough to halt the publication in Forum more than once and that Kant prevented the initial stop on the print run by pointing out the effect of a failure to publish on the approaching Writers’ Congress. Kant states that one result of the conflict regarding Das Impressum was the directive preventing the press from publishing works of literature that had not been granted permission to print (Abspann, 311), but does not describe fully the significance of the pre-publication in Forum in his own negotiations. He refers to the fact Luchterhand was keen to publish the novel, but not the effect of this on his discussions with GDR functionaries (Abspann, 290). Kant touches upon the reputation afforded him as the author of Die Aula (Abspann, 292–93), but does not discuss the function of this reputation in the promotion of Das Impressum before its completion and in his negotiations with representatives of power. Similarly, in the collection of interviews with Gutschke, in response to a statement in “some Stasi papers or other,” Kant actively denies attempting to put pressure on the Party by passing the manuscript to Luchterhand Verlag before publication in the East.132 Although archive material indicates that it may indeed have been Aufbau Verlag rather than Kant who passed the manuscript to the Western publisher, this did not prevent Kant using knowledge of the text in the West in his negotiations towards the publication of his work in the East. Through the lack of discussion of these aspects of his involvement with representatives of the ruling elite, Kant creates the impression of a clear-cut opposition of “intellect” against “power,” whereas the pre-Wende archive material indicates a more ambiguous and complex relationship between the two, with the writer of international repute also holding a certain degree of power and political capital, which he was prepared to use in negotiations. Although Kant would be the last to deny a commitment to the Party and, therefore, an affiliation with the ruling elite, this presentation in Abspann suggests that he was powerless in the face of unnamed forces preventing the publication of the novel.

132 Gutschke, Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen, 82.

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Regarding the interview in Vorwärts, Kant emphasises the unorthodoxy of his even agreeing to the interview in the political climate of the time (Abspann, 300–01 and 308). In the post-Wende interviews with Gutschke, he adds that he knew even as he was authorising the publication that it would cause him problems.133 In this regard, Kant is again suggesting that he be viewed as an intellectual who behaved independently of the official Party line and was punished for this. Interestingly, however, in his discussion of the Cold War context of the interview in Abspann, Kant hints at attitudes that pre-Wende archive material suggests led to his readiness to inform for the Stasi. He states that it was as if the interview had been arranged by John le Carré, “and indeed with the purpose of sedating an undesirably alert Easterner” (Abspann, 306): this, albeit tongue-in-cheek, reference to the possible involvement of secret agents is surprisingly close to the suggestion of the Stasi in 1969, which Kant apparently agreed to, that the interview was the result of a collusion between Western agents and Luchterhand Verlag. Moreover, in Abspann, Kant mentions the behaviour of the former student of the ABF, and his placement at a table next to Vice Chancellor Scheel (Abspann, 306), events which he had found suspicious in 1969 and which he had reportedly felt compelled to relay to the MfS. However, in his autobiography, Kant makes no mention of his need to inform the Stasi of these events, but rather, through the reference to “John le Carré and his creations from the CIA and MI6” (Abspann, 306) trivialises this reaction as fantasy, similar to fictional treatments of Cold War espionage. In his discussion of the response to the interview, Kant notes the very critical reaction of Party functionaries and his publisher (Abspann, 308– 10). He discusses his own fear that the conflict could escalate into Party disciplinary procedures and an “intensification of a contradiction, with which for months I had believed myself to be reconciled,” that is, the contradiction between his public role as Vice-President of the Writers’ Union and the behind-the-scenes conflict surrounding Das Impressum (Abspann, 302). Kant thus points towards the lack of clarity in his position and, as indicated by pre-Wende archive material, suggests that he feared he was in very real danger of being pushed into the role of dissident. Similarly, of the article, “Auskunft an Bedürftige,” Kant states that the article, “cannot make pleasant reading for its author today – back then it helped him to remain an author” (Abspann, p. 314). This comment indicates that he feared that as a “dissident” he would no longer be in a position to negotiate the publication of Das Impressum and his future literary output would be

133 Ibid., 83.

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at risk. This demonstrates an awareness of the importance of reputation in the publication process in the GDR and of the cultivation of a position of ambiguity, in which one’s behind-the-scenes manoeuvring does not necessarily correspond to the clarity of one’s public face. Reinhard Andress states that Kant’s examples of his “contentious behaviour” may be accurate in a certain sense, but adds that, “it should also be noted that at the end of the day Kant always subordinated himself.” He gives the example of the publication of “Auskunft an Bedürftige” and notes that although Kant admits that this article gives him no pleasure now, he fails to address what Andress perceives as the real circumstances of its production: “no mention is made of opportunistic subordination.”134 Although pre-Wende archive material indicates that the article was indeed the result of inner-Party discussion with Kant and was approved by leading Party functionaries, suggesting a strong degree of submission to authority, Andress’s assessment that this was opportunistic seems too reductive. The combination of the problems with Das Impressum and the interview in Vorwärts had created a situation in which Kant was at risk of being celebrated as a dissident in the West. While this was something both Party functionaries and Kant wished to avoid, this is not necessarily opportunism on Kant’s part, but rather the result of a commitment to the Party and sense of Party discipline. As seen in the introductory chapter, Wolfgang Bialas argues that it is the belief in higher goals and values which leads to a symbiotic link between intellectuals and those in positions of power, “a bond whose tensions could certainly be borne out in one and the same individual.”135 The collision of the interests of Party functionaries and Kant in the production of “Auskunft an Bedürftige” demonstrates this symbiosis in Kant’s relationship with representatives of power. The tension between this and Kant’s view of himself as a critic of cultural policy, as noted by Andress, again points towards the complexity of Kant’s position as a writer committed to the state, but with international literary ambitions. However, in Abspann, Kant does not ascribe his rehabilitation in the early 1970s to his refusal to be classed as a dissident, but rather, “that, in the Politburo, without ever admitting it, they had had enough of the results of the 11th Plenary for the time being and did not want to lengthen the list of the missing producers of culture” (Abspann, 316). Kant also suggests that the final publication was the result of a change of attitude on the part of Ulbricht, no longer General Secretary [Generalsekretär], but still Chairman of the Council of State [Staatsratsvorsitzender], who had

134 Andress, “Hermann Kant’s Erinnerungsbuch,” 141–42. 135 Bialas, Vom unfreien Schweben zum freien Fall, 22.

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raised his profile by approaching him during a break at a meeting between writers and functionaries, at which Kant had spoken frankly about the censored manuscript (Abspann, 327–31). In this manner, Kant hints at the importance of reputation in the publication process, while, at the same time presenting himself as consistent in his stance, as he refuses to keep silent about the unpublished text. Kant notes the importance of Bentzien in the reworking of the manuscript and admits to making changes in this period, but indicates that these alterations were trivial; for example, the changing of individual names or song titles. Kant does make mention of a softening of his attack on Stalin at the advice of Hans Bentzien in 1972, but he sets this in the context of a changing political attitude and relative rehabilitation of Stalin in the period following the recognition of the GDR and reminds readers that he had been able to criticise Stalin in fiercer terms in Die Aula seven years earlier. Thus, in Kant’s version of events, it is a change in the approach of the Party, not of the author, that resulted in the lifting of the ban. In this manner, Kant also sets the publication of his text in the context of that of other, more contentious, works in the wake of the Honecker liberalisation.

Criticism from Within: Kant and the Writers’ Union In 1978 Kant succeeded Anna Seghers as President of the Writers’ Union of the GDR. Kant took over the presidency after the accession to power of Honecker and the ensuing liberalisation in cultural policy, but also only two years after the expulsion of Wolf Biermann from the GDR in 1976 and the resulting protest from prominent critical intellectuals. Kant had publicly supported the government’s actions, but was now President of a Union, of which several of those who had signed the Biermann protest were still members.136 How did the accession to the position of President impact on Kant’s relationship with leading Party functionaries? How did Kant negotiate the tensions between his role as functionary and his role as 136 Kant’s support for the expulsion of Biermann was, however, rather ambiguous. In his letter to Neues Deutschland he condemns the use of the Western media for the publication of the letter of protest; however, he also states that he did not need to be protected from Biermann and that, although the GDR does not necessarily need Biermann, it does need “a socialist and therefore and therefore and therefore [sic] critical art.” See “Wir sind es gewohnt mitzudenken: Stellungnahmen und Erklärungen von Künstlern und Kulturschaffenden unserer Republik zur Aberkennung der DDR-Staatsbürgerschaft Biermanns,” Neues Deutschland, 20/21 November 1976: 3. See Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 276–302 for discussion of the split within the Writers’ Union between those who signed the petition and those who did not in the period following the Biermann affair.

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an internationally known writer? Finally, how does Kant portray his role as President of the Writers’ Union after the Wende? I seek to answer these questions through analysis of archive material relating to Kant’s period as President of the Writers’ Union, particularly with respect to the expulsions of nine writers from the Writers’ Union in 1979 and the publication of the second edition of Erich Loest’s Es geht seinen Gang oder Mühen in unserer Ebene (It Takes its Course or Troubles in our Midst) in 1978. This material will be compared with Kant’s portrayal of these events in Abspann and in the collection of interviews with Gutschke. In this manner, I aim to demonstrate Kant’s negotiation of the multiple tensions in his role in the cultural apparatus as both writer and functionary and to consider the extent to which these tensions are reflected in his post-Wende portrayal of his function as President. The Public Face of the Writer-Functionary What then was Kant’s public face as President of the Union? What public role did he play in the cultural policy of the late 1970s and 1980s? One of the most controversial debates involving Kant after the Wende and in the context of his role as President of the Union was that surrounding the expulsion of nine members of the Berlin Writers’ Union in June 1979. In November 1989, a public statement by the District Union of Berlin Writers [Bezirksverband Berliner Schriftsteller], declared the expulsions to be “an irreparable act of injustice”137 and, as Walther notes, this dark episode in the history of the Union helped to force Kant’s resignation as President.138 The expulsions were one of the key episodes in GDR cultural history and followed the appearance of a letter of protest, signed by Kurt Bartsch, Jurek Becker, Adolf Endler, Erich Loest, Klaus Poche, Klaus Schlesinger, Dieter Schubert and Martin Stade, in the Western media. The letter was written in reaction to the “defamation” of critical writers in the GDR press and, in particular, to the prosecution of Stefan Heym following the publication of Collin in West Germany without the permission of the Office for Copyright Law [Büro für Urheberrechte].139

137 “Beschluß des Bezirkverbandes der Berliner Schriftsteller vom 23. November 1989,” in Walther et al., Protokoll eines Tribunals, 131. 138 See Joachim Walther, “Die Amputation: Zur Vor- und Nachgeschichte der Ausschlüsse,” in Walther et al., Protokoll eines Tribunals, 7–24 (22). 139 For a more detailed discussion of the build up to the expulsion of the nine writers, see Walther, “Die Amputation.”

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Protokoll eines Tribunals (Protocol of a Tribunal) includes the minutes of the meeting at which it was voted that the nine should be expelled, documents pertaining to the meeting of the Central Board [Zentralvorstand] of the Writers’ Union before the expulsions, Kant’s speech to the Central Board on 30 May 1979, subsequently published in Neues Deutschland on 31 May 1979, and several letters of protest following the expulsions. In reference to this documentation, Walther concludes that Kant played a key role in the removal of the nine writers from the Union: “he [Kant] gave the tactical orientation, namely to put an end to the ‘debate,’ and ‘to do it with vehemence’.”140 The importance of the speech on 30 May 1979 is clear from the repeated references to it in the contributions of others at the meeting on the 7 June 1979, at which the nine were expelled. Helmut Küchler (First Secretary of the Regional Writers’ Union) states: “the published speech to the meeting of our Central Board puts forward a fundamental and conclusive argumentation, on the basis of which we will carry out the general meeting of our District Union.”141 Küchler repeatedly refers to Kant in his plea for the expulsions, quotes directly from Kant’s speech and states that his arguments are those of the President of the Writers’ Union.142 Similarly, Helmut Baierl and Gisela Karau attribute their arguments to Kant’s published speech143 and, although other speakers may not refer directly to him, almost all of the pleas for the expulsions contain references to the statute of the Writers’ Union, to publications in the West and to the accusations of a lack of integrity in letters and questionnaires, all of which can be found in Kant’s publication in Neues Deutschland. Kant’s role in the expulsion of the nine writers would seem clear from this documentation. On the issue of these critical writers, Kant’s public face conformed to the official Party line. Analysis of Kant’s pre-Wende journalism from this period also reveals an emphasis on Party discipline and public expressions of commitment to the GDR and to socialism. In his speech of the 30 May 1979, he fiercely defends the SED’s cultural policy and describes the censorship of works as the “state direction and planning […] of the publishing industry.”144 In this published pre-Wende statement, Kant thereby defends the mechanisms of state control of literary production, to which a decade earlier his own work had fallen victim. Other articles in the collection, Zu den Unterlagen, demonstrate a similar public 140 Walther, “Die Amputation,” 13. 141 “Das Tribunal: Protokoll der Mitgliederversammlung des Berliner Schriftstellerverbandes im Roten Rathaus am 7.6.1979,” in Walther et al., Protokoll eines Tribunals, 25–95 (29). 142 Ibid., 29–38. 143 Ibid., 42, 69 and 72. 144 “Wir lassen uns von unserem Kurs nicht abbringen: Referat von Hermann Kant,” in Walther et al., Protokoll eines Tribunals, 101–10 (105–06).

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stance towards SED cultural policy. In his speech at the Eighth Writers’ Congress in 1978, at which Kant was elected President, Kant cites the lack of paper as the reason for the failure of many books to come into print; he thus echoes cultural functionaries who gave this as a reason for not publishing critical works. In addition, he states that conflict with cultural functionaries should be carried out in the GDR and that a writer must be armed with logic, sense and, notably, “partisanship.”145 The Second Face of the Writer-Functionary The commitment to the Party and SED cultural policy discussed above is, however, demonstrated only by published material. In his negotiations over the publication of Das Impressum Kant can be seen to use expressions of commitment and loyalty behind the scenes in order to put pressure on Party functionaries to permit the publication of a work viewed as critical. Are these public expressions of loyalty and conformity in the late 1970s matched by a similar use of language in his interaction with other Party functionaries as President of the Union? Can any changes be registered in Kant’s relationship with the ruling elite in this period? As a high-ranking cultural functionary, does Kant use the same tactics as those used in his negotiations as writer? In relation to the expulsions of 1979, a Stasi file note dated 11 June 1979 suggests that, in contrast to his firm public support for the expulsions, behind closed doors Kant expressed doubt. The file note is a record of information provided by Gerhard Henniger regarding a “confidential” conversation with Kant. In the course of the conversation, Kant apparently expressed uncertainty as to whether the expulsions had been the right course of action: “Comrade Kant intimated that he had doubts as to whether it had really been right to expel all of the writers at the meeting of the Berlin Writers’ Union.”146 The reasons Kant gave for his uncertainty were a lack of understanding for his actions by his girlfriend, who worked in the Academy of Arts [Akademie der Künste], and her assertion that other members of the Academy did not support his behaviour and his publications in Neues Deutschland.147 Similarly, in a letter to Hager also dated 145 “Rede auf dem VIII. Schriftstellerkongreß der DDR 1978: Referat und Diskussion,” in VIII. Schriftstellerkongreß der DDR. Berlin und Weimar 1979. Republished under the title “Die Verantwortung des Schriftstellers in den Kämpfen unserer Zeit,” in Zu den Unterlagen, 205–34 (216 and 225). 146 “Vermerk: Über Zweifel Hermann Kants an der Richtigkeit der Ausschlüsse (11.6.79),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 400–01 (400). 147 Ibid., 400–01.

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11 June 1979, Ragwitz states that Kant came to her on the 9 June seeking advice and support and that he had telephoned her the previous evening and given the impression, “that massive attempts were being made from many different sides to insult and isolate him,” and that his mother, living in Hamburg, had been threatened because of the behaviour of her son.148 According to these accounts, Kant was concerned, even before the Wende, that his public defence of SED cultural policy and commitment to the official Party line would damage his reputation among other, more openly critical, writers and in West Germany. However, both the author of the Stasi report and Ragwitz go on to note that when, in a conversation with Kant on 10 June 1979, Wolfgang Kohlhaase expressed criticism of the expulsions and demanded that Kant ensure that the decision not be ratified by the Presidium, Kant claims, to quote the Stasi report: “to have confronted Wolfgang Kohlhaase and to have explained to him the necessity of the expulsions.” Ragwitz adds that this was particularly difficult for Kant, because he considered Kohlhaase to be a close friend.149 Kant was apparently prepared to admit doubts about the official Party line to leading Party functionaries, such as Henniger, whose confidentiality (at least in respect of the media if not in respect of the Stasi) he felt he could rely on, but was not prepared to express these doubts publicly and, even in private conversations with other writers, continued to support the official line. A second example of Kant’s willingness to question the official Party line in inner-Party discussion and in his function as President of the Writers’ Union is in relation to the publication of the second edition of Erich Loest’s Es geht seinen Gang in 1978. A Stasi file note dated 2 November 1978 records information provided by Henniger regarding Kant’s intention to resign if the second edition of Loest’s book is not printed. Following a conversation with Kant on 1 November 1978, Henniger reports a description by Kant of a conversation that he had with Kurt Hager on the 31 October 1978: According to his [Kant’s] presentation of events, in a conversation with Comrade Hager, Comrade Kant offered his resignation as President of the Writers’ Union of the GDR, if Erich Loest’s book did not received a second edition in the GDR.150

148 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/9.06/63. 149 “Vermerk: Über Zweifel Hermann Kants,” 401 and SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/9.06/63. 150 “Information: Gerhard Henniger über Rücktrittsabsichten von Hermann Kant und die Reaktion von Erich Honecker (2.11.78),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 387–90 (388).

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Furthermore, in the document it is noted that, on 1 November 1978, Kant was called to a meeting with Honecker to discuss the author’s threats of resignation. According to Henniger, Kant claimed that, after a long conversation with Honecker, it was agreed that Es geht seinen Gang would be accorded a second edition of 10,000 copies and that Kant would withdraw his resignation. As will be seen, Kant largely corroborates this account of events after the Wende in his autobiography. Karl Corino argues that Kant’s efforts on Loest’s behalf did not spring from any sympathy with Loest nor desire to promote freedom of the press, but that they “stemmed rather from tactical considerations. It was important for Kant to build up collateral that he could then draw from in times of crisis.”151 The file note does, indeed, suggest that Kant’s reasons for demanding the publication of the novel did not spring entirely from a desire to promote good literature: He, Kant, had tried to explain to Comrade Hager that it was not about Loest’s book, but rather that he considered himself to be an instrument of the Party, and as such intended to implement the policies of the Party in the Writers’ Union. If Loest’s book were not granted a second edition, he would appear to be a toothless tiger. In future conflicts, which might centre on bigger problems than a book by Loest, nobody would listen to him.152

According to this account, Kant was not concerned with ensuring the publication of critical works, but with ensuring his reputation among critical writers in order to give him the credibility required to support the Party line in more important matters. However, Kant may have felt that this form of argumentation was more likely to produce the desired result than outright support for Loest’s work. Kant hints at this possibility in Abspann: “I aimed to get books into circulation, and that could not be done with a riot. It could only happen if you helped those in charge recognise the advantage to them, the advantage to their cause, the advantage to our cause” (Abspann, 428). The parallels between Kant’s use of the Party structures and dominant expressive style in his negotiations towards the publication of Loest’s book, his conversations with the Stasi and his discussions with Party functionaries regarding Das Impressum suggest that his framing of his support for Es geht seinen Gang in terms of a desire to be an effective “instrument of the Party” may indeed also have been a tactic to ensure the publication of this text and not simply a cynical ploy to give himself room for manoeuvre in times of crisis.

151 Corino, Die Akte Kant, 47. 152 “Information: Gerhard Henniger über Rücktrittsabsichten von Hermann Kant,” 389.

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Writing in 1984, Malcolm Humble argues that although Kant should not be placed “on an isolated height, it is probably only he who possesses both the ability and the prestige to bring about a degree of rapprochement between those responsible for the direction of cultural policy and those writers who wish to go their own way.”153 Kant’s position as President of the Writers’ Union allowed him the forum to exert a degree of pressure on other representatives of power and to criticise elements of cultural policy, without seeking to pervert or undermine official structures. Moreover, in comparison with his negotiations in 1969, Kant can be seen, in 1978, to be less willing to compromise and to be surer of his position. His threats to resign are more confrontational than the implied threat of damage to the image of the GDR in his comments on the possible reaction of the Western media to the ban on Das Impressum. This suggests that with his new position of authority and resulting increase in his profile, Kant gained leverage and power in his negotiations with the ruling elite. Werner Mittenzwei describes how, towards the end of the 1970s, the “Voltairian” type of intellectual who had access to and influence over those in power began to lose this influence and, particularly, its critical function: The Party brought the most important representatives of art and literature ever more into the boards of unions and institutions […]. These levels did indeed promise closeness and intimacy, but of a quite different kind [to that of the Voltarian intellectual]; here the influence [of the intellectuals] was aligned to the concerns of the organisation, the state.154

However, the example of Kant demonstrates that writers in prominent roles within the Party apparatus might, in fact, have increased power to negotiate and influence by virtue of their position, and that they could use this power to promote the publication of works viewed as being critical. Kant’s involvement in the publication of Es geht seinen Gang, his assertion of his right to contribute to the discussion of the novel, also reveal Kant to be part of the ruling elite, a member of the group of individuals with the power to influence cultural policy, and, with his desire to maintain his reputation among other intellectuals and his stated commitment to aid the production of good literature, he represented a different voice within these structures of power with a particular approach to critical writers.155 153 Humble, “Hermann Kant,” 32. 154 Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 300–01. 155 Other occasions when Kant can be seen to support a less dogmatic approach to critical writers are his apparent efforts to prevent the exclusion of Elke Erb from the Writers’ Union in 1985 (see Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 137) and his defence of the publication of works by Volker Braun, Günter Kunert and Christa Wolf in Sinn und Form in 1977 against the intervention of Otto Gotsche. See Stephen Parker, “Fortsetzung folgt:

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The analysis of the publication of Das Impressum has demonstrated that there was, also in the 1960s, a mosaic of opinions within the SED of the best way to deal with literature viewed as being critical and that there was no consensus on Kant’s novel; Kant’s involvement within the structures of power as President of the Writers’ Union indicates further the fragmented nature of the Party line. In an interview published in 1996, Kant describes the debates in the meetings of the Writers’ Union as a “constantly and inexorably rising curve of critical attitude.”156 This suggests that the boundaries of permissible debate were ever widening and an increasing variety of views could be found within the narrow parameters of discussion in the official institutions of the GDR. The concept of a fragmented and shifting Party line, with several different viewpoints within the boundaries of permissible debate, indicates that, at least in the cultural sphere, the positioning of individuals in relation to the Party line was more complex than simple conformity to or dissent from a fixed official policy. Although the Party presented a united front in the public sphere and Kant can be seen to adhere to this apparently rigid stance, behind the scenes he felt able to voice criticism of the policy he had seemed to support.157 Archive material also indicates that it is this public portrayal of a more harmonious relationship with members of the ruling elite which allowed Kant to maintain his position of influence and ability to criticise behind closed doors. An undated file note reports Henniger’s account of a meeting between himself, Holtz Baumert (a member of the Presidium of the Writers’ Union) and Honecker on the 26 March 1981. The purpose of the meeting was, according to Henniger, to discuss his concerns regarding Kant’s behaviour. Henniger states that he and Baumert described to Honecker how, “Kant had recently committed a series of errors, which were being debated with Kant, also in the Presidium of the Writers’ Union.”158 Henniger reports that he informed Honecker that Kant was prone to “spontaneous reactions” and that his actions were often politically immature. Honecker apparently agreed that, “with Kant there are things that are politically immature.”159 That this apparent lack of confidence in Kant’s

156 157 158 159

Sinn und Form unter Wilhelm Girnus (1963 bis 1981),” in Barck, Langermann and Lokatis, Zwischen “Mosaik” und “Einheit,” 346–59 (356). “Hermann Kant,” in Literary Intellectuals and the Dissolution of the State, ed. Robert von Hallberg, trans. Kenneth J. Northcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 145. Similarly, Jäger notes that, while Kant was prepared to push for the publication of works of many colleagues behind the scenes, publicly he remained “highly disciplined.” See “Wandlungen und Widersprüche,” 49. “Information: Gerhard Henniger/Erich Honecker zu Kants Rücktrittsabsichten (ohne Datum),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 436–38 (437). Ibid.

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ability as President was widespread among other members of the Presidium is demonstrated by a file note dated the 22 March 1982 and giving information about the situation in the Presidium of the Writers’ Union. The file note, for which no source is given, states that the members of the Presidium had high expectations at the beginning of Kant’s period of office that Kant would strive towards a constructive working relationship with the other members. However, these expectations had not been fulfilled and they are highly critical of, “the indecisive or unpartisan attitude of KANT in regard to decisions relating to the writer Erich Loest”160 which gave the members of the Presidium the impression, “that KANT approaches conflicts and problems with insufficient consistency and political clarity.”161 In such an atmosphere, it might be assumed that Henniger, Honecker and the other members of the Presidium would be looking for a way to get rid of Kant. However, both the file note recording the conversation between Henniger, Honecker and Baumert and that reporting the situation in the Presidium indicate that these functionaries did not consider this to be the best method to deal with Kant’s “indecisive” and “unpartisan” behaviour. In the conversation of the 26 March 1981, Henniger reports that he informed Honecker that Kant had prepared a letter of resignation, which he intended to send to Hager. Far from encouraging this, Henniger states that he and Baumert had thus far managed to prevent Kant from sending the letter. Honecker’s response was, according to Henniger, that he would make it clear to Kant that he must remain President, although he shares Henniger and Baumert’s opinion of Kant, he states, “despite all his weaknesses, Kant must remain President.”162 Behind closed doors, cultural functionaries and other Party-loyal writers were critical of Kant’s behaviour, including his efforts to force the publication of the second edition of Es geht seinen Gang and his tactic of using the threat of resignation. However, they did not want this discord to become public through Kant’s resignation and made every effort to encourage Kant to remain in office. In this manner, cultural functionaries also presented a more harmonious public image of the relationship between “intellect” and “power” than is indicated by material not intended for publication. Barck notes this incongruence between the public and internal workings of the SED, noting that the West German “friend-foe stereotypes” followed “both the logic 160 “Information: Zur Lage im Präsidium des Schriftstellerverbandes (22.3.82),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 460–65 (460). 161 “Information: Zur Lage im Präsidium des Schriftstellerverbandes (22.3.82),” in Corino, Die Akte Kant, 460–65 (460). For further documentation and examples of the dissatisfaction with Kant among members of the Presidium of the Writers’ Union and other Party-loyal writers see Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 461–63. 162 “Information: Gerhard Henniger/Erich Honecker zu Kants Rücktrittsabsichten,” 437.

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of the victim perspective of persecuted authors and the self-presentation of the SED, which smoothed over contradictions and […] demonstrated uniformity to the outside world.”163 Henniger presents a different version of Kant to Honecker than the version he portrays in the public sphere. Furthermore, in his description of his criticism of Kant to Honecker, Henniger uses a different set of references, that of “mistakes” and “political immaturity,” than his description of his criticism of the same actions in his conversation with Kant, in which he states he advised Kant not to allow himself to be used and manipulated by every writer,164 a suggestion that he is speaking in Kant’s best interests and an appeal to Kant’s independence. This indicates that even inner-Party communication took place between different people in different ways and that, as both Kant and representatives of the ruling elite presented different versions of events in public and behind closed doors to achieve different goals, an individual also used multiple versions of an event or person in internal discussions, each version being presented to appeal to the particular addressee. The multiple versions of events and people presented both by Kant and Henniger, in both public and inner-Party discourse, indicates that individuals changed their expressive style in different situations to increase the symbolic profit of their discourse. According to a Stasi report dated 23 March 1984, Kant himself points towards the importance of different linguistic markets. The report records the events of a meeting of the Presidium of the Union on the 20 March 1984. According to this source, at this meeting, Kant complained about the failure of the GDR media to publish a letter composed by himself and the West German writers Bernt Engelmann and Dieter Lottmann, regarding the need for peace in Europe. He states that he had written a personal letter to Hager in this matter, but had intentionally not used the official letterhead of the Union, “but rather written [the letter] as more of a text by ‘Hermann Kant’ […]. He had thereby had the opportunity to be a degree sharper.”165 Kant thus reportedly indicates the division between Kant the writer and Kant the functionary and his need occasionally to shed the

163 Barck, “Nachbemerkung,” 433. Similarly, Fulbrook notes that “the public image of the GDR had to remain without any vestiges of dissent and uncontrolled debate, despite Honecker’s desire to present himself as a reformer, encouraging ‘dialogue’,” but that “debates among East German intellectuals in the Kulturbund and in unofficial discussion circles were far more lively than anything that was able to appear in print.” The People’s State, 256. 164 “Information: Gerhard Henniger über Rücktrittsabsichten von Hermann Kant,” 390. 165 BStU MfS AIM 2173/70 6, Bl. 391–94 (Bl. 392).

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mask of the functionary and be more critical of GDR cultural policy.166 Viewed in this light, Kant’s repeated threats to resign from his position as President of the Writers’ Union167 might also indicate a tension between a desire for clarity in his position, a wish to play only one role in the cultural apparatus, and a desire to retain his position of influence within these structures of power. After the Wende: The Third Face of the Writer-Functionary How does Kant present his role as President of the Union and the ambiguity in his position after the Wende? Regarding the 1979 expulsions, in Abspann Kant refers directly to the documentation in Protokoll, indicating that he wrote this section of his autobiography after the publication of this material and evidently felt that there was a case to answer and a need to discredit the documentation. He suggests that it was the intention of the editors of Protokoll to damage his reputation (Abspann, 478). He questions this version of events and argues that it does not and makes no attempt to tell the whole of the story: “the editors attempt simply to display their disgust at the actual substance of our position, above all mine” (Abspann, 479). In his version of events in his autobiography, Kant gives vague indications of a power struggle at the top and blames an unnamed leading functionary in the Berlin District Authority [Berzirksleitung], whom he describes as the only individual who was interested in “spectacular expulsions” (Abspann, 475). However, he insists that he personally was not working under the orders of anyone else and that his speech of 30 May 1979 was a result of his own personal rage relating to the manipulation of the East-West conflict by certain critical intellectuals and SED policy regarding discussion of the pronouncements of these intellectuals in the GDR media (Abspann, 472–74), rather than the result of orders from above. He explains the repeated references to his speech of 30 May in the contributions of other members at the meeting of 7 June as the result of an order by the District Authority, which the members of the Writers’ Union were following rigidly, in an effort to be independent from the Presidium of the Union (Abspann, 473). This, however, is the same District Authority whose 166 Similarly, Jäger notes that Kant’s role as both cultural functionary and writer has led to “many shifts and contradictions in his person and in his statements” and goes on to discuss the ambivalence of Kant’s position as both loyal Party functionary and a “moderniser” within the Party system, who knows how to tackle sensitive issues without getting his fingers burnt. “Wandlungen und Widersprüche,” 41 and 44. 167 Kant reportedly threatens to resign again in December 1984 (see BStU MfS HA XX/9 2080, Bl. 1–5) and in September 1989 (BStU MfS HA XX 11157, Bl. 33).

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leader he, as President of the same Presidium, viewed as a personal enemy, but as someone with whom it was necessary for him to behave as “politically of the same mind” [politisch Gleichhandelnder] at the meeting in the Rotes Rathaus (Abspann, 467). Kant is effectively stating that the speech to the Central Board was entirely of his own doing and grew out of his own discontent with cultural policy and the behaviour of certain colleagues; however, he claims that the decision to expel the nine came from above and was unconnected to the speech. This may, of course, be Kant’s sincere view of events; however, the statement published alongside Kant’s speech in Neues Deutschland on 31 May 1979 suggests that there was a link between meeting of the board and the meeting at which the expulsions took place; at the first, the District Boards were apparently given the task of, “engaging in a principled confrontation with the Union members named in the speech and with their positions on the basis of the statute of the Union,”168 and it would seem that this “confrontation” took place at the second. Furthermore, in Abspann, Kant does not address fully the issue of his involvement in the later meeting, at which he pleaded for the expulsions, stating simply that, although it was “something unpleasant,” the Union had no choice but to react in this way against members who acted against the statute.169 He comments that, as stated above, he felt compelled to show political solidarity with the District Authority and he does not deny his support for the expulsions. However, there is a gap between the publication of the speech of 30 May, which he claims bore no relation to the expulsions, and the meeting at the Rotes Rathaus. The reader is left with no information as to who made the decision to expel the nine, when Kant was informed or his reaction at the time to this “brutal solution” (Abspann, 475). What then might be the reasons behind this gap in Kant’s explanation of these events in 1991? Kant sets his autobiography in the context of the controversy in the early 1990s surrounding his role in the GDR. In an interview with Heinrich Fink in 1990, he indicates that he is writing an autobiographical text;170 his comment that this includes the story of a pastor from Züsow who saved the manuscript of Die Aula after a car accident indicates that this refers to Abspann.171 Kant goes on to describe his reluctance to speak of his “guilt” and “failure” as “an objective discussion is completely impossible at the moment. As soon as I concede anything, the

168 “Tagung des Vorstandes des Schriftstellerverbandes der DDR” (Neues Deutschland, 31 May 1979), in Walther et al., Protokoll eines Tribunals, 100–01 (101). 169 “Das Tribunal,” 89. 170 Ibid., 66. 171 Ibid., 59. Cf. Abspann, 213–14.

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response is simply: see, he even says himself what a scoundrel he was.”172 He comments that his role in the Writers’ Union and the role of the Union itself is being “completely distorted” and that a “legend” is being created that he is “in some way an originator of Honecker and actually even of Ulbricht,”173 that is, that his influence on and complicity with members of the ruling elite is being vastly overstated. Kant, therefore, wrote his autobiography in a climate where he felt pressure to justify his behaviour, to demonstrate that he was not a “scoundrel” and that he was able to act independently of the ruling elite.174 Similarly, in the first few pages of Abspann, Kant states that it was his mother’s comment on a television documentary that he had been her “most governable child” (Abspann, 5) which set the writing of his autobiography in motion and that his intention is to decide if he also sees himself in this way (Abspann, 6). The gap in his version of the expulsions can thus be viewed as the result of this desire to emphasise his independence from the Party, to prove that he was not “governable.” The lack of clarity in Kant’s version of events might also again reflect the lack of clarity in his own position in the GDR and the tension between his view of himself as a champion of good works of literature and his role as SED functionary bound by Party discipline. His explanation of events can be considered an example of what Roger Woods terms the “mental gymnastics that accompany every consideration of whether to take a moral stand on a particular issue” and the “private turmoil that accompanied public roles.”175 The influence of Party loyalty on Kant’s behaviour is suggested at several points in Abspann, particularly with reference to his public pronouncements. Kant notes that he mentally passed every word he spoke to Western journalists by several different authorities (Abspann, 184–85); he states that he did not take legal action against Alfred Kantorowicz for his false accusations because of his belief in Party discipline and Hager’s comment “You don’t sue the class enemy!” (Abspann, 253); after the ban on the publication of Das Impressum he states that he did not want to air this dispute in public because of his desire to appear as an impeccable comrade (Abspann, 304). This suggestion that Party loyalty and discipline influenced his public behaviour, in conjunction with Kant’s efforts at other points in the text to demonstrate that he was not “governable,” indicates a 172 Fink, “Gespräch mit Hermann Kant,” 66. 173 Ibid., 63. 174 Cf. Roger Woods, “Autobiography, Politics and Truth: East German Autobiography and the Process of German Unification,” (Paper for the the Central New York Conference on Language and Literature 28–30 October 2001), http://www.nottingham.ac.uk/german/ autobiog/Autobiography.%20Poltics%20and%20Truth.pdf (accessed 10 October 2004): 9. 175 Ibid., 12.

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tension in Kant’s mind between a desire to remove himself from the crude classifications of victim and perpetrator after the Wende and demonstrate distance and independence from the ruling elite in the GDR and the complexity of his position before the Wende. In this respect, the ambivalence in his position in the GDR, the incongruence between his behind-the-scenes conflicts and his upholding of Party discipline in public, results in a tension in his autobiography between a desire to both present this position of ambiguity and yet to evade discussion of his closeness to representatives of the ruling elite.176 In the interviews with Gutschke, Kant also states that his speech to the Vorstand was written independently and was a direct reaction to an article by Fritz J. Raddatz, in which Raddatz apparently claimed that authors who did not suffer repressive measures in the GDR were without talent.177 According to Kant, the speech so appealed to Honecker and Joachim Herrmann that they decided to publish it the next day in Neues Deutschland: In this manner, the die was cast and it was resolved to carry out these expulsions in Kant’s wake. The gathering in the Rotes Rathaus was one at which my speech was used to push through something that I had really not intended. (126) [Damit waren eigentlich die Weichen gestellt und der Vorsatz gefaßt, im Windschatten von Kant dieses Ausschlußverfahren zu betreiben. Die Versammlung im Roten Rathaus war eine, bei der man meine Rede benutzte, um etwas durchzusetzen, was mir so nicht vorgeschwebt hatte.]

The use of passive vocabulary, the lack of an active subject in the above sentences, places Kant in a position of helplessness and removes him from any responsibility for the expulsions. Moreover, in this version of events, Kant states explicitly, “I did not want any expulsions […]. I allowed myself to be bulldozed, you can see that from reading the minutes,” (126) echoing the doubts he is reported to have expressed to Henniger. He states that his doubts were political, rather than moral ones, “I knew exactly what would come of it, we would just have a couple more martyrs,” but at the same time, that he could not publicly oppose the expulsions for fear of the consequences for the Writers’ Union, that is, that the ruling elite would have restructured the Union to make it as harmless and powerless as those

176 Rachel Halverson also notes that “Abspann delivered neither the longed for admissions of guilt nor confessions of complicity with a corrupt regime” and, with reference to the frequent parenthetical asides in the text, that Kant himself “is clearly cognisant of the fact that his life story, particularly his version of it, will be highly contested.” Rachel Halverson, “Hermann Kant’s Abspann: Shifting Paradigms and the Fiction of Facts,” Colloquia Germanica, 41.3 (2008): 211 and 215. 177 Gutschke, Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen, 125.

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in other socialist countries (126–128). He gives a clearer explanation of the power struggle in the upper echelons of the Party, stating that this was between Naumann and Honecker (126). Furthermore, he states explicitly that the decision to expel the writers was made by the SED District Authority Berlin and the board of the Berlin District Organisation of the Writers’ Union [Bezirksorganisation Berlin des Schriftstellerverbandes], but claims that this was without his knowledge and that he was possibly tricked into believing that the writers in question had sent their protest to the West before offering it for publication in the East (134–135). Thus, in 2007 Kant’s recollection of these events has shifted: he now readily admits his doubts regarding this repressive measure. However, his explanation still suggests not a need to conform to the Party line and a sense of Party discipline, but a feeling of helplessness in the face of the Party leadership and a desire to maintain what he perceived as the critical potential of the Writers’ Union (126). Kant’s portrayal in Abspann of his support for the publication of Erich Loest’s Es geht seinen Gang can also be seen as part of his attempt to demonstrate that he acted independently of the Party. Here, however, Kant’s version of events is largely supported by the archive material: although he does not mention his argument that he needed to be able to assert his authority as an “instrument of the Party,” his claim that he threatened Honecker with his resignation if the work was not approved (Abspann, 118) is corroborated by the material in his Stasi file. As discussed above, Kant’s efforts to secure the publication of Loest’s work demonstrates that it was possible for an intellectual to criticise within the framework of the Party and that this criticism would be tolerated as long as it remained within this framework. However, the complex, symbiotic relationship and multilayered system of communication described above, had consequences for Kant’s image in the Western media before the Wende, in which there was a tendency to use crude classifications of dissident or conformist in respect of GDR intellectuals. Kant notes in an interview with Artur Arndt that, towards the end of the GDR, when he was President of the Writers’ Union, he had advanced, “to a sort of enemy number one in parts of the West German press.”178 This, in turn, impacts on the reception of his work in the early 1990s, in which the crude classification of dissidents and state scribes were still in force. Kant’s focus on his support for critical writers without full exploration of his position of ambiguity in the GDR cultural apparatus does not sit easily with his previous public image as a committed supporter of the SED and his defence of measures of censorship in the late 1970s. His

178 Arndt, “Gespräch mit Hermann Kant,” 855.

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self-presentation after the Wende does not gel with his public face before the Wende and this is reflected in the reception of his text. Again, Kant himself points towards this issue in an interview published in 1996. In reference to his negotiations with representatives of power as President of the Union he states, “I tried to make it possible for the people from whom I wanted something for the Union to see me as someone who would not upset them,” but that, “as soon as it’s no longer necessary,” this tactic becomes “the subject of general opprobrium,” as the motives for his willingness to negotiate are forgotten.179

Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Das Impressum Kant’s portrayal of the interaction between “intellect” and “power” in the GDR is not only complicated by the post-Wende political context. In identifying the work as autobiography, Kant explicitly links the behaviour of the protagonist of Abspann with his own real-life interaction with representatives of power: as discussed in the introductory chapter, this work claims referentiality. In this section, I will compare this post-Wende autobiographical presentation with Kant’s pre-Wende portrayal of “intellect” and “power” in the GDR in a work in which he does not explicitly identify with the protagonist, his novel Das Impressum. However, as outlined in the introductory chapter, the work selected does have a strong autobiographical strand. The main protagonist, David Groth, shares many features with the author: Groth is from a working class background, converted to socialism after the war and, as editor of a newspaper (a role Kant also filled in the 1950s) and potential minister, is both intellectual and functionary. In the novel, the reader is presented with a variety of images of both “intellect” and “power” and the interaction between the two in the GDR. The novel thus represents a further perspective on the relationship between intellectuals and representatives of the ruling elite and analysis of this perspective in comparison with that presented in Abspann and in pre-Wende archive material can reveal parallels and differences in this fictional representation and Kant’s real-life involvement as writer and functionary in the East German state. This, in turn, can add to our understanding of Kant’s changing perspectives on the role of the intellectual and the interaction of writers with representatives of power. In Das Impressum, Kant presents the reader with two contrasting images of representatives of power. These contrasting images are most 179 “Hermann Kant” in von Hallberg, Literary Intellectuals, 149.

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clearly demonstrated in the opposition of Johanna Müntzer (an editor at the “Neue Berliner Rundschau”) and Herbert Bleck (editor in chief of the “Neue Berliner Rundschau”). Johanna Müntzer is portrayed as an intelligent and committed communist, whose mission is to re-educate the population of the GDR after the war and involve them in the building of the socialist state. At their first meeting, she interrogates David about his trade, his parents, his role in the war and his political outlook and finishes by recruiting him as her assistant.180 Her role in David’s life is, from that point on, one of mentor, pushing him to become the ideal socialist: “the scepticism towards her fellow citizens was always balanced with the resolution to form a new idea of man. […] However, for David, she remained an example that he always looked to” (Impressum, 238–39). Although she is not editor in chief of the newspaper, she is the unofficial head of the “Neue Berliner Rundschau” and is referred to as Penthesilea, conjuring up the image of a severe and fierce Amazon queen, who is both feared and respected. She is a functionary who always works with her common sense and, when it comes to David’s work as journalist, she promotes him and his interests, as she considers them to coincide with the interests of the socialist state. Believing that David’s attendance at a show of the British Gunsmith Association is necessary for the image of the GDR, they collude to manipulate the bureaucratic editor in chief, Herbert Bleck, to agree to the venture (Impressum, 240–47). Herbert Bleck is employed as editor in chief of the newspaper when those in power notice the lack of clear contours in the hierarchy. Although, for years the newspaper had functioned adequately with Johanna in charge and with the elderly Kutschen-Meyer as “straw editor of the paper” (Impressum, 208), that is, as the name given in the imprint, the reader is informed that the commission of the “highest department” now demand, “clearer contours at the management level.” None of the current employees is suitable because they are all too old or too young and, above all, too practical: “a theoretical head was needed, a person with consciousness plus historical consciousness, not only an educated man, but also an academic one” (Impressum, 222). Herbert Bleck is presented as this “theoretical head” in opposition to Johanna’s practical common sense and experience. This is demonstrated most clearly in his reaction to the photographer’s, Fedor Gabelbach’s, collection of photos, which could not be published because they offered “disconcerting secondary images” [irritierende Nebenansichten] and did not serve the socialist cause. One such photograph is a shot 180 Hermann Kant, Das Impressum (Berlin: Aufbau Taschenbuch Verlag, 2005), 7. (First published by Rütten & Loening, Berlin 1972). Subsequent references cite this edition and will be given in parenthesis in the text.

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of David at a Christian festival in West Germany, struggling under the weight of a cross, a position he unwittingly found himself in when attending the festival in his role as journalist. Under the practical leadership of Johanna, the photo was discussed and decided unfit for publication: “that was talked out, out of the newspaper and onto the wall” (Impressum, 225– 27 quotation on 227). Herbert Bleck maintains, however, that Gabelbach should never even have taken the photos and that his collection is the result of a cynical idea designed to highlight the “dog tail of our development” (Impressum, 229). Gabelbach’s responds that, as a reporter, in contrast to a propagandist, it is his role to gather information and seek out the truth, not to intervene. This points towards Bleck’s attitude as demonstrating a lack of understanding of the function of the journalist, who can be seen as a representative of “intellect” in opposition to Bleck’s “power” (Impressum, 233–35). The reader learns that Bleck’s theoretical and dogmatic approach to the newspaper does not result in a productive environment: “Bleck was always getting caught up in a jumble of strident ideas and suspicious phenomena […], he went on about development for so long that nobody wanted to move anywhere anymore” (Impressum, 236). In his analysis of types in GDR literature, primarily with reference to Heiner Müller’s Der Bau (The Construction Site) and Erik Neutsch’s Spur der Steine (The Trace of Stones), Wolfgang Engler identifies the type of the “partisan” in opposition to that of the “functionary.” The partisan, an older Party member, who has experienced concentration camps, prison, exile or underground resistance and who uses these experiences to make decisions in the present, placing independent thought above emotiveness and ritual, becomes the “embodied bad conscience of his compliant, disciplined peer, the functionary.”181 Engler argues that such figures were drawn from real life, citing Walter Janka and Walter Markov as typical examples of the partisan.182 This typology would seem to be appropriate in the analysis of representatives of power in Das Impressum: the character of Johanna fits neatly to Engler’s description of the type of the partisan and the character of Herbert Bleck to the type of the functionary. However, the protagonist, David, can be seen to represent a position between the two types. As a younger Party member, he does not have the antifascist background or experience of the partisan (Impressum, 17). He makes political mistakes because of his lack of experience and is reproved for this by the more experienced partisans in the Party leadership of the newspaper (Impressum, 308–28). However, his reaction to Bleck indicates that he does not represent the 181 Wolfgang Engler, Die Ostdeutschen: Kunde von einem verlorenen Land (Berlin: AufbauVerlag, 1999), 118. 182 Ibid., 118–19.

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image of the dogmatic functionary either. In the confrontation between Bleck and Gabelbach, David acts as mediator, demonstrating his leadership through common sense. He reminds Bleck that they have a common duty to fulfil, the production of the newspaper, and that this common duty is not fulfilled through discussion of the “almost private by-products of the Neue Berliner Rundschau,” that is, Gabelbach’s pictures (Impressum, 230). In this pre-Wende literary depiction, Kant thereby presents the image of a third type of representative of power: a younger individual, without an antifascist biography, but who has learnt from the past, models him or herself in the image of the partisan and, through their help and guidance, develops the qualities of intelligent independent thought combined with Party discipline and commitment to the socialist cause. Indeed, these are the qualities that have led him to be nominated for the position of minister (Impressum, 8–9). As seen in the introductory chapter, antifascism has been described not only as the founding legend of the state, but also as a type of meta-ideology, which ensured loyalty to the antifascists returning to rule the GDR after World War II. Annette Simon, daughter of Christa and Gerhard Wolf, considers that these antifascists, with their images of persecution, torture and death, created an “Über-Ich” which demanded recompense and loyalty for their sacrifice.183 However, since this loyalty trap only applies to those who were in concentration camps, exile or involved in underground resistance to the Nazi regime, this feeling of loyalty would not necessarily be transferred to the new generation of ruling elite. In Das Impressum, Kant acknowledges the distinction between the two generations, but suggests that through modelling themselves on the older generation and gaining experience of class warfare in the conflict of the Cold War, the gap between the older partisan and his younger counterpart need not be so great. In Abspann, however, Kant presents a different view of those antifascists who returned to become leading Party functionaries in the GDR. He describes the “prison-bonus […] that for a long time I always took into account when dealing with Honecker” (Abspann, 282), suggesting not that Honecker’s experiences in the Nazi era have made him a more practical and less dogmatic representative of the ruling elite, but that his past was weighed against mistakes he made in the present, that it inspired loyalty among Kant’s generation despite his faults as a leading Party member. Similarly, he describes his reaction to Hager: “a fighter in the Spanish Civil War, who could be witty with words – someone like that impresses

183 Annette Simon, “Antifaschismus als Loyalitätsfalle,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 1 February 1993.

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me. I know that is a weakness that has cost me a great deal” (Abspann, 303): in this case, his reaction to Hager led him to agree to accept the Vice-Presidency of the Writers’ Union despite the stop on Das Impressum. Again, although Hager impresses Kant, it is not because of his ability for practical, independent and undogmatic thought, but rather because of his past and this past leads him to accept behaviour that he would otherwise question. Thus in Abspann, Kant’s portrayal of the older generation of antifascists and his reaction to them is far closer to Simon’s reaction as she describes it after the Wende. Kant has thereby shifted his portrayal of the interaction between intellectuals and these representatives of power and his post-Wende presentation suggests a more uniform (and more dogmatic) response of the ruling elite. Parallels can also be drawn between Kant’s presentation of the theoretical, dogmatic representative of power in Das Impressum and his criticism of this reaction to “intellect” in his meetings with Stasi officers, particularly following the Eleventh Plenary. It is also interesting to note that in his negotiations with the dogmatic Herbert Bleck, the more practical David uses his ability to manipulate language, working within Bleck’s expectations and using the terminology of the Party. In his mediation between Bleck and Gabelbach he speaks of “our common mission” (Impressum, 230); in his negotiations regarding the visit to the gun show, he and Johanna manipulate the conversation to speak of exactly those things that would lead Bleck to recommend the visit and David as the appropriate journalist, that is, the image of the GDR and the importance of sending a specialist (Impressum, 244–45). This use of language shows parallels with Kant’s own use of linguistic markets in his meetings with the Stasi and his negotiations with representatives of power regarding the publication of Das Impressum and Es geht seinen Gang. That Kant replicates the use of the dominant expressive style in his literary portrayal indicates awareness of the function of this use of language in the public and semi-public spheres in the GDR.184 Moreover, the narrator describes David’s various roles as “character masks: boss, co-worker, member, manager, speaker, discussant, organiser […] reporter, critic and evaluator, man of the times, man of the movement, man of society, but in all that, despite all that, above all that, always the man of Fran” (Impressum, 127). This idea of masks points towards a view of involvement in the state apparatus that involves playing roles and speaking lines, and interestingly, it is in his private role as husband that David feels he is most himself. 184 Corino also notes the parallel between Kant’s own use of euphemisms to discuss difficult issues (e.g., the Berlin Wall) and the language of Das Impressum’s David Groth. See Die Akte Kant, 52.

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Conclusion The analysis of Kant’s Stasi file not only reveals the ambivalence in his role as Inoffizieller Mitarbeiter and of his motivations for informing on his colleagues; comparison of the accounts in the files with Kant’s statements about his contact with the Stasi in his post-Wende autobiography and journalism also indicates the difficulty of discussing these issues after the opening of the files. This difficulty lies not only in the charged political climate of the early 1990s, but also in the appropriation of the terminology of the Stasi, unfamiliar even to those who worked as IM. Those affected could not discuss their experiences as they had lived them, but were forced to refer to these second, “hostile” biographies and many demonstrate a need to reject this material as irrelevant to their understanding of their past behaviour. It is also important to consider the implications of the Stasi terminology being used to classify individual behaviour. As Walther argues, although the state and the MfS fixed the framework in which individuals informed, the individual portraits of the IM reveal multiple variations.185 The boundaries between complicity and criticism were fluid and the Stasi files might simultaneously reveal that an individual was considered loyal to the state and a dangerous critic of it, that they were willing to inform, but not on close friends, that they were happy to converse with the Stasi, but would not give any personalised information. This demonstrates the complexity of intellectual involvement with the Stasi and, as Frank Hörnigk notes, indicates that the categories of “in the service of the state” and “in fundamental opposition”186 are inappropriate when discussing writers in the GDR. This complexity is further highlighted by Kant’s interaction with representatives of power regarding the publication process of Das Impressum. Kant’s manuscript was received critically and Kant was considered to be using his reputation at home and abroad to force a publication of the text. 185 Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 467. One particular issue that merits further discussion is the use of the terms “victim file” and “perpetrator file” with reference to OV/ OPK files and IM files respectively. As Hermann Vinke notes, these terms are ill-defined (Vinke, “Vorwort,” 10), contain inherent moral implications and use the terminology of the Stasi to make judgements on the behaviour of the individual, which, as has been seen, is particularly problematic in the case of IM. Beate Müller notes that the Stasi files themselves point towards this ambivalence, as victims of an OPK/OV were often later reregistered as IM, calling into question the clear friend/foe division of the files. See Beate Müller, “Jurek Becker im Visier des MfS: Textsorten und Textwelten im OV ‘Lügner’,” in Barker, Ohse and Tate, Views from Abroad, 199–210 (202). 186 Frank Hörnigk, “Die Literatur ist zuständig: Über das Verhältnis von Literatur und Politik in der DDR,” in Geist und Macht: Writers and the State in the GDR, ed. Axel Goodbody and Dennis Tate (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992), 23–34 (30).

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However, Kant was prepared to make substantial changes to the manuscript and to toe the Party line and even work with the Stasi in order to avoid being classed a dissident. As Mike Dennis argues, “the lines of conformity and nonconformity stamped a crisscross pattern on most individuals.”187 After the Wende, Kant himself reinterprets this part of his biography in order to highlight the critical elements of his behaviour in the GDR and, in doing so, reaffirms the clear-cut divisions between conformity and dissent emphasised in post-Wende debates on the involvement of writers in the state apparatus of the GDR. The publication process of Das Impressum also brings to light the multiple strategies of communication used by Kant in his negotiations towards the publication of his manuscript and his manipulation of the public and semi-public spheres. The distinction between public and inner-Party communication is further highlighted by Kant’s role in the 1979 expulsions and his efforts towards the publication of the second edition of Es geht seinen Gang. The archive material points towards the importance of a particular expressive style and linguistic market in inner-Party communication: Kant uses this expressive style in his meetings with Stasi officers, his negotiation towards the publication of his own work and his efforts for the publication of the works of others. Kant’s presentation of the manipulation of language by David Groth in Das Impressum and his reflections after the Wende on the importance of language in persuading Party functionaries of the value of publishing a particular work point towards Kant’s awareness of this aspect of his interaction with Party functionaries. The complexity of the publication process of Das Impressum and Kant’s influence on certain aspects of cultural policy also points towards a fragmentation of the Party line behind the scenes, which does not correspond to the united front portrayed by the SED in the public sphere or the monolithic images of the Party in totalitarian models of the GDR. The publication of Das Impressum and the second edition of Es geht seinen Gang were the result of a process of discussion and debate, which nonetheless remained within the Party framework and did not seek to undermine these structures. Particularly in his role as President of the Union, this fragmentation, combined with Kant’s public support for the Party and his position of authority, allowed Kant to negotiate a degree of space and to cultivate 187 Mike Dennis, The Rise and Fall of the German Democratic Republic 1945–1990 (Edinburgh: Pearson Education Limited, 2000), 234–35. Stuart Parkes notes a fluidity of the boundaries between intellectuals who completely rejected the socialist system and those who criticised aspects of socialist reality, but supported the socialist project as an ideal, but does not consider such fluidity between the third group of writers he identifies – those who, publicly, showed unstinting support for the regime, such as Kant. See “Intellectuals and the Transformation of East Germany,” 35.

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a position of ambiguity, which allowed this Party-loyal writer to promote the publication of works, which other Party functionaries viewed as being harmful, and to support and protect the interests of other, more openly critical, writers. This Party-loyal writer thus inhabited a complex moral universe, in which the decision to conform or criticise the policies of the Party leadership depended on a variety of factors. The question remains to what extent this “playing the game” represented a moral subjugation to the repressive framework of the Party, lending a degree of legitimacy to authoritarian rule. Indeed, Kant did not aim to overturn the socialist system and was a firm believer of the possibility of a socialist state on German soil. His actions demonstrate rather a desire to create increased room for dialogue within these structures and his tactics were those of persuasion and negotiation, a gradual widening of the boundaries of the possible, rather than calls for radical change. In this respect, Stuart Parkes’s comment that writers such as Kant, “who gave more or less unstinting support to the state both in their literary work and their public statements […] played no conscious part in the transformation of the GDR” seems too reductive.188 Although Kant did not seek a radical transformation, and toed the official Party line in public, behind the scenes he can be seen to bring about change to some of these rigid structures, albeit in a small way and on an individual level. This in turn leads to the question of the possibility of seeking system-immanent reform without the cultivation of such an ambiguous position and in the next chapter I explore this problem further through examination of the position in the cultural apparatus of a writer who also supported the ideal of socialism, but whose demands for change were more public and far-reaching.

188 Parkes, “Intellectuals and the Transformation of East Germany,” 32.

Hostile Partisan: Stefan Heym and the Search for Clarity Stefan Heym was one of the most vocal and well-known critics of the GDR, who nonetheless remained in the state to the end. Publicly his relationship with the Party was antagonistic and conflict-ridden. Many of his works were banned in the GDR in the first instance and several were not published until late in 1989. What does the relationship between this out-spoken critic and representatives of power look like when viewed from behind the scenes? Is the complexity and ambiguity in Hermann Kant’s position as writer and functionary reflected in the behaviour of this writer whose calls for change were more public and far-reaching? Can this writer, who was both critical of the Party and yet identified with the goals of socialism, achieve a postion of clarity vis-à-vis the ruling elite? How does Heym negotiate the publications of his works in the GDR and the right to travel to the West? How do Party functionaries respond to the demands of this critical writer? What changes can be registered over the life of the GDR and, particularly, around those events that have traditionally been considered caesurae or turning points in GDR cultural history? How does Heym reflect on and present his relationship with the Party and individual functionaries? In this chapter, I seek to answer these questions through an analysis of Heym’s interaction with Party functionaries in the GDR. Following the methodology outlined in the introductory chapter and developed in chapter one, I compare pre-Wende unpublished archive material with Heym’s 1988 autobiography, Nachruf (Obituary). What can a comparison of these sources demonstrate about Heym’s presentation of his relationship with leading Party members in a state, of which he supported the ideological basis, but which he came to view increasingly critically? What does analysis of archive material from the 1970s and 1980s reveal about the changes in Heym’s relationship with representatives of power in the GDR? What new dimensions can this add to our understanding of Heym’s behaviour as an individual and of the role of critical GDR writers in general? Stefan Heym was born to a Jewish family in Chemnitz in 1913. Expelled from his grammar school after publishing an antimilitary poem in 1932, he moved to Berlin to finish school and begin his studies and, after

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the accession to power of the NSDAP in 1933, fled to Prague. In 1935, he received a scholarship from the Jewish-American fraternity Phi Sigma Delta to continue his studies at the University of Chicago. In 1942, in American exile, he wrote his first novel, Hostages, which was an instant bestseller.1 In 1943, he was drafted into the US army as a psychological warfare officer. His 1948 novel, The Crusaders, was critical of American motives for involvement in the war and of what he viewed as the fascist potential in the American population.2 In the same year, fearing persecution under Senator McCarthy, Heym left the USA, first for Czechoslovakia and then, in 1952, for the GDR. Initially seeing the Party as building a better, socialist, Germany, Heym grew increasingly critical of what he viewed as the perversion of his socialist ideals in the East German state.3 Heym’s position in the post-Wende discourse surrounding GDR intellectuals was, as a wellknown critic of the regime and victim of the Stasi, different from that of Hermann Kant. However, his criticism of the process of unification, calls for a democratic socialism, support for the declaration “Für unser Land” (For our Country) in 1989 and his connection to the PDS in his election to the Bundestag in 1994, led several commentators to revise their view of his status as an opponent of the ruling elite.4

Working with the Party: Liberalisation through Negotiation From the start, Heym’s relationship with representatives of power in the GDR was ambivalent. Although he was not blind to the problems facing the fledgling state, in the 1950s and early 1960s, he, at least on the surface, openly supported the Party, particularly in their efforts to re-educate the German population after the war. Reinhard Zachau notes that in the 1950s, Heym even defended hard-line Stalinism and labour camps5 and, 1 2 3 4

5

Stefan Heym, Hostages (New York: The Sun Dial Press, 1942). Stefan Heym, The Crusaders: A Novel of Only Yesterday (Boston: Little, Brown, 1948). For a detailed biography of Heym, see Peter Hutchinson, Stefan Heym: The Perpetual Dissident (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). See Claude D. Conter and Hans-Peter Ecker, “Stefan Heym im Spiegel der westdeutschen Presse zwischen 1950 und 1990,” in Stefan Heym: Socialist-Dissenter-Jew, Stefan Heym: Sozialist-Dissident-Jude, ed. Peter Hutchinson and Reinhard K. Zachau (Bern: Peter Lang, 2003), 181–204; Karoline von Oppen, The Role of the Writer and the Press in the Unification of Germany, 1989–1990 (New York: Peter Lang, 2000); Reinhard K. Zachau, “Stefan Heym und die deutsche Einheit: Eine Fußnote der Geschichte,” in glossen, 10 (2000), http://www.dickinson.edu/glossen/heft10/zachau.html (accessed on 11 September 2006) for an analysis of Heym’s changing reception in the Western press. Reinhard Zachau, “Stefan Heym and GDR Cultural Politics,” in Niven and Jordan, Politics and Culture in Twentieth-Century Germany, 125–42 (127).

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in a speech at the Fourth German Writers’ Congress in 1956, he asserted that there was no censorship in the GDR, other than the author’s own conscience.6 However, in articles first published in 1953, Heym also criticised certain aspects of cultural policy, including the dryness and formulaic nature of the GDR press and literature and their fear of criticism,7 and he experienced difficulties with the publication of his short story, “Lem Kimble,” in Neues Deutschland and the filming of The Crusaders by DEFA in 1952.8 Towards the end of the 1950s, however, and particularly after the Stalin revelations of 1956, Heym’s relationship with the ruling elite in the GDR began to change significantly. In 1957, he was forced to give up his column in the Berliner Zeitung, after criticising the censorship of a document of which the contents were already well known in the West.9 In 1960, he first submitted his fictional account of the events of 17 June 1953, Der Tag X (A Day Marked X), for publication. The novel was rejected by the vast majority of the ruling elite, as it portrayed the uprising as the result not only of Western provocation, but also of the errors of the Party.10 Heym agreed not to publish the text in the West at this stage, but became ever more outspoken in his criticism of the GDR in articles and speeches published abroad, particularly focusing on the failure to deal with the legacy of Stalin and the need for art and literature to present a realistic view of socialism.11 The highpoint of this conflict was marked by the Eleventh Plenary Session of the Central Committee in December 1965, at which Honecker publicly attacked Heym, asserting that Heym viewed writers and not the working class as predestined to be leaders of the new society.12 For several years, not only was Heym no longer able to publish in the GDR, a Politburo decision expressly ordered that his name should no longer ap-

6 7 8 9 10 11

12

Stefan Heym, “Der Schriftsteller und die Macht: Rede auf dem IV. Deutschen Schriftstellerkongreß” (January 1956). Reprinted in Stefan Heym, Wege und Umwege (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1983), 255–65 (262–63). See Stefan Heym, “Beobachtungen zum Pressewesen in der DDR” (July 1953), 204–11 and “Beobachtungen zum literarischen Leben in der DDR” (29 July 1953), 212–18 (both in Wege und Umwege). See Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 81–82. Ibid., 90. See Herbert Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg gegen ein Buch: Zur Publikations- und Rezeptionsgeschichte von Stefan Heyms Roman über den 17. Juni 1953 (Tübingen: Stauffenburg Verlag, 1999), 48–52 for a detailed analysis of individual reactions to this text. Notably, Stefan Heym, “Kompromißlose Suche nach der Wahrheit: Diskussionsbeitrag zur Freien Tribüne auf dem Film-Festival in Karlovy Vary” (16 July 1964), 274–76; “Stalin verläßt den Raum” (December 1964), 279–83; “Die Langeweile von Minsk” (20 August 1965), 284–89 (all in Wege und Umwege). See Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 125–27.

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pear in public.13 His literary works from this period, Lassalle (1969) (An Uncertain Friend, 1969) and Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe (1970) (The Queen against Defoe, 1974) could only be published abroad.14 This chapter will track changes in Heym’s dealings with the ruling elite from this point of isolation following the Eleventh Plenary through the new cultural policy of the 1970s, the expulsion of Wolf Biermann from the GDR in 1976 and the expulsion of Heym from the Writers’ Union in 1979. This period in particular, characterised by intermittent liberalisation and draconian measures in cultural policy, is particularly relevant for an analysis of ambiguity and change in the relationship between writers and the ruling elite. The Beginning of Negotiations: The Publication of Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe and the Honecker Liberalisation The resignation of Walter Ulbricht and his replacement as First Secretary by Erich Honecker in May 1971 signalled a marked change in the cultural policy of the GDR. At the Eighth Party Congress in June 1971, Honecker commented: “precisely because we are aware of the difficulties, the complexity of the processes of artistic creation, we are fully sympathetic towards the creative artists’ search for new forms.”15 As Peter Hutchinson notes, this comment “seemed tantamount to encouragement of experiment,”16 and, according to Wolfgang Emmerich, this caesura in the political and cultural history of the GDR resulted in a more lively literary culture and the publication of more critical works.17 Although many intellectuals were sceptical about Honecker’s statement, that there could be no taboos in art and literature if one started from a socialist position,18 this was also a time of hope for those writers whose works had previously been rejected for publication as a result of their content, rather than their literary quality.

13

14 15 16 17 18

See Ibid., 160 and Herbert Krämer, “‘Der Hase und der Igel. Oder vom Kampf des Zensors mit dem Abweichler’ Zur Zensurgeschichte von Stefan Heyms Die Schmähschrift und Der König-David-Bericht,” in Hutchinson and Zachau, Stefan Heym: Socialist-DissenterJew, 79–95 (87). Stefan Heym, Lassalle (Munich: Bechtle, 1969)/An Uncertain Friend (London: Cassell, 1969); Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe (Zurich: Diogenes, 1970)/The Queen against Defoe (New York: Lawrence Hill, 1974) Cited in Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 166. Translation in Hutchinson. Ibid., 166. See Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 246. Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 264–65.

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What was Heym’s response to this liberalisation of cultural policy? How did he react to the changing opportunities for writers such as himself who had been isolated from the official GDR literary scene after the events of December 1965? How does he portray this period in his autobiography, Nachruf ? Stefan Heym’s efforts to break out of the isolation in which he had found himself following the Eleventh Plenary and to negotiate with Party functionaries for the publication of his novel Lassalle can be seen to date from as early as 1969. However, archive material demonstrates that Heym hoped that the Honecker liberalisation would lead to a further thawing of relations and ultimately the publication of his previously banned works.19 Reports in the files of the Stasi and SED record meetings between Heym and various leading Party members: Kurt Hager and Klaus Gysi (Minister for Culture) in March 1972;20 Klaus Höpcke and Hans-Joachim Hoffmann in April 1973;21 Erich Honecker in July 1973.22 In all of these meetings, Heym discusses the publication of his works and the changes taking place in the cultural policy of the Party. Stefan Heym’s own portrayal of his dealings with representatives of power in the late 1960s and early 1970s in his autobiography, Nachruf (first published in the FRG in 1988), is of an intellectually and morally superior writer, unwilling to negotiate or compromise, in constant conflict with dogmatic or even stupid functionaries, whom he saw as destroying the socialist cause. Heym describes the leading Party functionaries in the GDR as “philistines,” who believed that they were the only true communists and who denounced him as an opponent, suppressed his works, placed secret police in front of his house and dragged him before court.23 Heym does not deny discussion with Party functionaries regarding exit visas or the publication of his texts, but he does not portray himself as actively seeking out such meetings, rather he presents himself as the passive subject of threats and temptations: Whenever he [Heym] wanted an exit visa for some reading or other, or for presentations or discussions in the West, or whenever publishing questions came up, he was invited into the Ministry for a conversation to clarify matters […]. In an 19

See Sara Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’: Die Darstellung der Publikationsgeschichte von Stefan Heyms Lassalle in Autobiografie und Archivmaterial,” in Barker, Ohse and Tate, Views from Abroad, 211–21. 20 See BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 3, Bl. 61–71 and SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 21 See BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 1, Bl. 6–8. 22 See BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 3, Bl. 120–38. 23 Stefan Heym, Nachruf (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1990), 602. (First published in Munich by C. Bertelsmann in 1988). Subsequent references cite this edition and will be given in parenthesis in the text.

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alternating sequence, carrots and sticks were dangled in front of the recalcitrant offender. (Nachruf, 719)

The mocking tone in his description of these meetings trivialises this interaction between the writer and functionary and emphasises the intellectual superiority of the former. The image of the renegade author being both tempted and threatened, but ultimately not succumbing to the demands of those in power, suggests a clear-cut division between “intellect” and “power,” in which negotiations remain at the level of “carrots and sticks.” In Nachruf, Heym thus suggests a position of clarity in regard to his relationship with the regime, which is starkly different to Kant’s cultivation of an ambiguous position and, if taken at face value, would indicate that moral ambiguity was restricted to writers who were publicly loyal to the Party and willing to compromise. However, as Dennis Tate argues, although Heym presents his dealings with the Party elite as a “sequence of personal confrontations with SED figureheads in which he [Heym] emerges as the moral victor,” the contrived nature of Heym’s description of some of these encounters gives the sense that “Heym is overplaying his hand as dissidentin-chief.”24 What can other sources reveal about Heym’s meetings with leading Party functionaries in this period? In contrast to Heym’s portrayal in his autobiography, in which he is the passive subject of threats, temptations and attempts to negotiate by leading Party functionaries, the Stasi officers in charge of Operativer Vorgang (Operative Procedure, OV) “Diversant,” that is the observation of Heym, assess these meetings between Heym and leading functionaries as an attempt by Heym to manipulate the new mood of liberalisation for his personal advantage. The anonymous author of a file note dated 2 July 1971, asserts that it has come to their attention that Heym is testing the political situation following the Eighth Party Congress to find opportunities for the

24

Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 148. Similarly, Borgwardt describes a tendency towards “selfstylisation in the role of an uncompromising writer, duty-bound only to his conscience and the truth” (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 258). Christine Cosentino argues that the text itself contains ambivalences, which do not quite fit into this self-portrait as a dissident, and cites Heym’s discussion of meetings with high-ranking functionaries as evidence of a strangely intimate relationship between Heym and representatives of power. See Christine Cosentino, “Stefan Heyms Autobiografie Nachruf: Selbstporträt, Lesart seines Lebensweges, Lebenslegende?,” in Hutchinson and Zachau, Stefan Heym: SocialistDissenter-Jew, 161–79 (175–76). Brigitte Hocke argues a similar point, stating that the text would make uncomfortable reading for the radical revolutionary for whom only an unambiguous “no” is morally justifiable. See Brigitte Hocke, “Stefan Heym: Nachruf – eine moderne Autobiographie?,” Germanica, 20 (1997): 154. However, Heym maintains the image of himself as being in constant conflict with representatives of power even in his descriptions of these meetings.

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dissemination of his ideological views:25 views that they considered to be in conflict with the Party and the state and a risk to its stability. In an assessment of his behaviour dated 25 January 1973, First Lieutenant Pönig states that in the period from 1 July 1971 to 15 January 1973 Heym has focused his efforts on creating opportunities to publish his works in the GDR, “in order to restore his popularity in the GDR, which has declined in recent years.” Pönig does not state with whom Heym is no longer popular, nor the reasons behind this waning popularity, adding only that Die Schmähschrift, Lassalle and Der König David Bericht (The King David Report, 1973) could not be published in the GDR due to their damaging political message.26 This again suggests a clear-cut relationship between Heym and the Party. However, the roles are reversed. In this version it is Heym who seeks reconciliation in order to further his own (in their view, hostile) aims and the Party who takes a moral stand against such machinations. Still other sources indicate, however, that the interaction between writer and functionary was in fact more complex than either of these views would suggest and the desire for reconciliation was neither the result solely of the changing attitude of Party functionaries, nor of Heym’s manoeuvring in the wake of the Honecker liberalisation. In the period between 1970 and 1972, Heym actively sought discussion regarding the publication of his previously banned works;27 however, cultural functionaries also aimed to work with authors who had previously come into conflict with Party policy. In a file note recording information given to the Stasi by Heinz Adameck (President of the State Committee for Television) and dated 2 July 1971, Adameck is recorded as reporting on proposals to film selected works by GDR authors and states that they are particularly considering writers, “who are somewhat out in the cold at the moment” and names Hermann Kant and Stephan Hermlin as possible candidates.28 Although they are currently not considering Heym’s works, he does not rule this out as an option in the future.29 Moreover, in a file note recording Heym’s meeting with Hager and Gysi on 23 March 1972, Erika Hinckel

25 BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 16, Bl. 6–7. 26 BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 1, Bl. 139–45. This statement refers to the editions of Lassalle and Die Schmähschrift published respectively in the FRG and Switzerland (see note 14) and Stefan Heym, Der König David Bericht (Munich: Kindler, 1972)/The King David Report (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1973). 27 See Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 215–21 and Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 204–07. 28 This further demonstrates the effect of the problems with Das Impressum on Kant’s reputation in the GDR as discussed in chapter one and lends weight to the view that the publication in 1972 was in part a result of the Honecker liberalisation. 29 BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 16, Bl. 9.

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(Manager [Leiterin] of Hager’s office) notes that Hager stated, “we are also reaching out to those who do not completely agree with us on all issues, because we believe that a relationship of trust will further strengthen the basis for co-operation. This is also the case for Stefan Heym.”30 A clear example of Herbert Krämer’s observation that, following Honecker’s accession to power, Hager followed a more liberal line, promoted the publication of previously censored works and, under the orders of Honecker, attempted to integrate critical authors.31 The relationship between Heym and Party functionaries in this period would therefore seem to be less clear-cut than suggested either by Heym in his autobiography or by the Stasi reports discussed above. How did this shift in the official Party line on the best method of dealing with critical writers influence the many actors in the publication process in the GDR? How did these various individuals cope with the changing attitude of leading cultural functionaries towards Heym? What can archive material reveal about Heym’s strategies of communication and negotiation in these meetings with members of the ruling elite? How do these compare with those of Hermann Kant? In the period preceding and immediately following Honecker’s accession to power, Heym produced three texts based on historical material, but with clear links to the GDR: Lassalle (first published in the FRG in 1969), Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe (first published in Zurich in 1970) and Der König David Bericht (first published in the FRG in 1972). None of these works could appear in the GDR when they were first completed and all of them were published in the GDR in 1973 or early 1974, after years of behind-thescenes negotiations between Heym and Party functionaries. In my next section, I will analyse the interaction between Heym and representatives of power in this phase of apparent reconciliation, focusing on the publication of just one of these texts, Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe. The Failure of Negotiations: The Decision not to Publish, 1969–1972 The short prose work, Die Schmähschrift oder Königin gegen Defoe, presents an episode in the life of the English writer, Daniel Defoe. After compiling the satirical tract, The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, in 1702, in which he parodied the views of many extreme Tories and High Churchmen regarding the treatment of non-Anglicans, Defoe was sentenced to three days at

30 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 31 Krämer, “Der Hase und der Igel,” 81–82 and 88.

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the pillory. However, rather than throw harmful and noxious objects, the people showered Defoe with flowers and his poem Hymn to the Pillory was sold to the watching public. Heym presents this story in the form of the diary entries of Josiah Creech, an employee of the powerful Lord Nottingham. The text is preceded by a short introduction claiming that the narrator, who identifies himself as “S.H.,” was given the diaries by a descendent of Creech who has since disappeared. Heym completed the work in March 1969 and offered it both to the Eulenspiegel Verlag and to the literary agents Pollinger in London and Mohrbooks in Zurich with a view to publishing the text abroad. The Eulenspiegel Verlag assessed the manuscript, but, according to the Stasi, found it to contain “strong revisionist tendencies,” in which Heym presented writers as superior to the state and as being destined to take power.32 The anonymous Stasi officer summarising Heym’s activities in this period makes a direct link between Die Schmähschrift and Heym’s solidarity with the Czech writers involved in the Prague Spring, stating that Heym evidently intends, “to give expression to their aims.”33 This sets the initial refusal to publish the text in the context of the tightening of restrictions on writers following the Prague Spring as discussed in relation to Kant’s Das Impressum in chapter one. It is noteworthy that both Das Impressum and Die Schmähschrift were submitted for publication in March 1969, suggesting that this was a particularly inopportune moment for the submission of works perceived to be critical.34 A second similarity to the publication process of Das Impressum can be seen in Heym’s decision to send the manuscript to international literary agents. Kant also made arrangements for publication in West Germany before the text had been approved for publication in the GDR. However, Heym’s intention to publish in the West must also be viewed in the context of the refusal of previous works (Der Tag X and Lassalle) and his legal conflict with the Paul List Verlag regarding the publication of Die Papiere des Andreas Lenz (1963) (The Lenz Papers, 1964),35 in which the pub32 See BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 14, Bl. 119–41 (Bl. 129). 33 Ibid., Bl. 130. 34 Klaus Michael, Margret Pötsch and Peter Walther note that several works were pulped in 1969, including those of writers who had supported the march of GDR troops into the ČSSR, such as Eduard Claudius’s Ruhelose Jahre, Helmut Richter’s Schnee auf dem Schornstein and Christa Wolf ’s Nachdenken über Christa T. See Klaus Michael, Margret Pötsch and Peter Walther, “Geschichte, Struktur und Arbeitsweise des Schriftstellerverbands der DDR: Erste Ergebnisse eines Forschungsprojektes,” Zeitschrift des Forschungsverbundes SED-Staat, 3 (1997): 66–67. 35 Stefan Heym, Die Papiere des Andreas Lenz (Leipzig: List, 1963)/The Lenz Papers (London: Cassell, 1964). Republished under the title Lenz oder die Freiheit: Ein Roman um Deutschland in Munich by List in 1965.

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lisher sued Heym for offering the manuscript to the List Verlag in Munich, when the West German rights belonged to the List Verlag Leipzig.36 From this point forward, Heym always ensured that he retained the world rights to his works.37 Moreover, in contrast to Kant, Heym did not just agree in principle to a publication of the text in the West, he actually supplied Western publishers and literary agents with a complete manuscript and authorised publication abroad before the GDR publisher had reviewed the work. Both writers, their commitment to socialism and rejection of Western capitalism notwithstanding, were prepared to use the existence of the West as a tool for negotiation. However, for Kant this was a rhetorical tool, designed to put pressure on Party functionaries by simply suggesting the possibility of damage to the image of the GDR. Although his publisher did pass the manuscript to Luchterhand before it had been approved in the GDR, Kant did not permit the publication of the text in the West before it had appeared in the East. In the case of Heym and Die Schmähschrift, the author does not give the functionaries the option of negotiation – a failure to publish in the East would inevitably result in a West-only publication and ensuing literary scandal. Furthermore, Heym not only ensures that the existence of the text is known in the West, he also creates a situation in which any changes demanded of him by the GDR publisher would result in two different versions of the work, laying bare the censorship of the text and thereby potentially damaging the image of the GDR, a situation that would also have been created if Kant had been allowed to continue the pre-publication of Das Impressum in Forum. In this respect, it is notable that, although neither tactic resulted in the publication of the work in 1969, Kant was required to make substantial revisions to Das Impressum before its release in 1972, whereas Die Schmähschrift appeared in 1974 in its original form. However, Heym’s approach might also have led to his text not being published in the GDR: in publishing in the West and, therefore, making it difficult for a GDR publisher to demand significant changes, he risked the publisher deciding against the work completely. Although these two writers can thus be seen to use similar tactics in their negotiation towards the publication of their works, Heym’s position would seem to be more clear-cut as he is not prepared to compromise the integrity of his literature and forces Party 36 See Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg gegen ein Buch, 115–22. As Krämer notes, the decision of List Verlag Leipzig to sue Heym was most likely a reaction to the legal action Heym was taking against the publisher for breaking a contract to publish Der Tag X. 37 In a meeting with the publisher Heinz Schöbel of the Paul List Verlag on 24 March 1972, Heym reportedly states that he would never again allow a GDR publisher to have the rights to all German-language publications of his works. See SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89.

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functionaries to decide for or against. Kant, in contrast was willing to edit his work quite substantially. However, by publishing works solely in the West, yet choosing to remain a resident the East, Heym places himself in a position between the political worlds, as he rejects both emigration to the capitalist West and socialism as it was practised by the Party. As will be seen, that this was a source of ambiguity for Heym is suggested by his willingness to engage in negotiation and compromise with Party functionaries, and thereby attempt to bring clarity to his position, when shifts in the Party line made the publication of even the most controversial of his works, 5 Tage im Juni (1974) (Five Days in June, 1977), seem possible.38 Returning to the publication of Die Schmähschrift, in a report dated 10 June 1970 and detailing a meeting between Heym and Bruno Haid on 25 May 1970, the Stasi officer, Captain Gütling, reports that Heym stated to Haid that he had been in negotiations with the publisher Der Morgen, who were interested in publishing Lassalle. When asked if he intends to publish Die Schmähschrift with Der Morgen, Heym reportedly replies that Defoe must appear in the GDR. This report records a confrontational stance on the part of Heym, who apparently affirms the relationship between Defoe and the events in the CSSR. Gütling states that Haid has no objections to Heym working with Der Morgen, but that he also made no promises regarding the publication of his works.39 A file note dated 12 June 1970 indicates that, in a meeting of 11 June 1970, the head of Der Morgen, Wolfgang Tenzler, and the editor in chief, Heinfried Henniger, were informed by Frank Beer and Meta Borst of the Department for Literature in the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade, that their assessment of Lassalle was unacceptable, whereupon they agreed not to publish the text.40 This not only indicates the power that functionaries were able to exert over publishers, as Der Morgen was prevented from developing a working relationship with Heym; it also demonstrates the importance of individual attitudes towards critical writers in the process of publication. Tenzler and Henniger evidently hoped that the time might be right to attempt to publish Heym’s previously unacceptable works; Beer and Borst, in contrast, as representatives of the Ministry of Culture and, therefore, working under Haid’s jurisdiction, felt that the text remained unacceptable. The actions of Der Morgen indicate that the balancing act between willingness to compromise and desire to publish critical works seen in the actions of Heym and Kant finds parallels in the behaviour of the publisher. 38 Stefan Heym, 5 Tage im Juni (Munich: C. Bertelsmann, 1974)/Five Days in June (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1977). 39 BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 14, Bl. 237–40 (Bl. 239–40). 40 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/67.

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In this context it is also interesting to note that it was Haid who stopped the publication of Das Impressum in Forum and, furthermore, that it is after Haid’s replacement in the Ministry by Klaus Höpcke in 1973 that all three of Heym’s historical texts could appear. Indeed, Krämer notes that Gerhard Henniger reported to the Stasi that Haid, among others, did not support the new cultural policy after the Honecker liberalisation.41 The importance of individual approaches towards critical writers and texts viewed as being critical, with some functionaries taking a hard line and others being in favour of more debate, also feeds into broader questions regarding the nature of the SED and the discussion in the previous chapter regarding the publication of Das Impressum and Kant’s own role as a functionary with a particular outlook and particular approach towards literature and writers. This evidence of individual responses to a work of literature does not indicate a system in which there was a clear Party line on every issue, but rather a degree of discussion behind the scenes. The SED was a mosaic of different opinions and outlooks, which, within the confines of permissible debate, might influence the publication process of particular works.42 Heym himself notes this change in personnel in Nachruf. However, his portrayal suggests that these changes held little significance for him. He describes Haid as the “eternally distrustful one” and Höpcke as “the industrious one […], who even shortly before the Eleventh Plenary had attested in print to Heym’s good behaviour and defence of the GDR when abroad” (Nachruf, 781). He thus acknowledges that Höpcke has taken a more liberal line in the past, but through the use of the term “well-behaved,” [brav] which would normally be associated with the behaviour of a child, and the gently mocking description of the functionary as “industrious” he trivialises the significance of this for him and his works. In this way, he maintains the impression of a clear-cut division between “intellect” and “power” and a continuation of the conflict between the two, suggesting that the identity of the functionary did not affect his relationship with him or her. In his autobiography, Heym thereby echoes the official rhetoric of a united Party line, which, when viewed from behind the scenes, appears fragmented. As stated above, in the period between 1970 and 1972 Heym can be seen to continue to make efforts towards the publication of Lassalle in the GDR. However, there is no evidence in the archives of Heym using similar tactics to promote the publication of Die Schmähschrift. Nonetheless, in a meeting with Hager and Klaus Gysi (Minister for Culture), the result of 41 Krämer, “Der Hase und der Igel,” 82. 42 Cf. Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 217. A similar point is noted by Klötzer and Lokatis in regard to censorship of cabaret and the influence of Hans Modrow in the 1980s (“Criticism and Censorship,” 249–50).

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Heym’s persistence in his correspondence with Hager,43 Heym addresses the possibility of publishing both texts. In Nachruf, this meeting is the first indication Heym gives of a change in attitude towards him and his works following the Eleventh Plenary (Nachruf, pp 779–781), and archive material recording the meeting would seem to confirm that the change in approach to critical writers was discussed. Hinckel’s report of Hager’s comments on the desire to reintegrate critical writers is given above and, in Heym’s own record of his impressions of this meeting, a memorandum subsequently stolen from his house by the Stasi, Heym recalls Hager’s comment that the Party recognised that certain individuals had not been treated correctly and his regret that Heym found himself in a position of isolation.44 In the memorandum, Heym appears to have viewed the conversation with Hager and Gysi to have been about Lassalle: the publication of his other works, including Die Schmähschrift, is mentioned only in reference to Heym’s statement that the detail of which publisher he might use could be clarified at a later point, the most important matter for him was that his works were published in the GDR, including Defoe. According to Heym, when Gysi reacts to this with the statement that books have to be read in the context of current circumstances, Heym responds that if Gysi were a true communist he would side with Defoe: he can only ban the work if he sides with the reactionary Earl of Nottingham.45 In Hinckel’s version of events, Die Schmähschrift and this exchange between Heym and Gysi are not mentioned at all.46 However, in Nachruf, Heym gives equal space to his recollection of the discussion surrounding both novels, and this defiant exchange with Gysi concludes his account of the meeting. Moreover, in Nachruf, the account includes a demand from Heym that, as a communist, Gysi should in fact do everything in his power to ensure that this text is published in the largest edition possible (Nachruf, 781). Heym also asserts that it was Gysi, rather than himself, who brought up the topic of Die Schmähschrift. He does not state that the subject came up because of his desire to ensure the publication of his works in the GDR, but rather because Gysi wanted to steer Heym away from a dangerous discussion of the importance of instructing readers in the dangers of being fooled “by the glamour of power and the voice of authority” (Nachruf, 781). In his autobiog-

43 See Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 218. 44 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 3, Bl. 61–71 (Bl. 62). See Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 217–19 for a discussion of differences between the various accounts of the publication of Lassalle in these sources. 45 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 3, Bl. 61–71 (Bl. 69). 46 See SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89.

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raphy, Heym thus once again emphasises his defiance of representatives of the ruling elite and his moral and intellectual superiority and plays down the function of this meeting as an opportunity to negotiate the publication of his works, a function which is apparent not only from the Party sources, but also from the memorandum written by Heym himself. On the 24 March 1972, one day after the meeting with Hager and Gysi, Heym meets with the head of the Paul List Verlag, Heinz Schöbel, to discuss the possibility of publishing Lassalle and Die Schmähschrift. The details of the conversation are given in a file note written by Schöbel for Kurt Hager’s office. According to this source, Heym refers directly to his conversation with Hager and Gysi and states that he is prepared to make certain minor changes to the manuscript, but that he believes that the outcome of the conversation is that there are no longer any obstacles to a publication of Lassalle.47 Heym thereby uses his contact with high-ranking Party functionaries as a defence against the potential demands of the publisher for changes in his novel that he would not be prepared to make. By indicating that Hager and Gysi had accepted the novel with only minimal changes, he is suggesting that the publisher would be able to do the same.48 Moreover, Schöbel notes that Heym insisted that the publisher need not negotiate with the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade, but should rather consult Hager’s office and, specifically, Erika Hinckel directly.49 Heym thus emphasises the close contact with Hager and attempts to bypass the potential objections of the more dogmatic Bruno Haid as head of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade. In this respect, despite the apparent clarity in his decision to publish the text in the West without reference to potential objections in the East, when publication in the East appears to be a real possibility and Heym must actively engage with the GDR literary processes to secure publication, he is seen to take a less clear-cut position in his relationship with the leading Party functionaries. He is a critical writer, but has access to the offices of those whose policies he criticises and he uses this lack of clarity in his own position in his efforts to persuade Schöbel to go ahead with the publication: he indicates that he is working closely with Hager and gives his publisher directions on how to proceed, as if he were an active participant in the decision-making process. At this same meeting, Heym also offers Schöbel Die Schmähschrift and Der König-David-Bericht for publication and, in an echo of his comments to Gysi, states that, as a communist, Schöbel must stand on the side of 47 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 48 A similar argument is advanced in Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 220 and Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 206. 49 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89.

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Defoe. The repetition of this comment to both Party functionary and publisher suggests that Heym expected that this form of persuasion might be effective. Heym does not position his text in opposition to the ideology of the Party, but rather uses the Party terminology in support of the work, employing their own linguistic framework.50 At first sight, this seems to be another example of the use of the dominant expressive style, as described by Bourdieu, with the aim of achieving the most symbolic profit from discourse. However, as Heym’s understanding of this terminology differs starkly from that of the Party, and the text itself can be read as an attack on the repressive measures used against literary intellectuals in the GDR, Heym’s use of this expressive style becomes subversive.51 Here we might again consider the limitations on discourse outlined by Michel Foucault and the position of the critical writer within these systems of exclusion. In this context, David Bathrick argues that for a writer to speak publicly in the GDR meant to function within the paradigms of a carefully delineated and heavily encoded linguistic network and to have internalised the dominant narrative patterns that ensured meaning as part of the life-world. One might choose to parody, critique, destabilize, or even attempt to transform them, as many writers did, but in order even to mock one had to partake in the paradigm.52

Heym’s defence of Die Schmähschrift as a communist text indicates that this means of critiquing the dominant narrative patterns of the Party was also used in behind-the-scenes exchanges between functionaries and writers. Here Heym can be seen to be cultivating a particular form of ambiguity as he works within the official rhetoric and linguistic market of the Party in order to criticise the deformation of the socialist ideal by that same Party.

50 Heym uses a similar tactic in a letter to Hager regarding the publication of Lassalle. See Jones, “‘Zwischen Wahrheit und Lüge’,” 215–16. 51 Similarly, Borgwardt describes Heym’s use of the “argumentation reservoirs of the state power” as a method of “legitimation through reversal” [Umkehrlegitimation] (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 265). 52 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 17. See also David Bathrick, “Language and Power,” 144–45. Similarly Walther argues that the GDR was also sustained by a semiotic network, which bound all those who did not radically break out of these speech and thought patterns: “Even critical discourse is only the negative, but still transitive, variety of the dominant social discourse and is complementary to it.” Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 12.

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Reviewers’ Reports: The Limits of Liberalisation On the 26 April 1972, Schöbel returns the copy of the text given to him by Heym, stating that he feels unable to publish it.53 A letter from Jürgen Brinkmann, an author of the Paul List Verlag, to Lothar Neumann (SED District Authority, Department of Culture) dated 15 April 1972 indicates the internal reasons given for the decision not to publish the text. Brinkmann states that publication of the text would represent the turning point at which the reintegration of isolated critical writers would achieve the opposite effect. He describes Die Schmähschrift as a “concoction” [Machwerk] and comments that such works could set them back years: “this is where all discussion ends for me!”54 Brinkmann thus works within the framework of the liberalisation in cultural policy after Honecker’s accession to power, but uses this framework to suggest that a work not be published. Rather than working against the dominant expressive style of the period, Brinkmann uses this style to achieve his own goals. However, there is a tension between the use of the language of liberalisation in Brinkmann’s letter and his use of the word “concoction,” [Machwerk] a term more commonly associated with the dogmatic criticism of the 1950s and 1960s.55 A copy of the reader’s report Brinkmann has written for the publisher, dated 28 April 1972, further highlights this tension. In his assessment of the text, Brinkmann compares Die Schmähschrift to Heym’s journalistic publications, especially those in the West, in the period preceding the Eleventh Plenary in 1965. Brinkmann does not detail exactly which publications he is referring to, but comments that these, like Die Schmähschrift, present an unreal and falsely understood view of the freedom of artistic expression, which “rules above all Parties and all politics as an independent judge of the conscience and society.”56 This is remarkably similar to the criticism of Heym by Honecker at the Eleventh Plenary in relation to his essays “Die Langeweile von Minsk ” (The Boredom of Minsk) and “Stalin verläßt den Raum” (Stalin Leaves the Room): He [Heym] writes articles for newspapers and magazines which appear in the West and in which he presents a false image of life in the Soviet Union and the GDR. He claims that he only wishes to write the ‘truth,’ but he means by this the Western interpretation of that concept. The ‘truth’ which he proclaims is the

53 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 54 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 55 Notably, Mielke used the term in his “Referat zur Auswertung des 11. Plenums.” See Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 51–52. 56 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/67, Bl. 191–96 (Bl. 192).

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claim that it is not the working class, but only writers and intellectuals who are competent to be leaders of our new society.57

Brinkmann also links Heym to the writers involved in the Prague Spring of 1968, declaring that Heym views himself as their champion.58 He concludes that if Heym intended to take advantage of Honecker’s speech at the Eighth Party Congress, which promoted talent and voices from all sectors of GDR literature, he had clearly overlooked the fact that this was linked to the condition that the author maintained a partisan approach to his or her material: “the presented book is not only not partisan, it is openly hostile.”59 This view of Heym and his work shows clear parallels to the assessment of the text in 1969, before the Honecker liberalisation, and this clear-cut view of the author does not sit easily with the efforts of Hager, Gysi and Adameck to bring Heym out of isolation and, potentially, to publish his previously banned works. Brinkmann uses Heym’s reputation and publicly expressed views on Heym’s ideological outlook in his assessment of the text and once again works within a particular dominant narrative; however, here he uses the dominant narrative of the 1960s, rather than that of liberalisation and rapprochement following Honecker’s accession to power. Brinkmann’s comments in both the reader’s report and the accompanying letter thus indicate an uncertainty regarding Honecker’s new cultural policy, which again suggests internal disagreement as to what constituted a socialist perspective and where the boundaries of permissible debate should be drawn. Indeed, Walther notes that, after Honecker’s accession to power, those writers considered loyal to the Party line complained of a lack of “clear guidelines” and that “they no longer knew what the [Party] line actually was.”60 Brinkmann’s response to Heym’s text also further highlights the importance of an author’s reputation in the publication process in the GDR and particularly in the process of writing reader’s reports, as seen in the changing approach to Hermann Kant’s Das Impressum in chapter one. A second evaluation, written by another author of the Paul List Verlag, Manfred Künne, demonstrates further the different views on Heym and his works and different reactions to the shifting Party line on the best methods of dealing with critical intellectuals. Künne also vehemently rejects the possibility of publishing Die Schmähschrift in the GDR and notes that Heym’s story is only “wrapped in historical garb” and that through the

57 58 59 60

Cited in Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 126. Translation in Hutchinson. SAPMO BArch DY30/IV A2/2.024/67, Bl. 191–96 (Bl. 195). Ibid., Bl. 196. See also Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 210. Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 48.

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use of anachronistic language Heym links the text to the present. However, rather than attacking Heym in the manner of the 1960s, Künne frames his rejection of the work in terms of its potential negative impact on the current political situation. He states that, although the text would have been progressive in the eighteenth century, now it can only serve the purposes of the class enemy and that Heym’s own pronouncements against the state in Western publications would lead to the text being understood “in a way that would be completely undesirable for us.” However, he does not state if this is the manner in which Heym himself intended the text to be read and adds that, as the world-renowned author of The Crusaders and ardent antifascist, Heym himself should not want to publish the work.61 Künne is thereby far milder in his attack on Heym as an individual and focuses not on his reputation as a dangerous renegade and the criticism levelled at him at the Eleventh Plenary, but rather on his reputation as a proven antifascist whose work could be a valuable asset to the GDR (he describes his style as “the seasoned hand of a master”) 62 and who himself should be ashamed of Die Schmähschrift. Although Künne comes to the same conclusions about the text as Brinkmann, he frames his criticism in the narrative of possible reintegration, rather than of outright rejection. However, an insight into another possible motivation behind this milder attack on Heym is given in a Stasi report on a meeting with IM “Frank” dated 3 May 1972. Joachim Walther identifies “Frank” as the author Manfred Künne.63 IM “Frank” is recorded as reporting on the negotiations between Paul List Verlag and Heym regarding the publication of Die Schmähschrift and commenting that he finds the reviewer’s report currently in their possession “somewhat over the top.” He apparently states that, although the work is rife with references to the GDR, the events in the text are authentic; therefore, it cannot be proven that this is not simply a historical story. According to this source, IM “Frank” wants to write a second report from a different angle, focusing on the question of for whom the story is written. In this second evaluation, he intends to argue that the text was not written for those living in England in 1702, but for the contemporary GDR reader and that for these readers it is outdated and serves no purpose.64 This summary of content indicates that Künne is referring to the reader’s report discussed above. According to this source, Künne’s milder approach towards the text was not the result of milder criticism of

61

SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. See also Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 210–11. 62 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 63 Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 751. 64 BStU MfS AOP 1066/91 18, Bl. 1–2.

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Heym, but a need to produce arguments against the work, which could not be countered by Heym with the statement he made to both Gysi and Schöbel, that a communist would stand on the side of Defoe, or by any assertion on Heym’s part that any links to the present day were not intended.65 Künne thus views his role as evaluator not only to provide assessments of texts to aid the decision-making process of publishers and of the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade, but also to furnish functionaries with effective arguments for their negotiations with critical intellectuals. That Künne felt it necessary to find arguments that would be difficult for Heym to counter also indicates a desire not to appear dogmatic or unpredictable in the censorship of works: an author must be given a reason which he or she might understand, rather than a top-down rejection, which he or she must simply accept. The functionaries rejecting the text would also hope, in this manner, to avoid furnishing Heym with evidence that they also saw parallels between the treatment of Defoe in the eighteenth century and the treatment of critical writers in the GDR, as such evidence might be used to damage the international image of the Party. Changing Faces and Changing Attitudes: The Final Publication 1972–1974 In 1973 Gysi was replaced in the Ministry of Culture by Hans-Joachim Hoffmann and Bruno Haid was succeeded by Klaus Höpcke, who took over responsibility for publishing and the book trade in the Ministry. A memorandum written by Heym, dated 6 April 1973 and recording a meeting between Heym and Hoffmann, indicates that this change in personnel marked an important shift in attitude towards Heym and his works. According to Heym, Hoffmann states that all of his texts, from Lassalle to Der König David Bericht will be published in the GDR and that Höpcke has been given the task of finding a publisher.66 A second memorandum dated 13 April 1973 records a meeting between Heym and Höpcke to discuss the question of which publisher should bring out all three of Heym’s historical texts: Lassalle, Die Schmähschrift and Der König David Bericht.67

65

Borgwardt points to the possibility of a paradoxical situation in which the author denied any parallels between socialism in the GDR and England of 1702, whereas the Party functionary is forced to draw such parallels in order to argue against the publication of the text (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 209). 66 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 1, Bl. 3–5. 67 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 1, Bl. 6–8 (Bl. 6).

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According to Heym’s memoranda, Heym, Hoffmann and Höpcke all agree that the Paul List Verlag would be an inappropriate choice for the publication of the three works due to Heym’s previous conflicts with the publisher. Höpcke suggests Verlag der Nation, but Heym states he would prefer Verlag Der Morgen, citing their support for him in times of difficulty and their efforts to publish Lassalle as discussed above. They agree on sending Lassalle to Verlag Neues Leben and Der König David Bericht to Verlag Der Morgen.68 Heym’s deliberations on his choice of publisher add to the discussion of the role of the publisher in the production of critical works in the GDR. Kant was disadvantaged by the caution of Aufbau Verlag in their lack of publicity for Das Impressum, but benefited from the courage of the editor of Forum, Klaus Hilbig, to press ahead with the serialisation of the novel, despite objections from above. Similarly, Heym felt disadvantaged by the behaviour of Schöbel and the Paul List Verlag, as they insisted on reassessing Lassalle before agreeing to publication69 and refused to consider publishing Die Schmähschrift. He therefore refuses to work with them a second time. However, Heym praises the behaviour of Verlag Der Morgen who, according to Heym, incurred political difficulties for their support of Lassalle and feels they are the most appropriate publisher for his critical texts.70 Barck argues that the vast majority of the “censorship work” took place not in the Main Office, but in the publishing house and that the room for manoeuvre was different in each.71 Heym’s experiences with Paul List and Der Morgen are evidence for this and his insistence on being able to select his publisher can be viewed in this context.72 Heym’s portrayal of these events in his autobiography differs significantly from that in his memoranda. Heym states that the purpose of the meeting with Hoffmann was to talk about an invitation by the Hessischer Rundfunk to a televised discussion with West German writers, which Hoffmann asked Heym to refuse. According to Heym, Hoffmann stated that the GDR did not want to allow the West to dictate the manner and 68 Ibid., Bl. 6. 69 See letters from Heinz Schöbel to Stefan Heym dated 7 April 1972 and 26 April 1972. SAPMO BArch, DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 70 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 1, Bl. 6–8 (Bl. 6). The editor in chief of Der Morgen, Heinfried Henniger’s engagement for critical works would later lead him to lose his position in the publishing house. See Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 271–72. 71 Simone Barck, “Der Mitteldeutsche Verlag in den sechziger Jahren,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 227–42 (232). 72 Cf. Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 226. Borgwardt suggests that Heym was pointed towards Der Morgen by Party functionaries as a method of controlling the influence of his works: Der Morgen was a small publishing house with low paper quotas, small print runs and little money for advertising. This source indicates that Heym actively chose to work with this publisher.

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timing of “all-German conversations”; however, Heym was free to accept other invitations relating to his work, and the Party hoped that he might be reintegrated into the cultural life of the GDR (Nachruf, 782). This portrayal corresponds to that in Heym’s memorandum. In Nachruf, however, Heym asserts that Hoffmann stated that he had read Lassalle, “and simply could not understand why the novel had not been published a long time ago, where was the initiative of the publishers; a lot had to change in this area, and changes were coming,” but that such changes would be gradual and slow, because many comrades were opposed to such measures (Nachruf, 782). In the memorandum, Heym recalls no such admission of mistakes in the assessment of Lassalle, but a far firmer promise on the part of Hoffmann, that all of his works from Lassalle to Der König David Bericht would be published and that Höpcke had been instructed to help him find a publisher. In his autobiography, Heym does not report his meeting with Höpcke on the 13 April 1973, but instead jumps straight to his sixtieth birthday when Höpcke brings him a copy of Neues Deutschland, which contains a message of congratulations and the statement that Der König David Bericht will be published (Nachruf, 782–83). Heym then describes a later meeting with Honecker, in which Honecker revealed that the publication of Der König David Bericht was the result of his own personal intervention on Heym’s behalf (Nachruf, 783–85).73 Heym thus portrays a neat transition between Hoffmann expressing the view that Lassalle should have been published (but, in this version, failing to make any promises that it will be) and the seemingly arbitrary and dictatorial decision by Honecker to publish the later work. Although there is archive material that supports Heym’s assertion that Honecker intervened on behalf of Der König David Bericht,74 through focusing on this aspect of the publication process above the evidence of a more general change in attitude brought about in part by a change in personnel, Heym ascribes to the publication of the text a level of importance in GDR literary history similar to that seen in Hermann Kant’s autobiography when Kant states that Ulbricht himself was to blame for the ban on Das Impressum. Moreover, the placing of the decision to publish or censor into the hands of one man, effectively representing an 73

74

See also Heym’s memorandum on this meeting dated 26 July 1973, BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 3, Bl. 120–28 (Bl. 124). Honecker later referred to his decision to allow the publication of Heym’s works as evidence of his supposedly liberal approach. See Krämer, “Der Hase und der Igel,” 81 and Jäger, “Das Wechselspiel von Selbstzensur und Literaturlenkung in der DDR,” 19. Krämer states that Honecker’s intervention also brought about the publication of Die Schmähschrift, but offers no evidence for this. See Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 127. See Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 127.

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undivided Party line, presents the image of a clear-cut division between powerless “intellect” and omnipotent “power,” rather than the process of discussion and negotiation from both sides seen clearly in the publication history of both Heym’s and Kant’s works. As stated above, all three of Heym’s historical works were finally published in the GDR in 1973 or early 1974. However, a document entitled “Information über negative und feindliche Aktivitäten von Personen aus dem kulturellen Bereich” (Information about Negative and Hostile Activities of Persons from the Cultural Field) dated 20 March 1975, demonstrates that the fact of publication did not change the Stasi’s view of the texts. Noting that Heym had numerous contacts with the West, where he published many of his works, including those which could not be published in the GDR due to their political message, the Stasi officer adds: “his books König David Bericht and Die Schmähschrift demonstrate similiarly dubious positions.” 75 As discussed above, the Stasi also recorded the negotiations between Heym and representatives of power in the early 1970s to be the result of tactical manoeuvring on Heym’s part rather than a desire of Party functionaries to reintegrate Heym into the GDR literary scene. The Stasi seemingly fails to register the changing relationship between Heym and the Party and maintains the illusion of a clear-cut response to Heym and his texts. As seen in the introductory chapter, while acknowledging that the Stasi files are steeped in ideological terminology and should be approached with the appropriate methodological tools, Roger Engelmann argues that the Stasi files in general paint a more realistic picture of the GDR than nonsecret files of the Party and that the opinions and events are presented in a more authentic form.76 Although much of the internal Party correspondence was undoubtedly motivated by the desire to report successes rather than failures, the manner in which the Stasi reports Heym’s behaviour in the early 1970s and, particularly, the failure to acknowledge any rapprochement between Heym and the state, indicates that the Stasi files may on occasion overemphasise the conflict between individuals and the Party.77 As Mike Dennis notes, one of the key problems with the use of the Stasi 75 76

BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 7, Bl. 32–34 (Bl. 32–33). Engelmann, “Zum Quellenwert,” 34–39. Cf. Schröter, “Das leitende Interesse des Schreibenden,” 40–41. Schröter agrees that the files are one of the most accurate sources of information, but, as has been seen, argues that several sources should be read in conjunction with each other to gain a fuller picture. 77 Jürgen Kuczynski states that Honecker once commented that he no longer even read the Stasi reports sent to him from the Ministry, because of their very negative portrayal of the GDR: “I might as well just watch Western television.” Jürgen Kuczynski, Nicht ohne Einfluß: Macht und Ohnmacht der Intellektuellen (Cologne: PapyRossa Verlag, 1993), 58.

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files is their crude division of friend and foe.78 Where Party functionaries take into account the nuances and differentiations of a writer’s involvement in the GDR in their negotiations and its files reflect the diverging opinions on the best methods of dealing with critical writers, the Stasi files record this interaction in a black-and-white manner that allows no room for such shades of grey. Lutz Rathenow describes this effect succinctly in his contribution to the 1992 publication Aktenkundig: “through the assessment of their activities in bureaucratic jargon [Akten-Deutsch], those who are considered enemies appear even more hostile, the others, in their loyalty to the state, even more sympathetic to the GDR.”79 As seen above, parallels can be drawn between this failure to acknowledge nuances and the division between critical writer and functionary seen in Heym’s autobiography; however, the roles of “good” and “bad” socialist are reversed. Where the Stasi presents the image of a hostile intellectual, purporting to be a socialist, but conspiring against the state and an unerring and unchanging Party, Heym presents the reader with an uncompromising socialist in conflict with dogmatic and morally inferior functionaries, who have perverted the socialist cause. Viewed through the lens of the Stasi files, the state takes on the contours described in totalitarian models with a clear-cut division between friend and foe and hostile and positive action. However, other sources suggest a greater degree of complexity and negotiation between individuals with different roles and interests, where the dividing line between the rulers and the ruled is more difficult to draw.

Censorship and Repression: 5 Tage im Juni, Biermann and Collin The End of Negotiations? 5 Tage im Juni, 1974 In an anonymous report dated 21 April 1976, the Stasi states that Heym’s hostile attitude towards really existing socialism is best characterised by

78

79

Dennis, The Rise and Fall of the German Democratic Republic, 218. Similarly Matthias Wanitschke notes that the Stasi viewed individuals either as potential IM or as enemies of the state. See Matthias Wanitschke, Methoden und Menschenbild des Ministeriums für Staatssicherheit der DDR (Cologne: Böhlau, 2001), 29. Lutz Rathenow, “Teile zu keinem Bild oder das Puzzle von der geheimen Macht,” in Schädlich, Aktenkundig, 62–90 (63). In this context, Beate Müller notes that Becker’s comments on SED cultural policy during an interview with Spiegel were reinterpreted by the Stasi to make them appear more hostile and part of a wider campaign against the GDR (“Jurek Becker im Visier des MfS,” 205).

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the political message of his 1974 publication, 5 Tage im Juni.80 The novel, 5 Tage im Juni, is the revised version of Der Tag X, which Heym originally completed in 1960 and which focuses on the events of the 17 June 1953. As discussed above, the text was rejected by the vast majority of Party functionaries due to its presentation of the uprising as, at least partially, the result of errors made by the Party, rather than the influence of Western agents.81 In his analysis of material in the Heym archive in Cambridge, Herbert Krämer notes that Heym offered the revised version of the text to Hans Bentzien (head of Verlag Neues Leben) for publication in 1974. On 26 April 1974 Heym received a publishing contract from Neues Leben for the world rights to 5 Tage; however, as discussed above, Heym was reluctant to sign over the world rights to any of his texts and refused to sign under these conditions, fearing the potential consequences for his book if there were a change in the political wind. He also suspected that Bentzien was under pressure to push back the publication of the novel as far as possible and eventually prevent publication altogether. Heym did, however, agree to a series of concessions with his Western publisher (Bertelsmann): publication in the West would not precede the publication of the text in the East; the two editions would be identical; the date of publication would be pushed back until after the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the GDR and Neues Leben would be offered financial compensation for publications outside of the GDR. He was, therefore, prepared to negotiate to a certain degree to promote the publication of the work. However, despite this willingness on Heym’s part to compromise, on 13 May 1974, Bentzien presented Heym with an eight-page reader’s report on the novel, written by Ingeburg Ortluff, including requests for considerable changes to the text, which Heym was not prepared to make. In September 1974, Heym was informed that his book would not appear in the GDR.82 Herbert Krämer argues that the failure to publish 5 Tage im Juni in the GDR in 1974 marked the beginning of the end of the Honecker liberalisation.83 Similarly, Peter Hutchinson considers that, “the eastern rejection of ‘5 Tage’ probably marks a turning point in GDR literature more aptly than does the exile of Wolf Biermann in November 1976.”84 This event is thus presented as an important caesura in the cultural history of the GDR and, particularly, in Heym’s relationship with the Party. What does this appar80 BStU MfS HA XX/9 1238, Bl. 1–19 (Bl. 15). This refers to Stefan Heym, 5 Tage im Juni (Munich: C. Bertelsmann, 1974). 81 For a detailed history of the publication process of Der Tag X see Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 39–124. 82 See ibid., 137–52. 83 Ibid., 152. 84 Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 168.

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ent caesura look like when public statements are confronted with behindthe-scenes contacts between writer and functionary? Does the rejection of the text result in a position of greater clarity in Heym’s relationship with the Party? I seek to answer these questions by examining how the rejection of this novel affected Heym’s public and semi-public relationship with leading functionaries in the cultural apparatus. The initial response to the Western publication of 5 Tage among members of the Party-loyal cultural intelligentsia was, according to the Stasi, one of confusion. Particularly problematic was the decision to allow Heym to travel to the Frankfurt Book Fair to promote the novel, his interviews given to Western journalists during his visit to Frankfurt, and the date of publication. An anonymous Stasi report dated 19 October 1974 lists responses to Heym’s work and his activities in the West: an American caricaturist85 is reported as stating that, as a communist, he cannot support such behaviour in the month of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the GDR; a GDR writer states that Heym’s work should be published in the GDR in a small edition to avoid the political problems caused by its publication solely in the West and to allow the work to be reviewed and discussed in the GDR; a writer and former officer of the British army argues that Heym has no reason to complain about the GDR, as they have given him everything he has asked for; another GDR author criticises Heym fiercely, but asks what can be done about him, as everything Heym does is done with the knowledge of the Party, and someone must have approved the visit to Frankfurt.86 The author of this report notes that the very fact that Heym was given permission to travel to Frankfurt is considered by some to be proof that Heym’s behaviour is authorised and conforms to the Party line. This lack of clarity regarding the Party’s attitude towards Heym is a further example of the uncertainty among those loyal to the Party regarding the Honecker liberalisation and the contours of permissible debate. Many of those quoted in these documents above reportedly wish to base their responses on what is expected of them as good comrades, but the ambivalent treatment of Heym has left them confused as to what this response should be. The rejection of the novel suggests that Heym has overstepped the boundaries of the acceptable; however, the granting of permission to attend the Frankfurt Book Fair to promote the work seems at odds with this. A speech by Konrad Naumann (First Secretary of the SED in Berlin) at a meeting of the Berlin Writers’ Union on the 21 November 1974

85 The names of those cited have been blacked out by the BStU. 86 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 5, Bl. 67–76 (Bl. 72–74).

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and attacks on Heym by Hager at the Thirteenth Meeting of the Central Committee at the beginning of 1975 point towards a clear Party response to the Western publication. Naumann emphasises that there is no reason to review the cultural policy decided at the Sixth Plenary of the Central Committee and that the Party had done its best to remove all obstacles to a “relationship of trust” with Heym, but that Heym was not prepared to do the same. He states that the decision not to publish 5 Tage im Juni was one that involved fundamental ideological questions; that Heym had portrayed the events of 17 June from the position of a social democrat, rather than a socialist and had called into question the leading role of the working class and the Party.87 Similarly, Hager stated that Heym’s behaviour went against “the fundamental position of the role and politics of our Party and our socialist state of workers and peasants”88 and that, in his interviews with Western journalists, Heym had taken the position of the “right-wing social democrats and anticommunist propagandists.”89 Here, the official position of the Party is thus one of clear-cut categories. Krämer notes that in the period following these damaging comments by leading Party functionaries, Heym was the subject of increased observation by the Stasi, experienced cancellation of readings with only flimsy excuses, and his publisher, Verlag Der Morgen, did not receive the necessary paper to produce already agreed reprints of his works:90 seemingly, the willingness of the Party to negotiate with Heym was at an end. However, where Naumann’s and Hager’s comments suggest a position of clarity towards Heym, the stance of Party functionaries can be seen to be more complex when one bears in mind that Heym was still able to negotiate permission to attend readings in West Germany and to publish an anthology of short stories with Verlag Der Morgen in 1975 (although he was forced to remove some of the more contentious stories from this collection). Furthermore, Krämer notes that Heym continued to have personal contact with the nomenclature.91 What of Heym’s attitude towards the Party and leading cultural functionaries? How was this affected by the failure to publish 5 Tage? In this regard, Heym’s publications and behaviour in West Germany are revealing. In an article in the New York Times in March 1975, although critical of a revolution that cannot cross from one Berlin street to the next, of the mistakes of the political elite and the bureaucracy of the Party, and of the fail-

87 88 89 90 91

SAPMO Barch DY 30/IV B2/9.06/63. Cited in Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 155. Cited in Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 155. Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 156. Ibid., 159.

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ings of the GDR economy, Heym defends the building of the Berlin wall as a historical necessity, states that, if unemployment in the West continues to grow, Honecker might rent the wall to the West and that the Party has played an important role in helping the GDR towards being one of the ten largest industrial nations.92 An anonymous report on a reading from Der König David Bericht in Duisburg dated 12 February 1975 suggests that Heym also remained cautious in his statements regarding the GDR when speaking at readings in the West. In his discussion of the falsification of history in relation to Der König David Bericht, Heym reportedly argues that both Die Welt and Neues Deutschland do not report facts faithfully,93 rather than focusing solely on the issues of the manipulation of history under socialism. Moreover, he is recorded as emphasising the promotion of literature among the working class in the GDR, which means there is no significant difference between the interests of the working class and intelligentsia.94 The author of the report does state that Heym attacked literary criticism in the GDR and suggested that if he were to read from 5 Tage im Juni in the GDR, the organisers of those readings would suffer political difficulties; however, his behaviour leads the author of the report to conclude that Heym avoided any direct criticism of the state or government.95 Similarly, the author of a second anonymous report on a reading in Cologne, dated 17 February 1975, also concludes that neither Heym nor his audience directly attacked the GDR during the discussion, although he or she ascribes this largely to the failure of the audience to ask politically provocative questions.96 The author of another report dated 17 Februrary 1975 concludes that Heym did attack the GDR at this reading, but in a concealed and refined manner, which was not always clear to his listeners.97 According to these sources, which largely record the same events and same statements made by Heym, although they offer different perspectives on these events, Heym does not deny his conflicts with the Party at these readings, indeed he cannot deny that 5 Tage im Juni has been banned in the GDR; however, he plays down these conflicts and demonstrates the criticism of West Germany also contained in his works and points towards positive aspects of GDR cultural policy. In Nachruf, Heym frames his refusal to attack the GDR when abroad in terms of integrity: “if he [Heym] wants to remain and appear credible, then 92 Stefan Heym, “Leben in Ostdeutschland” (23 March 1975), in Wege und Umwege, 321– 32. 93 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 6, Bl. 64–72 (Bl. 67). 94 Ibid., Bl. 69. 95 Ibid., Bl. 71. 96 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 6, Bl. 83–93 (Bl. 87 and Bl. 92). 97 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 6, Bl. 95–100 (Bl. 99)

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he has to say what he has to say about his dispute with the Party bosses on home soil, within reach of the arm of power at any time” (Nachruf, 743). However, in view of the protection offered to him by his international status, which he himself acknowledges in Nachruf, and the fact that the Party was always listening to comments made in the West and could thus act on them, this does not seem adequate explanation for his refusal to discuss his conflicts with the ruling elite outside of the GDR. In Nachruf, Heym criticises Biermann for his outspoken behaviour in the West, describing his interview for Stern in Hamburg to be “vain and brazen and full of indiscretions” (Nachruf, 798). The consequences for Biermann were an escalation of his conflict with the Party, leading ultimately to his expulsion. In light of this, I would argue that Heym’s behaviour in the West, rather than solely an attempt to retain his integrity, is designed to allow him the possibility of continuing to negotiate with the ruling elite for exit visas and for the publication of his texts.98 This, in turn, suggests that, although the ban on 5 Tage im Juni was an important turning point for the relationship between Heym and representatives of power in the GDR, Heym had not given up entirely on the possibility of working with the ruling elite in the future and did not seek a complete rupture with the Party. In sum, when examined in detail, these events, which are frequently portrayed as a caesura in the cultural history of the GDR, take on a different significance. While the West-only publication of 5 Tage clearly had an impact on Heym’s relationship with power, both Heym and Party functionaries continued to make efforts to keep the channels of communication open. The End of Negotiations II? The Consequences of the Biermann Affair, 1976–1977 A second key event in the cultural-political history of the GDR, and one which is frequently represented as a turning point for many GDR writers is the expulsion of Wolf Biermann from the GDR in November 1976 and the ensuing protest from writers and other intellectuals.99 Heym was one of 98 Borgwardt makes a similar point noting that Heym supported the stability of this personal and direct link to the ruling elite through “trust-building measures” (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 263). 99 See, for example, Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 254; Ian Wallace, “Politics of Confrontation: The Biermann Affair and its Consequences,” in Goodbody and Tate, Geist und Macht: Writers and the State in the GDR, 68–80 (74); Joachim Wittkowski, “Die DDR und Biermann. Über den Umgang mit kritischer Intelligenz: Ein gesamtdeutsches Resümee,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, 20 (1996): 37. Arne Born argues that the Biermann expulsion was “the first in the last thirteen years of the GDR.” Arne Born,

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the first signatories of the initial protest against the expulsion of Wolf Biermann and one of the many intellectuals who suffered increased observation by the State Security Service in the wake of the Biermann affair.100 In this section, I analyse the changes in Heym’s relationship with the state in the wake of the Biermann expulsion as portrayed in the files of the Stasi and SED and in comparison with Heym’s portrayal of this period in Nachruf. Does the expulsion of Biermann reveal itself to be a more significant turning point in terms of the relationship between Heym and the state? What impact does this event have on Heym’s ability and willingness to negotiate with those in power? A report written by Hoffmann and dated 12 September 1977, that is, 10 months after the expulsion of Biermann, records details of a meeting between Heym and Hoffmann principally regarding Heym’s proposed participation at a colloquium for East European literature in Venice. Hoffmann reports his statement that he could not understand why Heym wanted to attend the colloquium when it was quite clearly a meeting of anticommunist and anti-Soviet agitators. Moreover, he recalls that he informed Heym that the Party had been following his pronouncements in West Germany and has concluded that Heym has not kept to his previous promises: his criticism of really existing socialism is growing ever closer to the anticommunist propaganda of the enemies of socialism and stands in contradiction to his antifascist past.101 This is starkly different from the conciliatory stance of Hoffmann and other Party functionaries in the early 1970s and suggests an important shift in the attitude of the ruling elite towards Heym. This shift is further highlighted by an anonymous document from the Department for Culture of the Central Committee entitled “Information über Veröffentlichungen von Stefan Heym, Jurek Becker, Günter Kunert und Heiner Müller in der Westpresse” (Information about Publications by Stefan Heym, Jurek Becker, Günter Kunert and Heiner Müller in the Western Press) and dated 27 September 1977. The author of this document

“Kampf um Legitimation: Stabilität und Instabilität der SED-Herrschaftsstrukturen,” in Berbig et al., In Sachen Biermann, 44–65 (64). Dennis Tate argues in 1984 that the tolerance of the early 1970s was still evident in the 1980s, indicated by the willingness of cultural functionaries to publish the majority of provocative works of this period, but that this tolerance was “coupled with evident authoritarian disapproval.” Dennis Tate, “Beyond ‘Kulturpolitik’: The GDR’s Established Authors and the Challenge of the 1980s,” in The GDR in the 1980s, ed. Ian Wallace (Tayport: Hutton Press, 1984), 15–29 (24). 100 Walther notes that in 1974 the Stasi were running eight Operativer Vorgang files (including Heym’s); in 1976/77 this figure had increased nearly fourfold. See Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 381. 101 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 14, Bl. 115–29 (Bl. 115).

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asserts that opinions of Heym, Becker, Kunert and Müller are being used by the enemy for anticommunist attacks against the GDR and lists the content of their “hostile” views: attacks on the leading role of the Party; demands for “socialism with a somewhat different character” and assertion of the role of the writer as critic.102 This document is strikingly similar in form and content to the anonymous report compiled by the Writers’ Union and entitled “Information über die publizistische Tätigkeit Stefan Heyms” (Information about the Journalistic Activities of Stefan Heym), which was circulated shortly after the Eleventh Plenary on 31 March 1966. This document also criticised Heym’s pronouncements outside of the GDR and contended that Heym did not accept the leading role of the Party.103 The dominant language and expressive style being used in reference to Heym appeared to be returning to those of the 1960s.104 What was Heym’s response to this shift in attitude? What, if any, changes can be registered in his approach towards negotiations? Bathrick argues that, “for many intellectuals, crushing the Biermann protest meant dampening the hopes for inner-Party reform that had been generated with the arrival of Honecker in 1971.”105 Hoffmann’s description of Heym’s behaviour in the meeting suggests that Heym viewed the Biermann affair 102 SAPMO Barch DY 30/IV B2/9.06/61. 103 SAPMO BArch DY 30/IV A2/9.04/487. 104 It should also be noted that this document does not refer solely to Heym; the author of this report demonstrates a similar reaction to the behaviour of Becker, Kunert and Heiner Müller in this period. However, the response of the individual authors to this hostility from the Party was varied. Both Jurek Becker and Günter Kunert left the GDR for the West in 1977 and 1979 respectively. Heiner Müller remained in the GDR and did not dull his confrontational stance; however, as he has revealed since the Wende, Müller attempted to use his clandestine meetings with the Stasi as a method of communicating with the Party where open discussion with functionaries was not possible (see chapter one). As will be discussed below, Heym’s specific response was a complex balance between open criticism of the Party in the West and a willingness to meet and negotiate with Party functionaries behind the scenes, in order to secure a public forum for this criticism. 105 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 51. Similar arguments are put forward in: Roland Berbig and Holger Jens Karlson, “‘Leute haben sich eindeutig als Gruppe erwiesen’: Zur Gruppenbildung bei Wolf Biermanns Ausbürgerung,” in Berbig et al., In Sachen Biermann, 11–28 (20 and 26); Jörg Judersleben, “‘Ich muß es vielen Leuten sagen.’ Casus belli: Öffentlichkeit,” in Berbig et al., In Sachen Biermann, 29–43 (40); Stuart Parkes, “The German ‘Geist und Macht’ Dichotomy,” 53; Walther, Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 85; Wallace, “Politics of Confrontation,” 75; Reinhard K. Zachau, “The Stasi as the Force of Evil: Collin’s Faustian Struggle with the Stasi Boss Urack in Stefan Heym’s Collin,” in German Writers and the Politics of Culture, ed. Paul Cooke and Andrew Plowmann (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 41–55 (44). Borgwardt describes the Biermann affair as the “culmination point” of the tense relationship between Heym and the state (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 226). Fulbrook argues that, for many writers, the expulsion of Biermann represented the end of a brief period of normalisation at the beginning of the 1970s. See “Ein ‘ganz normales Leben’?,” 127–28.

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in this manner. According to Hoffmann, Heym expresses his ever-growing disappointment with the retraction of the changes in cultural policy since the Eighth Party Congress and the growing influence of those who want to return to the practices of the past. Heym reportedly states that the events following the Biermann expulsion have completely shaken his trust in the Party and that he cannot accept their wish that he not attend the colloquium in Venice. He is recorded as asserting that his criticism of socialism is vastly different from that of those who wish to remove the Party from power and dissolve the GDR, but that the time of self-censorship is over for him and he considers this attitude to be in line with the conclusions of the Eighth and Ninth Party Congresses and direct support for Honecker, who has obviously succumbed to the pressure of conservative forces in the Party.106 This stance is considerably more confrontational than that seen in Heym’s negotiations with representatives of power in the early 1970s, and his statement that the time of self-censorship is over indicates an unwillingness to compromise or negotiate any longer. He cushions his refusal to co-operate in a narrative framework of the process of liberalisation and the policy of the General Secretary, thereby suggesting a willingness to stick to official discourse. However, he also asserts his right to interpret the Party line as he wishes and states his intention to continue a process of liberalisation, which he welcomed as an opportunity for change and the publication of his previously banned works, but which the ruling elite appear to be attempting to revise. Although it must be considered that this is only one view of Heym’s behaviour in this meeting, the very fact that Hoffmann portrays Heym in this light points towards a breakdown of relations between Heym and the Party. In Nachruf, Heym discusses at length the disciplinary measures taken against those signatories who were Party members and the mass exodus of writers from the GDR in the years following the Biermann affair. However, in his description of the consequences of the Biermann affair for him personally, he focuses on the increased observation by the Stasi (Nachruf, 805). Although this is undoubtedly an important aspect, the reader learns little of the impact of the Biermann affair on Heym’s relationship with Party functionaries: neither their changing attitude towards him, nor his dwindling willingness to negotiate with them.107 Heym comments earl-

106 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 14, Bl. 115–29. 107 For a more detailed discussion of Heym’s presentation of the Stasi in Nachruf, also in comparison with his portrayal of the Stasi after 1989, see Sara Jones, “Wie man ‘das Gruseln’ lernt: Stefan Heym, Autobiographie und die Stasi-Akten,” Autobiographie und historische Krisenerfahrung, ed. Heinz-Peter Preusser and Helmut Schmitz (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2010), 117–26.

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ier in the text that, after the publication of Der König David Bericht, he had believed himself to be sufficiently “on the same team again” to ask Hoffmann to consider an attempt to reintegrate Biermann; however, his portrayal of the process of reconciliation suggests, as discussed above, that Heym’s reintegration was at the initiative of the Party leadership and that the author’s own stance was unaltered. Moreover, the final publication of his works was, in Heym’s account in Nachruf, the result of a whim of the General Secretary, rather than behind-the-scenes negotiation on his part. Heym’s portrayal of the impact of the Biermann affair is thus one of continuation of his never-ending conflict with the ruling elite: the Party reacts to the writers’ protest at Biermann’s expulsion with repressive measures, but Heym remains unchanging and uncompromising: the clear-cut conflict between “intellect” and “power” continues and the involvement of the secret police highlights this division. This shift in attitude on the part of both writer and functionary would seem to confirm the assertion that the Biermann affair was the “beginning of a process of disintegration.”108 Indeed, as will be seen, after 1976, Heym’s relationship with the Party became ever more antagonistic: in 1979 he was expelled from the Writers’ Union after being fined nine thousand marks for publishing Collin in the West without first seeking the permission of the Office for Copyright Law and throughout the 1980s he was involved in the peace and ecological movements under the umbrella of the Evangelical Church. However, could Heym really achieve the position of clarity suggested in Nachruf and in his statement that the time of self-censorship is over? As the meeting with Hoffmann described above demonstrates, if a writer wanted to remain in the GDR and yet be internationally effective, interaction with representatives of power was unavoidable, even if he or she took on a critical and confrontational stance. A further example of Heym’s willingness to meet and negotiate with leading functionaries in this period is a meeting with Gerhard Henniger on 26 September 1977 regarding a visa for West Germany to negotiate the publication of the anthology Auskunft II. In the course of this meeting, Heym takes on a confrontational stance, but gives Henniger assurances that the anthology will not be against the GDR.109 Tate argues that even among those authors who left the GDR in the wake of the Biermann affair, in all spheres of cultural production, no one “was yet prepared to concede that reformist hopes should be definitively abandoned.”110 The continued willingness of 108 Wallace, “Politics of Confrontation,” 74. 109 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 30, Bl. 3–7. 110 Dennis Tate, “Keeping the Biermann Affair in Perspective: Repression, Resistance and the Articulation of Despair in the Cultural Life of the Honecker Era,” in Retrospect and

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Heym and cultural functionaries to meet and negotiate can also be viewed in this context. In Vierzig Jahre, Günter de Bruyn describes a similar desire for a clearcut relationship with the regime, but indicates that such clear divisions were not possible in the complex system of the desire to control literary production and the wish to appear liberal in the eyes of the West. He states that he was prepared to compromise and make significant changes to his first novel, Der Hohlweg, in order to ensure its publication (Vierzig, 116).111 Later in his career, de Bruyn feels this position is no longer tenable and seeks clarity in his relationship with power, refusing to state publicly that his novel Neue Herrlichkeit (FRG, 1984; GDR, 1985) (New Glory, 2009) had been misinterpreted by critics in the West, when this was demanded of him by his publisher in the East (Vierzig, 250). However, de Bruyn admits that such clarity was not possible in the complex system of the Party’s desire for both prestige and control: he was not punished and the novel was published a year later (Vierzig, 251). He is left to write in peace, though the price is that Party functionaries use his name as proof of a tolerant cultural policy. He considers that he is pushed into a position of privilege through a process of “appropriation” [Vereinnahmen] (Vierzig, 251) and that his critical works are published as reward for his “standing in the sidelines” [Abseitsstehen] of the more public dissident scene. Although Heym shows no comparable awareness of this in Nachruf, his position in 1977 can be seen to be similarly ambiguous. As Manfred Jäger argues, as long as writers believed in the “ability of those in power to see reason” they were forced to enter into some form of partnership with leading functionaries.112 Although Heym expresses unwillingness to compromise, and his public opposition to many aspects of really existing socialism could not be described as “standing in the sidelines,” his status as an author with an international reputation, his belief in a socialist state on German soil and his desire to remain in the country mean that his rupture with the ruling elite is not complete.113

Review. Aspects of the Literature of the GDR 1976–1990, ed. Robert Atkins and Martin Kane (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1997), 1–15 (7). 111 See also in this context Günter de Bruyn, “Der Holzweg,” in Frauendienst (Leipzig: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1986), 167–71. First published in Eröffnungen. Schriftsteller über ihr Erstlingswerk, ed. Gerhard Schneider (Berlin: Aufbau Verlag, 1974). 112 Jäger, “Das Wechselspiel von Selbstzensur und Literaturlenkung in der DDR,” 25. 113 Malcolm Pender makes a similar point when he argues that it is questionable if Heym would have survived as a writer if his “opposition to orthodoxies was as outright and straightforward as it appears.” See Malcolm Pender, “Popularising Socialism: The Case of Stefan Heym,” in Socialism and the Literary Imagination: Essays of East German Writers, ed. Martin Kane (New York: Berg, 1991), 61–76 (74).

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The End of Negotiations III? Collin and the Expulsions of 1979 Borgwardt considers that with the publication of the novel Collin in West Germany in 1979, Heym once again stepped over the boundaries of permissible debate.114 The novel, focusing on the show-trials of the 1950s and including discussion of the role of the Stasi, touched on major taboos in GDR culture and society.115 As discussed in chapter one, this crossing of boundaries led to Heym’s prosecution under currency laws and his expulsion from the Writers’ Union alongside eight other writers, who had expressed their support for Heym’s cause and concern at the criminal charges brought against him. Rolf Richter argues that the 1979 expulsions, “irreparably hardened the fronts between officials in the GDR and many producers of art and culture.”116 Similarly, noting that the main part of the narrative in Heym’s own description of his role in the GDR in his autobiography concludes with his expulsion from the Writers’ Union, Dennis Tate argues that 1979 is frequently the point of departure for the production of autobiography by GDR writers of Heym’s generation and suggests that 1989 was less of a watershed than 1979 for many of these authors.117 The expulsions of 1979 are thus frequently represented as a further turning point for GDR writers in their relationship with the state – a caesura in the cultural politics of the GDR, which, for many critical writers, signalled a

114 Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 250. 115 Franz Huberth states in reference to Collin: “what Heym does here is a breaking of taboos.” For Huberth these taboos were the demasking of a “high society” in the GDR; the characterisation of the ruling elite as opportunistic, egocentric, pleasure-seeking and weak-willed; the description of Berlin as run-down and boring; the presentation of the Stasi as a cynical institution and the discussion of the show-trials of the 1950s. Franz Huberth, Aufklärung zwischen den Zeilen: Stasi als Thema in der Literatur (Cologne: Böhlau, 2003), 208–09. Barck argues that there were three key areas in GDR literary and historical discourse that remained “secrets” and could not be discussed: anything that ran counter to the heroic and positive image of the Soviet Union; negative or critical images of communist parties or their claim to rule; views that called into question the socialist system. Collin can certainly be seen to fit into the first two of these categories. The degree of freedom in discussion of the issues of the Stalinist past of the Party marked, according to Barck, the boundaries of the possible at a given point in GDR cultural history. See Simone Barck, “Öffentlichkeits-Defizite: Tabuisierungen,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 418–31 (418 and 431). 116 Rolf Richter, Dauerspannung: Kulturpolitik in der DDR (Rostock: Ingo Koch Verlag, 2002), 68. Walther argues that 1979 strengthened the polarisation of GDR writers into three categories, “system-conformist, partly critical (critical-loyal) and oppositional.” Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 98–99. 117 Dennis Tate, “The End of Autobiography? The Older Generation of East German Authors Take Stock,” in Legacies and Identity: East and West German Literary Responses to Unification, ed. Martin Kane (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2002), 11–26 (19). See also Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 42–43 and 142–43.

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clear break from the Party. In this respect, the secondary literature on these events echoes the search for clarity suggested by de Bruyn and reflected in Heym’s reported statement that the time of self-censorship is over. Is the final decade of Heym’s existence in the GDR characterised by open conflict with the ruling elite, or rather by a relationship with the Party described by Borgwardt as a state of “cold peace”?118 What were the contours of this cold peace? Is this a caesura in Heym’s relationship with representatives of power or a shift in the boundaries of what can be achieved through negotiation? Does Heym finally achieve the position of clarity he reportedly stated he was seeking in 1977? Pre-publication: Fear of Reprisals In an assessment of the results of the observation of Heym in October 1977, dated 9 November 1977, the anonymous Stasi officer notes that Heym completed a manuscript with the title “Collin” at the beginning of 1977 and that this was a project he had begun in 1974. According to this source, Heym had expressed fears that he might be expelled from the GDR, when this text is published in the Federal Republic.119 Heym articulates similar concerns regarding the possible consequences of publishing Collin when reflecting on this period in Nachruf, stating that on completion of the text in the wake of the Biermann expulsion, he noted to himself, “I doubt if I can afford to publish this in my lifetime” (Nachruf, 819). He describes how every one of his actions at this time was dominated by the thought of the manuscript: “whenever he [Heym] spoke somewhere, and whenever he acted, whether publicly or in closed circles, it was always also about his Collin, he always had in his mind: how am I going to push this book through?” (Nachruf, 819). This fear of reprisals and Heym’s concerns for his future in the GDR after the publication of the novel shed further light on Heym’s continued willingness to negotiate with Party functionaries after the Biermann expulsion, as discussed above. Heym did not seek the clear break with the Party and state that would be brought about by expulsion from the GDR, but wished to publish his critical text at the very least in West Germany. He was thus left with no choice but to negotiate with the ruling elite. Borgwardt argues that Heym’s concerns regarding the publication of Collin were also manifest in his public pronouncements regarding the novel

118 Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 254. 119 BStU MfS AOP 25507/91 30, Bl. 91–97 (Bl. 95).

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in the period leading up to its publication in West Germany. She notes that at the beginning of 1979, in an interview with the ARD correspondent Fritz Pleitgen, Heym vehemently rejected the assertion that Collin was an anti-GDR book. She argues that this was a tactical manoeuvre on Heym’s part: “an open, blanket declaration against the GDR in the Western media would have been extremely dangerous, because the SED leadership would then have had to punish the enemy of the state severely in order to ‘keep face’.”120 Although this seems to be an oversimplification of Heym’s political position as a defender of socialism and of a socialist state on German soil, but fierce critic of really existing socialism, Borgwardt’s analysis of these pronouncements as indicative of a desire to maintain room for manoeuvre and negotiation with the ruling elite is correct. As with Heym’s behaviour in the West after the ban on the publication of 5 Tage im Juni, this in turn points towards a continued belief on Heym’s part in the possibility of negotiation and the ambivalence of 1976 as a turning point in the relationship between Heym and the Party. Post-publication and Post-prosecution: The Contours of Cold Peace The prosecution of Heym under customs laws for the publication of Collin in West Germany and the resultant expulsions from the Writers’ Union in June 1979 were dramatic examples of the Party’s desire to control literary freedom. Several of those writers affected made the decision to leave the GDR in 1979 or shortly afterwards.121 However, the seemingly clear-cut break from the Party and state institutions suggested by Heym’s expulsion from the Writers’ Union is seen to be more complex when the behind-thescenes manoeuvring of both Party functionaries and writer are examined in detail. A document in the files of the Department of Culture of the Central Committee, entitled “Überlegungen zur weiteren Arbeit mit einigen Schriftstellern” (Reflections on the Continued Work with some Writers) demonstrates a tension between the desire of Party functionaries to limit the availability of the works of critical authors, but at the same time to keep them integrated in the systems of cultural production in the GDR. No author is given and the date of this document is 31 May 1979, that is, immediately before the expulsions from the Writers’ Union. Several of the measures suggested in this file note are designed to silence the affected 120 Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 237. The interview with Pleitgen is reprinted in Wege und Umwege, 360–63. 121 For example, Klaus Poche, Joachim Seyppel, Klaus Schlesinger, Kurt Bartsch and KarlHeinz Jakobs all left the GDR for West Germany in either 1979 or 1980.

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writers (Heym, Erich Loest, Joachim Seyppel, Klaus Schlesinger, Dieter Schubert, Martin Stade, Jurek Becker and Adolf Endler) through preventing publicity of their works in bookshops and libraries. However, in terms of public readings, the author suggests that these writers continue to be permitted to appear, “to a politically justifiable extent,” in order to prevent them being left no alternative but to conduct readings under the umbrella of the church, that is, to keep them within the Party’s sphere of control. He or she also notes that the publishing houses will have a particular responsibility for continuing the “political work” with these authors should they be expelled from the Writers’ Union.122 Furthermore, in a letter to Hager, dated 9 July 1979, Ursula Ragwitz (Department Head [Abteilungsleiterin] in the Department of Culture) makes a concrete suggestion regarding who in the cultural apparatus should now be responsible for these writers; she notes that no one in Heym’s publishing house, Der Morgen, was considered suitable and recommends that someone be found in the Main Office for Publishing and Book Trade.123 Far from wishing to suspend dialogue with these critical writers, Party functionaries actively sought a continuation of negotiations. The clarity suggested in the official position is, once again, not reflected in other sources. A further tension can be seen in the period immediately following Heym’s expulsion from the Writers’ Union between this desire to control Heym through binding him to the systems of cultural production in the GDR and the wish to avoid public confrontation, which might damage the image of the GDR. This tension is most apparent in decisions regarding Heym’s applications to travel to the West. A letter from Hager to Honecker dated 29 October 1979 is particularly interesting in this respect. Hager informs Honecker that Heym has requested a visa to attend a PEN festival in the Netherlands in November 1979. He indicates that Heym has already discussed this matter in the Ministry for Culture and has assured him that he will not comment on GDR policy during his visit. Hager recommends that the visit be allowed, “even if only to disarm enemy propaganda about the apparent obstruction of Heym.”124 Honecker signals his agreement with Hager’s suggestion by signing the letter with the comment, “agreed.”125 Heym’s position of isolation, his expulsion from the Writers’ Union, did not preclude him from making use of structures, which Mit-

122 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/9.06/61. See also Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 243. 123 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/9.06/61. See also Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 248. 124 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. 125 Ibid.

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tenzwei describes as “feudal,” that is, turning directly to individuals with the power to make decisions.126 This also feeds into questions of the nature of privilege in the GDR. Heym is not granted the privilege of travel as a reward for his loyalty, but rather as a response to Western publicity. Interestingly, the accompanying letter from Hoffmann to Hager, dated 15 October 1979, indicates that Heym himself brought up the consideration of allowing the visit in order to combat anti-GDR propaganda in the West.127 This not only points towards a continued willingness by Heym to continue meeting and negotiating with Party functionaries in order to maintain his public forum in the West, it is also an example of the manner in which both writer and functionary work within the same linguistic market, in order to achieve the common goal of securing Heym’s visit to the Netherlands. The involvement of both Hager and Honecker in the decision-making process also demonstrates the importance placed upon critical writers’ appearances in the West and particularly on Heym as a political figure.128

Critical Voice: Alternative Public Forums, the Writer and the State in the Late GDR The period after 1979 was one in which Heym was particularly vocal as a critic of the GDR and of world politics in general. The collection of journalistic essays and interviews in the volume Einmischung (Intervention) demonstrates that Heym spoke out on issues of peace, the arms race, inter-German relations, German identity and unification and the failure to come to terms adequately with the Nazi past.129 The main part of Heym’s autobiography, however, ends with the expulsions of 1979 and very little

126 Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 300. Similarly, noting that many of the expellees continued to have some of their work published in the GDR in the 1980s, Dennis Tate argues that although the expulsions were “clearly a major watershed […] it would be misleading to see them as an amputation in the sense that Joachim Walther has suggested.” Tate, “Keeping the Biermann Affair in perspective,” 9. Klötzer and Lokatis similarly describe these structures as “feudalistic” (“Criticism and Censorship,” 252). 127 SAPMO BArch DY30/IV B2/2.024/89. See also Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 248–49. 128 Joachim Ackermann notes that Hager always involved Honecker in decisions relating to visas for particularly difficult cases where political complications might be expected. See Joachim Ackermann, “Kurt Hager – ein guter Mensch? Künstler, Ausreise und Parteiwillkür,” Zeitschrift des Forschungsverbundes SED-Staat, 3 (1997): 48. Werner Mittenzwei states that towards the end of the 1970s, the willingness of cultural functionaries to grant visas to writers became a criterion for measuring that particular author’s artistic significance (Die Intellektuellen, 302). 129 Stefan Heym, Einmischung: Gespräche, Reden, Essays, (Munich: C.Bertelsmann, 1990).

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information is given on Heym’s role in the GDR after this event. As Tate notes, only a “couple of historical moments from the middle 1980s are identifiable toward the end of the text – the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War […] and the accession of Gorbachev in the Soviet Union […] – but essentially with regard to their impact on him [Heym] rather than on the world outside.”130 Tate argues that through ending his autobiography in this manner, “Heym is seeking to present the entire period since the crisis of 1979 […] as a prolonged ‘Denkpause’ [pause for thought]” and the rise of Gorbachev as a means of “preserving his own personal continuity,” that is commitment to his vision of true socialism.131 In ending his description on such a high point of conflict with the regime and his exclusion from the official literary sphere, Heym also suggests that his expulsion from the Writers’ Union represented the final rupture with the Party, that he had achieved a position of clarity and that this was maintained for the remainder of the GDR’s history. What do other sources reveal about this period? Does material from behind the scenes reflect the clear-cut relationship and the continuity suggested by Heym’s portrayal of this period as a “pause for thought”? Can further shifts in the relationship between Heym and Party functionaries be registered in the turbulent final decade of the GDR’s existence? The West as Public Forum: Between Privilege and Control Although Heym’s opportunities to publish in the GDR were extremely limited in the early to mid–1980s, he continued to publish in West Germany, including the novels Ahasver in 1981 and Schwarzenberg in 1984.132 He was also extremely vocal in the Western media, including appearances on West German television. It might be thought that the Party would be keen to prevent Heym from accessing this public forum, which, particularly in the case of television, also reached the majority of the population of the GDR. However, in the course of the 1980s, the willingness of leading Party functionaries to grant Heym visas for travel to the West was not restricted to isolated journeys, such as his visit to the Netherlands described above. An anonymous report in the files of the MfS, dated 10 May 1982, records that Heym applied for and was granted a long-term visa for multiple trips to West Berlin from 1 April 1981 to 31 December 1982. Between 130 Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 144. 131 Ibid., 144. 132 Stefan Heym, Ahasver (Munich: C. Bertelsmann, 1981)/The Wandering Jew (New York: Holt, Rinehart, 1984); Schwarzenberg (Munich: C. Bertelsman, 1984).

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April 1981 and April 1982, Heym apparently made use of this visa to spend a total of 107 days in West Germany, West Berlin and other non-socialist countries. The author of this report considers that Heym has abused these “generous opportunities to travel” to repeatedly attack the GDR in the Western media, particularly in comments relating to the Solidarity movement in Poland and the unofficial peace movement in the GDR. The Stasi officer recommends that Höpcke be asked to speak to Heym and to inform him that future travel opportunities are dependent on him demonstrating loyal behaviour and that continued attacks on the GDR will result in his visa applications being refused.133 This not only demonstrates the willingness of the Party to allow this critical author to have continued access to the West, it also suggests that the granting and withholding of these visas were viewed as a method of controlling his behaviour without resorting to openly repressive measures, which would be damaging to the image of the GDR. As Wilfried van der Will notes, “the ‘wall’ does not only exclude the ‘West,’ it also protects a system of social, cultural and economic privilege within the GDR and makes travel to the ‘West’ itself a privilege.”134 The report discussed above demonstrates that Party functionaries could use the privilege of travel as a bargaining tool in their negotiations with critical writers, that is, as a method of control. The question remains to what extent this tool for negotiation was effective in Heym’s particular case, that is, to what degree he modified his behaviour in the West, in order to ensure that this public forum remained available to him. The various available sources on Heym’s behaviour in the Western media in the course of the late 1970s and 1980s present conflicting views of Heym’s comments on the GDR, his expulsion from the Writers’ Union and key issues in the Cold War conflict of the 1980s: peace, Poland, Glasnost and unification. An anonymous and undated Stasi report focusing on reactions to the expulsions from the Writers’ Union, for example, notes that in the period immediately following his expulsion, Heym, in contrast to Kurt Bartsch, Klaus Poche and Klaus Schlesinger, refused to give Western correspondents any information on the events in the Writers’ Union and that he cancelled a meeting with a BBC London correspondent.135 This suggests that Heym felt a need to be cautious and wanted to avoid an escalation of his conflict with the Party. However,

133 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 18, Bl. 117–20. 134 Wilfried van der Will, “The Nature of Dissidence in the GDR,” in Wallace, The GDR in the 1980s, 31–43 (39–40). 135 BStU MfS ZAIG 4475, Bl. 48–53 (Bl. 51–52). The name of the correspondent has been blacked out by the BStU.

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a Stasi report dated 19 December 1979 notes that this cautious attitude did not last: Heym provocatively demanded the publication of his speech to the Writers’ Union in Neues Deutschland and, when this was refused, permitted the speech to be published in full in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.136 Heym is also recorded as giving an interview to Dutch television on 31 July 1979, in which he spoke out against the change in law allowing writers to be sent to prison for publishing in the West without permission, “and slandered the GDR again in this context.” It is also noted that Heym attacked this change in law in his speech to the PEN in the Netherlands during the visit discussed above and that his comments were widely discussed in the media of the FRG.137 The Stasi’s perception of Heym’s pronouncements in the Western media in the early 1980s, on visits conducted under the terms of his long-term visa, further complicates these conflicting views of Heym’s behaviour. An anonymous Stasi file note dated 31 October 1980, for example, reports that Heym has used his visa to take part in various interviews and readings in the West and, in the course of these, repeatedly attacked the politics of the Party and the social order in the GDR.138 However, a second report dated 4 November 1980, while quoting verbatim from the first report in respect of Heym’s comments in West Germany, notes that during a reading in Stockholm on 11 September 1980 Heym avoided openly hostile attacks.139 In a report dated 13 March 1981, the Stasi officer, Captain Scholz, states that Heym’s comments during his visit to the FRG in October 1980 were the first such hostile and provocative comments by Heym in a long time, but adds that Heym avoided negative comments in later interviews in January and February 1981. Scholz explains Heym’s behaviour in October as the result of “antisocialist agitation” in the West during the preparations for the second CSCE conference in Madrid. He states that Heym’s later caution is due to Heym’s fear that his long-term visa might not be renewed in March 1981 and his hope that his novel Ahasver might be published in the GDR. According to this Stasi officer, Heym did not want to jeopard-

136 The speech is reprinted under the title “Nur Devisen – oder nicht doch Literatur?,” in Wege und Umwege, 368–73. 137 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 18, Bl. 90–93. Both interview and speech are reprinted under the title “Unser Schweigen wird lauter sein,” in Wege und Umwege, 374–77 and “Die Dialektik im Schaffensprozeß des Schriftstellers,” in Wege und Umwege, 378– 84. Borgwardt argues that Heym skilfully avoided directly attacking SED cultural policy in the speech, yet made clear the problem of artistic freedom and state censorship (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 250). This report indicates that this did not go unnoticed by the SED and Stasi. 138 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 18, Bl. 108–10 (Bl. 108). 139 BStU MfS AOP 26320/91 Beifügung 10, Bl. 78–82 (Bl. 78 and Bl. 80).

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ise discussions with Höpcke regarding the publication of the text through “negative-hostile” statements in the West.140 The inconsistency in Heym’s behaviour suggested in these reports might lead one to concur with Captain Scholz’s conclusion that the use of the privilege of travel was indeed effective in controlling Heym’s behaviour during his visits to West Germany and other non-socialist states. However, an analysis of Heym’s public pronouncements in the West in the course of the 1980s adds further ambiguity to the relationship between Heym’s behaviour and his access to the privilege of international travel. As Marion Brandt notes, Heym was the only GDR writer who spoke out against the declaration of a state of emergency in Poland at the first “Berliner Begegnung zur Friedensförderung” (Berlin Congress for the Promotion of Peace) in East Berlin on 13 December 1981.141 Moreover, in his statement on Poland, read on programmes on Sender Freies Berlin on 11 January 1982 and Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen on 12 January 1982, Heym openly supported the Solidarity movement and criticised a form of socialism in which the army and security forces are deployed against the working class.142 This very confrontational stance in the period in which his annually renewed long-term visa, issued in March 1981, was soon to become invalid, suggests that the threat of removal of this visa did not necessarily affect his decision on whether to speak publicly on a particular issue. Although, as discussed above, archive material suggests that at crisis points in his relationship with the ruling elite (notably after the Biermann affair and immediately after his expulsion from the Writers’ Union), Heym did attempt to avoid escalation of the conflict, he did not consistently consider it necessary to avoid criticism of Party and state in order to maintain the privileges granted to him by virtue of his status as an international writer. That the Party continued to issue Heym with visas throughout the 1980s suggests that Party functionaries were unwilling to act on the threats to withdraw these privileges and that the basis on which such visas were issued cannot be reduced to the “good” or “bad” behaviour of the individual writer, but rather that the link between privilege and control was more complex. That Party functionaries issued Heym with multiple visas in the 1980s also indicates that the relationship between this writer and the ruling elite was less clear-cut in this period than Heym implies in Nachruf. The Party was unwilling to al-

140 BStU MfS AOP 36797/92, Bl. 55–65 (Bl. 61). 141 Marion Brandt, “Öffentlichkeit war der Anfang vom Ende: Die Solidarnosc-Revolution in der Wahrnehmung von Intellektuellen in der DDR,” Deutschland Archiv, 4 (2004): 596. 142 Reprinted in Roger Woods, Opposition in the GDR under Honecker (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986), 138–39.

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low Heym to publish in the GDR, but simultaneously allowed him access to the Western media and granted him travel privileges far beyond those available to the rest of the population. The Shifting Party Line: The Beginning of the End? The question remains as to how Captain Scholz’s assessment of the effectiveness of this method of control should be analysed. It could be considered the result of a desire to report a successful curtailment of Heym’s criticism of the state and Party and a view of Heym as manipulative and hypocritical – very much in line with the Stasi’s perception of his negotiations with Party functionaries in the early 1970s. However, the inconsistencies in the Stasi’s reports on Heym’s stance towards the GDR in the Western media may be the result of the creation of the files as a collective enterprise. Reports are written on the basis of information provided by individual IM or an individual officer’s analysis of an interview given on Western television. The decision regarding whether or not Heym’s comments at a particular event should be considered “hostile” or direct attacks on the GDR is thus the result of a subjective interpretation by various individuals, with varied views of the boundaries of acceptable criticism. As seen above in relation to Heym’s behaviour at the reading in Cologne in February 1975, this aspect of the Stasi files is even more apparent in reports on readings in churches, where several IM often give conflicting assessments of the same comments at the same event. This feeds into broader discussions regarding the accuracy of the information contained in the files of the MfS. Engelmann and Henke contend that the production of accurate information was key to the efficiency of the Stasi and conclude that the files are of greater empirical value in research into areas of interest for the MfS than, for example, the files of the SED.143 Moreover, Engelmann argues that the accuracy of the files was increased by a “permanent evaluation, control and checking of their own information gathering,” a process he describes as not dissimilar to the source criticism of historians.144 However, this view of the Stasi files, particularly in reference to reports on an individual’s pronouncements or behaviour, fails to encompass the complexity of the manner in which they

143 Engelmann and Henke, “Einleitung,” 11. Walther makes a similar argument noting that the reliability of the IM, how they had come by the information and their relationship to the victim of observation was supposed to be controlled by the contact officer. See Sicherungsbereich Literatur, 19. 144 Engelmann, “Zum Quellenwert,” 30.

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were produced. As discussed above, the gathering of information from a large number of IM results in a large number of subjective, and often conflicting, interpretations of the same event and the officer producing the report on Heym’s actions in this or that month must base his or her report on these interpretations, him or herself making a subjective selection of the material he or she wishes to include.145 Where the various IM reports give near identical accounts of actual events, as in the reading in Cologne, the files can be used as sources of information on what Heym did or said. However, regarding the perception of this behaviour, whether or not it was viewed as an attack on the state, the files can only reveal that the Party line or view on what constituted hostile actions, and along which these actions and pronouncements could be interpreted, was fragmented. Furthermore, as we have seen, the view of what constituted hostile behaviour was liable to change over the course of time. This is seen particularly clearly in the response of the Stasi to Heym’s pronouncements in the Western media in the second half of the 1980s and particularly in reference to the events of the 17 June 1953. In a Stasi file note dated 18 June 1987, detailing Heym’s behaviour on an ARD television programme on 17 June 1987, with the title “Deutschland heute abend 17. Juni” [Germany Tonight: 17 June] Heym is described as avoiding openly hostile attacks and sticking to positions already known from previous pronouncements in the Western media: the root of the uprisings of the 17 June as being largely the result of a lack of self-criticism in the Party leadership and a distance between the Party and the workers. Indeed this is the position Heym took on the events of the 17 June 1953 in Der Tag X in 1960. However, in the 1960s, Heym’s view of the uprisings and the resulting ban on the novel played a key role in his conflict with the state and was cited in Honecker’s harsh criticism of Heym at the Eleventh Plenary. In contrast, in the late 1980s, the Stasi assesses this position as not being openly hostile. The publication of the novel in 1989 marked a further shift in perspective. As Krämer notes, the readers’ reports on the novel highlighted the historical accuracy of the text and, remarkably, its concurrence with official GDR histories, a far cry from the accusations of a completely false view of history put to Heym in 1960 and again in 1974.146 David Bathrick argues that the latter years of the GDR were characterised by a “shift in the whole conception of Kulturpolitik,” notably the “dissolving binary oppositional structure,” resulting not in the loss of the 145 Beate Müller notes a similar process of “shifts in emphasis” and the problem of a multiplicity of voices and authors in her analysis of Jurek Becker’s IM file (“Jurek Becker im Visier des MfS,” 206 and 209). 146 Krämer, Ein dreißigjähriger Krieg, 201–02.

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“epithets ‘progressive’ and ‘reactionary’,” but in the “absence of any enduring models […] for what these abstractions did and did not mean.”147 The multiple responses of the Stasi to Heym’s pronouncements in the West and the publication of 5 Tage im Juni, as well as Ahasver in 1988 (FRG, 1981) can be seen as evidence that supports Bathrick’s point.148 Moreover, as Ernest Wichner notes, much of the responsibility for the selection of works for publication was, in 1988, shifted to the publishing houses – the Ministry of Culture only saw those texts that it explicitly asked for.149 However, although this process undoubtedly paved the way for the publication of critical works, such as Ahasver, a letter from Hager to Hoffmann on 2 November 1989 indicates that to the end leading Party functionaries were reluctant to lose control of the decision-making process. Hager expresses his surprise that Hoffmann has suggested the publication of Heym’s Schwarzenberg (FRG, 1984) and Maron’s Flugasche (FRG, 1981) (Flight of Ashes, 1986) and that Höpcke has already announced the publication of these texts in Neues Deutschland: “obviously there is no order for him anymore, but I am not aware that such decisions should be made known without prior consultation and an official agreement.”150 The disagreement between these leading Party functionaries, not only regarding the suitability of the texts for publication, but also the very process of assessing this suitability, further highlights the growing loss of consensus and lack of clarity within the Party in the face of the increased fragmentation of the Party line towards the end of the 1980s and particularly in the final months of SED rule.

147 Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 53–54. Similarly, Mittenzwei argues that critical thought and behaviour rarely met with “objection and counter-measures” in the late 1980s (Die Intellektuellen, 317). Borgwardt notes a “ideological, cultural-political resignation” in parts of the Party leadership specifically with reference to the decision to permit the import of Nachruf and even to consider its publication in the GDR (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 258–59). 148 See also Peter Hutchinson, “Stefan Heym and the Wende,” in Atkins and Kane, Retrospect and Review, 292–307 (294). 149 Ernest Wichner, “‘Und unverständlich wird mein ganzer Text’: Anmerkungen zu einer zensurgesteuerten ‘Nationalliteratur’,” in Wichner and Wiesner, Literaturentwicklungsprozesse, 199–216 (203). 150 Letter from Hager to Hoffmann, 2 November 1989. Reprinted in Wichner, “Und unverständlich wird mein ganzer Text,” 215. See also Herbert Wiesner, “Zensiert – gefördert – verhindert – genehmigt: Oder wie legt man Literatur auf Eis?,” in Wichner and Wiesner, Literaturentwicklungsprozesse, 7–17 (14).

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Literary Portrayals of “Intellect” and “Power”: Collin The above analysis demonstrates that the position of clarity suggested in Heym’s explicitly autobiographical accounts of his relationship with power in the GDR is not reflected in other sources and that this ambiguity in the face of a lack of a clear Party line was common to writers, functionaries, and publishers. I will now turn to a source focusing on the relationship between “intellect” and “power” in the GDR, which is not explicitly referential: Heym’s novel Collin (1979).151 What parallels can be drawn between Heym’s fictional portrayal of “intellect” and “power” and his “real-life” interaction as revealed by autobiography and archive material? Are there tensions between Heym’s presentation of the conflict between writers and power in his autobiography and in this fictional work? Do Heym’s literary figures achieve a clearer moral position vis-à-vis the state than the author himself? The eponymous protagonist of Collin is a literary intellectual of Heym’s generation. The work focuses on his struggle to overcome creative stagnation, which seemingly stems from an inability to come to terms with past failures and betrayals, particularly relating to his silence during the show trials of the 1950s, and which manifests itself as a heart condition. The third person narrative of the text is interspersed with the first person narration of the notes of the literary critic Theodor Pollack, a second intellectual of Heym’s generation, who shares many biographical characteristics with Heym himself (for example, service with the American military; death of a daughter in Auschwitz).152 Parallels can also be drawn between other figures in the text and prominent socialist intellectuals: the revolutionary, Georg Havelka, has much in common with Walter Janka and, the critic, Daniel Keres, with Georg Lukács.153 Several commentators have pointed towards these autobiographical features of the work: Reinhard Zachau argues that, “through Collin’s self-analysis Heym tries to investigate his own guilt and failures to correct the system in the early years of GDR socialism” and that “the fictitious Collin is Heym’s self-portrait”;154 Dennis Tate notes

151 Stefan Heym, Collin (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1981). (First published in Munich by C. Bertelsmann in 1979). English version published as: Stefan Heym, Collin (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1980). Subsequent references cite this edition and are given in parenthesis in the text. 152 See Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 141–42. Cf. Huberth, Aufklärung zwischen den Zeilen, 209. 153 See Borgwardt, Im Umgang mit der Macht, 235; Zachau, “The Stasi as the Force of Evil,” 52; Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 140; Peter Graves, “Authority, the State and the Individual: Stefan Heym‘s Novel Collin,” Forum for Modern Language Studies, 23.4 (1987): 347; Hutchinson, The Perpetual Dissident, 180. 154 Zachau, “The Stasi as the Force of Evil,” 49.

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that the “dividing line between autobiographical fiction and autobiography in Heym’s work has always been narrower than conventional genre definitions would suggest,” and analyses Collin as an example of this.155 It is, therefore, useful to examine this work of literature alongside those works that Heym does designate as autobiographical, and to draw out parallels and differences in the presentation of the relationship between intellectuals and representatives of power in these texts. Hans Collin is both a successful and privileged writer and a part of the ruling elite. As a member of the “old-comrades-network” (Collin, 70), he is treated in the “best clinic of the country, with the most modern equipment” (Collin, 6), and, in the past, has been allowed to travel widely (Collin, 68). His privileged lifestyle is, in the eyes of the Stasi chief Urack, who is also a patient in the clinic, reward for his hard work in producing “useful books” (Collin, 213), works that recount the shared experiences in the fight against fascism, but which, according to the critic, Pollack, have become “little more than a rehash of his old stuff” (Collin, 18). For Urack, the relationship between Collin and the ruling elite is clear: he fulfils his duty to write in support of the Party’s cause and is rewarded with status and privilege. However, Collin himself finds no clarity in this position as Party scribe and his illness and creative stagnation are seen to be the consequence of an inner struggle resulting from the compromise of his moral integrity demanded of him by the Party leadership, particularly his failure to speak out against the injustice of the trial of Havelka, who was arrested and imprisoned on concocted charges in the 1950s (Collin, 279–80). He is torn between the desire to write his memoirs, to reveal the truth of the past and escape the creative stagnation of the present, and the fear of banishment from the, “ranks of those with whom I’ve been sticking together my whole life” (Collin, 131). Revealingly, after he has decided to face these fears and write “without taboos or fear of anybody” (Collin, 284) he gains a feeling of “lucidity in [the] mind,” a lucidity resulting from being able to see beneath the “white spots” of his memory and identify the root of the infection, “that crippled every thought and distorted every emotion” (Collin, 278). Parallels can be drawn between this expression of finding clarity through the writing of the truth and Heym’s own reported statement in 1977 that the time of selfcensorship was over. In this respect, it is interesting to note that Heym was working on Collin, his own attempt to come to terms with the past without regard for taboos, at the time he reportedly made this statement. In the novel, this seeming hope for an escape from ambiguity through the choice

155 Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 130 and 136–42.

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of truth above the feeling of gratitude and belonging is, however, called into question by Collin’s own doubts (Collin, 302), his death at the end of the novel and the suggestion that he had not entirely resolved the writer’s block plaguing him throughout the text: “the writer Collin had discarded the last lines he had written” (Collin, 313). As Meg Tait argues, the “clearly defined opposition of ‘positive hero,’ to use the language of socialist realism, and ‘reactionary’” is not seen in Collin,156 nor is the clear-cut division between mind and power suggested in Heym’s autobiography. Collin’s position as part of the network of old comrades and his compromise in the past are in conflict with his sense that he has not produced the “great truths” for which he was forfeiting his moral position (Collin, 280). The ambiguity seen in the figure of the writer is reflected in the figure of Urack, the representative of the state and, specifically, of the repressive aspects of the state. As Zachau argues, “Urack is […] not evil per se,” but rather “as a true revolutionary proletarian he feels he is entitled to a new morality, one that serves only the Marxist cause.”157 Urack induces terror in the majority of those he has dealings with and he has mastered the methods of torture and interrogation,158 but he defends these methods as part of the necessary violence of the revolution: “a revolution is no parlor game, but in the end it will become evident that we have been changing the world, and this will justify everything” (Collin, 99). Far from being a caricature of an evil Stasi chief, Urack is presented as an individual whose actions spring from honourable motivations, the desire to change the world for the better and to protect the achievements of the revolution, but whose paranoia and thirst for power have perverted these motivations into violence and oppression and result in his collapse into madness (Collin, 233–5). In terms of the relationship between writer and ruling elite, Urack believes that he and Collin are linked in a struggle of life or death, with the death of one ensuring the life of the other (Collin, 43 and 172). However, this struggle is not a clear-cut opposition of “good” writer and “bad” functionary. Collin notes the similarities between himself and Urack: the latter

156 Meg Tait, Taking Sides: Stefan Heym’s Historical Fiction (Bern: Peter Lang, 2001), 179. 157 Zachau, “The Stasi as the Force of Evil,” 53. Similar arguments are advanced by Graves, “Authority, the State and the Individual,” 345–46 and Huberth, Aufklärung zwischen den Zeilen, 217. Hutchinson notes that Heym’s portrayal of the Stasi “is quite unlike so many exposés of the Communist secret police in that it actually allows them to provide a partial defence of their aims” (The Perpetual Dissident, 178). Similarly, Borgwardt argues that in view of the danger represented by the Stasi Urack is, “relatively mildly drawn, equipped with human features and in no way portrayed simply as the incarnation of evil” (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 236). 158 For example, Collin, 36, 41, 45.

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is also trying to escape the ghosts of the shared past (Collin, 263), and his biographical links with these antifascist heroes turned functionaries is a source of ambiguity for Collin. A further parallel can be drawn here with Heym himself. Heym was also active in the fight against fascism and, in an interview in 1986 published in Buchhändler Börsenblatt, states that he has something in common with functionaries of Honecker’s generation: “we stood together in the antifascist fight, and that binds you, no matter what separates us today, what divergent opinions we have and what differences.”159 Collin’s particular moral dilemma results from his closeness to the ruling elite and his willingness to act as Party scribe, but desire to speak the truth. In terms of comparison with Heym himself, Collin is far more willing to compromise and is far less openly critical of the state than his creator. A second intellectual in the text, the literary critic Theodor Pollack, occupies a more critical position in relation to the Party than Collin and is the instigator of critical thought in others – it is he who suggests to Collin that he write his memoirs (Collin, 18–19).160 However, this critical intellectual also fails to achieve the position of clarity sought by both the fictional Collin and by the author Heym. Pollack was saved from the decision that now tortures Collin only through feigning an illness to avoid attendance at Havelka’s trial, not through public objection (Collin, 47). Indeed, his critical position is maintained through a distance from events in which he might be forced to take a position. He was also aware of and, to some extent, involved in the mistakes of the early years of the GDR, including those which led to Havelka’s arrest (Collin, 199), but admits that he has never attempted “so much as a gently muttered J’accuse” (Collin, 310); he is not driven to write his own memoirs, but to incite Collin to write his. Pollack is set in contrast to Urack’s grandson, Peter, a representative of the younger dissident scene. Unlike Peter, Pollack fears the possible consequences of dramatic social upheaval: “before attempting so radical a business as changing the existing state of affairs one should at least calculate the risks that would be incurred” (Collin, 140). This unwillingness to embrace the more radical demands for change embodied by the new generation and the rejection of the state demonstrated by Peter’s decision to escape to the West can be seen as a further source of ambiguity for Pollack: he occupies a position between the extremes of conformity and dissent and cannot identify fully with either the Party or the opposition. Although Heym is far more outspoken in his criticism of the state than the fictional Pollack, 159 Stefan Heym, “Über Wege und Umwege: Interview mit Hartmut Panskus,” in Einmischung, 101–10 (107). 160 Pollack also sparks critical thought in the doctor, Christine. See Collin, 26 and 133.

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parallels can be drawn between Pollack’s ambiguous position and Heym’s own status in the GDR in the 1960s and 1970s as a critic of the Party, but a fervent defender of a socialist state on German soil. Pollack’s self-criticism that he has also failed to confront the Party with the mistakes of the past is thus also directed at Heym himself and Collin is, in this respect, Heym’s own “J’accuse.”161 Zachau argues that, in Collin, Heym presents a “simplified representation of socialism as a bipolar world,” and in the struggle between Collin and Urack, Heym gives the work a “Faustian quality of the eternal struggle between Good and Evil.”162 This suggests that the clarity of moral position Heym presents in Nachruf is reflected in the literary work. However, as Tate notes, and as the above analysis demonstrates, the “urge to construct a predominantly positive self-image” is, in fact, “more pronounced in his [Heym’s] autobiographical writing than in the novels”:163 close analysis of both intellectuals and representatives of power in Collin points towards a greater degree of ambiguity. Tate considers that “Heym does not seek to exclude himself from the general acknowledgement that his generation failed to translate its political ideals into reality in the postwar world.”164 Heym also presents in this work the result of this failure as a difficulty of achieving a clear moral stance, whatever position one occupies in relation to those in power. This is a struggle reflected in unpublished sources, but which is largely absent from Heym’s account of his own life.

Conclusion Stefan Heym was one of the most vocal critics of the GDR, who nonetheless continued to believe in the possibility of socialist reform to the end. His criticism and defiance of the practices of censorship in the GDR, notably his courage in continuing to publish works in the West after his prosecution in 1979, despite the threat of further repressive measures, make him a significant figure in terms of the attempt by critical GDR writers to loosen the straightjacket of Party control on the publication process. In contrast 161 Cf. Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 140. Tate argues that Heym’s decision to confront his past was related to the thawing of relations between Heym and the Party in the early 1970s. 162 Zachau, “The Stasi as the Force of Evil,” 41 and 48. See also Zachau, “Stefan Heym and GDR Cultural Politics,” 138. Huberth similarly describes the relationship between Collin, Pollack and Christine Roth as “the personified opposition of two principles: the moral […] and that of unconditional loyalty to the state” (Aufklärung zwischen den Zeilen, 210). 163 Tate, Shifting Perspectives, 130. 164 Ibid., 140.

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to Kant, although he regularly met with leading Party representatives, he was neither a member of the SED nor occupied a position of power within the Party apparatus. Moreover, his willingness to compromise the integrity of his works was very limited, particularly after the failure to publish Der Tag X in 1960. In his autobiography Heym emphasises these aspects of his behaviour to portray the image of a clear-cut relationship between this writer and the structures of power. This clarity is also reflected in the neat friend/foe divisions of the Stasi files. However, close examination of other sources relating to the behindthe-scenes interaction between this outspoken critic and representatives of power in the GDR points towards a more complex and ambiguous relationship than this image of defiance would suggest. The clear-cut moral position presented in Nachruf is a clarity that Heym sought in the GDR, but failed to achieve,165 a failure echoed in the post-Wende writings of other critical GDR intellectuals. As, in Abspann, Kant struggles to prove his critical credentials while avoiding presentation of his ambiguous position in the apparatus of power, so Heym seems unable to present the complexity of his position in the GDR as both critic and member of the antifascist elite with access to those who formed cultural policy and a resulting degree of influence and political capital of his own.166 Secondary literature on the cultural history of the GDR has frequently reflected this search for clarity through its emphasis on turning points: the Eleventh Plenary, the ban on the publication of 5 Tage im Juni, the Biermann affair and the expulsions of 1979 have all been described as breaking points for Heym and other intellectuals. For those writers who chose (or were forced) to leave the GDR after these events, this may hold true; however, for Heym and other critical writers, such as de Bruyn, their international reputation, privilege and desire to remain in the GDR, while retaining a public forum in the West, meant that their position in relation to

165 Similarly, Borgwardt considers that his portrayal of his behaviour towards the ruling elite in Nachruf appears, “sometimes lightly touched up and the autonomy of his actions tends to be idealised” (Im Umgang mit der Macht, 258). In contrast Hutchinson argues that Heym “avoids the obvious, and justifiable temptation towards self-glorification” in Nachruf. The Perpetual Dissident, 217. 166 Andress ascribes the failure of Heym and Kant to achieve “self knowledge” to their relative lack of distance from events. According to Andress the gap between the end of the GDR and the publication of Vierzig Jahre helped de Bruyn to achieve a level of selfawareness these authors could not. See Reinhard Andress, “Mittel der (Selbst)Erkenntnis in Günter de Bruyns zweiteiliger Autobiographie Zwischenbilanz und Vierzig Jahre, glossen, 7 (1999), http://www.dickinson.edu/glossen/heft7/andress.html (accessed on 11 September 2006).

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those in power remained ambiguous.167 This does not mean that Heym’s autobiography is “a vain lie,” as claimed by Wolf Biermann in 1990.168 Nachruf represents one face of Heym as a writer and intellectual and may be an authentic account of the man he perceived himself to be and as he wished others to perceive him. That Heym recognised the ambiguity in the lives of both critical and Party-loyal intellectuals of his generation is indicated by his portrayal of tensions in the relationship of his literary figures with the Party in Collin. A committed socialist, but fierce critic of really existing socialism, Heym occupied a position between political worlds and, at times of liberalisation in cultural policy, was willing to meet and negotiate with leading Party functionaries in an effort to secure the publication of his works in the GDR. Even at those moments that have been described as caesurae in the cultural history of the GDR, Heym’s rupture with the structures of power was never complete. Points of crisis can be detected in Heym’s relationship with those in power, notably around 1974, 1976 and 1979; however, the clarity of the official rhetoric regarding this critical writer is not maintained behind closed doors, where Party functionaries are seen to be willing to support Heym in the publication of his works and proposed visits to the West. When in West Germany, Heym himself can also be seen to walk a careful line between criticising those aspects of the GDR he felt 167 Similarly, Tate argues that the significance of the Biermann Affair should not be taken for granted and, in his analysis of Franz Fühmann’s letters, identifies three main stages in a lengthier period of decline in the Honecker era: the “long build-up of conflict […] in opposition to a renewal of repression in 1974–1975 […] steady intensification of hostilities between 1977 and 1979 […] characterized by a quite extraordinary commitment on the part of Fühmann and many of his fellow intellectuals to explore any channel of communication which might keep the dialogue with the Party leadership alive […] in the early 1980s […] the period of profound despair about the future of socialism […] marked by increasing intellectual and physical alienation from the sources of power in the GDR.” “Keeping the Biermann Affair in perspective,” 1–4. The above analysis demonstrates that Heym fits this pattern to a large degree; however, even in the early 1980s, though separated from the Party ideologically and a victim of major observation and harassment by the Stasi, Heym’s rupture is not complete, as he continues to enjoy a degree of institutional status and is accorded the privilege of travel, despite his use of this privilege to attack the Party. 168 Wolf Biermann, “Nur wer sich ändert, bleibt sich treu: Der Streit um Christa Wolf, das Ende der DDR, das Elend der Intellektuellen: Das alles ist auch komisch,” in Anz, Es geht nicht um Christa Wolf, 138–57 (150). (First published in Die Zeit, 24 August 1990). Jean-Luc Tiesset questions Biermann’s motives for this article, stating that it might be viewed as an attempt to lump together all of those who were obliged to compromise in some way by the simple fact that they had chosen to remain in the GDR and continue to be artistically active. He notes that the tone of the article is that of the “liquidation” of the GDR and the opening of the Stasi files. See Jean-Luc Tiesset, “Stefan Heym: la Littérature en bandoulière. A propos de: Nachruf (1988), Einmischung (1990), Auf Sand gebaut (1990), Filz (1992), Allemagne d’aujourd’ hui, 126 (1993): 82–83.

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to be lacking and avoiding fuelling the fires of anticommunism and pushing the boundaries of the considerable room for manoeuvre afforded him by virtue of his status as an internationally famous writer. Heym’s behind-the-scenes tactics of negotiation and, in particular, his use of linguistic markets, show many similarities with those of Kant. This similarity points towards the wider significance of this use of language in the GDR and of complex interactions with authority, with each individual being aware of the dominant phrases in his or her particular sphere and the manner in which these can be used to best effect. However, in Heym’s case the use of the language of the Party in negotiations becomes a method of subversion, as he seeks to undermine the Party’s monopoly on interpreting the meaning of these dominant expressions and gives them a meaning of his own. These similarities in the methods of negotiation seen in the behaviour of these two writers and their cultivation of particular forms of ambiguity also point towards a blurring of the division between rulers and the ruled. If these writers of very different public political stances can be seen to use similar rhetorical devices and tactics in negotiations behind the scenes it becomes more difficult to identify what constitutes conformity and what constitutes dissent. This problem is heightened by the difficulty of identifying a unified Party line on the best method of dealing with critical authors and their works. The fragmentation of the Party line in the course of the 1970s and, particularly, the 1980s meant that unambiguous positions in relation to it were ever harder to find. Parallels can be drawn between this fragmentation, the breakdown of binary divisions and clear-cut responses to critical voices, and the rising curve of criticism and the widening of the boundaries of debate identified by Kant in regard to inner-Party discussion. This complexity cannot be encompassed in models that emphasise only the repressive aspects of the GDR and thereby suggest the oppression of the many by the few. Such models do not allow room for positions such as those taken by Heym, an outspoken critic, who nonetheless had access to and made use of the structures of power. Moreover, as Ross argues, “totalitarianism concepts, however defined, are fundamentally static” and that even the concept of “‘frozen’ post-totalitarianism […] says little about the changing societal and generational currents underneath the surface ice of the regime’s gerontocracy.”169 Static models of the GDR also cannot account for the gradual shifts and disintegration of conceptions of what constituted “good” and “bad” socialists and “hostile” or “reactionary” behaviour and

169 Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 35.

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what amounted to permissible debate – processes that can be seen to play an important role in the lives of both Kant and Heym. Although the political stances of Heym and Kant are vastly different they both enjoy a degree of influence within Party and state institutions by virtue of their international status and, in Kant’s case, his position as a highranking functionary. In both cases, it is frequently this status within the cultural apparatus that both forces and allows them to cultivate ambiguous positions towards the SED. It is doubtful if Heym would have been in a position to negotiate the publication of his more controversial works or the granting of a long-term visa had he not enjoyed an international reputation, and it is Hermann Kant’s position in the structures of power that allows him to negotiate the publication of certain critical works and criticise certain aspects of cultural policy, while maintaining the official Party line on key issues in the public sphere. However, this level of institutional power was not the norm in the GDR. What of those writers who were not internationally famous and who did not themselves occupy highranking positions in the SED? Did these writers find the clarity sought by those directly involved in the structures of power? In the following chapter I examine these questions in relation to the life and works of a Party-loyal writer little known outside of the GDR: Elfriede Brüning.

Uncertain Comrade: Elfriede Brüning, Loyalty, Criticism and Power On the surface, Elfriede Brüning’s relationship with representatives of power in the GDR was one of harmony. She was a long-standing member of the Party and of the Writers’ Union. She was not publicly critical of the Party in the manner of Heym, nor did she occupy a leading position in the Party apparatus, as did Kant. She supported the regime in the Biermann affair and expressed no concern in public over the expulsions of 1979. Her works were all published in the GDR (although, as will be seen, not necessarily at the time of their completion) and she was not involved in any international controversies regarding the censorship of texts or their publication in the West. As an author without an international reputation, she was not granted the privilege of frequent international travel and her visits to the West were largely restricted to those allowed by her status as a pensioner. How does this apparently harmonious relationship stand up to closer scrutiny? In her public conformity and her lack of any highranking official function, does Brüning achieve a position of clarity, which Heym and Kant could not? As a less well-known author, how does Brüning negotiate with Party functionaries? Does she use similar tactics of negotiation and linguistic markets to those used by Heym and Kant? If so, are these successful? Finally, how does Brüning reflect on her position in the cultural apparatus after the Wende? In this chapter, I seek to address these questions through analysis of pre-Wende archive material, particularly correspondence in the Brüning archive at the Fritz-Hüser-Institut in Dortmund, and Brüning’s postWende autobiography, Und außerdem war es mein Leben (And besides, it was my Life).1 The material in the Fritz-Hüser-Institut has not been previously analysed in detail and, as will be seen below, this collection of correspondence, newspaper cuttings and reviewers’ reports can shed 1

First published as Elfriede Brüning, Und außerdem war es mein Leben: Aufzeichnungen einer Schriftstellerin (Berlin: Elefanten Press, 1994). The most recent edition has been heavily revised by the author, who has removed several chapters, and published as Und außerdem war es mein Leben: Erinnerungen (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 2004). Subsequent references refer to the 1994 edition and will be given in parenthesis in the text after the abbreviation Und außerdem.

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new light on the behind-the-scenes interaction of Brüning with the Party functionaries and publishers and point towards the complexity of her position in the GDR. I demonstrate Brüning’s positioning of herself in relation to the dominant official discourse in the wake of the Eleventh Plenary and her use of this discourse to promote the republication of her own texts and establish a clear-cut relationship with the regime. In the second part of the chapter, I analyse the reception of Elfriede Brüning’s work in the GDR and consider the attitude of reviewers towards Brüning’s output and of the role that her work might play. Focusing on the publication and ensuing discussion of Brüning’s novella, Septemberreise (Journey in September), in Neue Deutsche Literatur (NDL) in 1967,2 I consider the range of debate permitted in this journal in the 1960s and the effect of this criticism of her work in NDL on her interaction with publishers, readers and Party functionaries. What can this example of literary criticism tell us about the role of journals and literary reviews in publication processes in the GDR? What was Brüning’s response to this criticism of her work in the official journal of the Writers’ Union? How does Brüning interpret this reception of her work both before and after the political caesura of 1989? In part three, I analyse correspondence between Brüning and Party functionaries to demonstrate Brüning’s methods of putting forward criticism of certain aspects of cultural policy, and ask whether this criticism is indicative of ambiguity in the relationship between representatives of power and this Party-loyal writer. Analysis of the publication and reception of Brüning’s Partnerinnen (Partners) is used to demonstrate the manner in which she fed into more radical criticism of female emancipation in the GDR and the reaction to this moderate criticism by reviewers and readers. Finally, I examine two of Brüning’s pre-Wende literary works, Septemberreise and Wie andere Leute auch (Just like other People)3 and consider the extent to which her behind-the-scenes criticism of representatives of power is reflected in these published texts. Analysis of these various facets of Brüning’s dealings with Party functionaries, editors, publishers and reviewers offers a different perspective on cultural production and reception in the GDR and can shed new light on behind-the-scenes processes. Comparison of the strategies and methods of negotiation of this Party-loyal writer, little

2 3

Elfriede Brüning, “Septemberreise,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 2 (1967): 89–173. Elfriede Brüning, Septemberreise (Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1974). Subsequent references cite this edition and are given after the abbreviation Sept. in parenthesis in the text. Elfriede Brüning, Wie andere Leute auch (Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1983). Subsequent references cite this edition and are given after the abbreviation Wie andere in parenthesis in the text.

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known outside of the GDR, and those of Kant and Heym can demonstrate trends and patterns in the relationship of all three writers with representatives of power and, in turn, give further insights into the complexity of cultural production under the SED regime. Born in 1910, Elfriede Brüning joined the Communist Party in 1930 and the Union of Proletarian-Revolutionary Writers [Bund proletarischrevolutionärer Schriftsteller (BPRS)] in 1932. She remained in Germany throughout the 12 years of Nazi rule and, before the war, took part in illegal activities on behalf of the BPRS, including smuggling documents to Prague for publication in the emigrant press.4 Her writing career began with short pieces of prose in the feuilletons of various magazines and newspapers of the Weimer Republic5 and the publication of Und außerdem ist Sommer (And besides it’s Summer) in 1934 and Junges Herz muß wandern (Young Hearts must Wander) in 1936.6 In the 40 years of the GDR, Brüning produced several novels and novellas,7 collections of short prose,8 reportage9 and works for children and young adults.10 Brüning’s subjects in the GDR were women’s issues,11 young people and antifascist resistance, particularly female antifascists.12 Since the Wende, she has produced mostly non-fictional works, including her autobiography, Und außerdem war es mein Leben and collections of short prose focusing on post-Wende issues or post-Wende reflections on the GDR.13 Brüning considers herself to have

4

See Christoph Hein, Der Bund proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftsteller Deutschlands: Biographie eines kulturpolitischen Experiments in der Weimarer Republik (Münster: Lit Verlag, 1991), 288. 5 For example, Das Berliner Tageblatt, Der Berliner Börsenkurier und Die Vossische Zeitung. 6 Elfriede Brüning, Und außerdem ist Sommer (Leipzig: L. Staackmann, 1934); Junges Herz muß wandern (Berlin: Schützen Verlag, 1936). 7 For example, Elfriede Brüning, Ein Kind für mich allein (Leipzig: Phillip Reclam, 1950); Vor uns das Leben (Berlin: Verlag Das Neue Berlin, 1952); Regine Haberkorn (Berlin: Verlag Tribüne, 1955); Sonntag der dreizehnte (Berlin: Tribüne Verlag, 1960). 8 For example, Elfriede Brüning, Wege und Schicksale – Frauen unserer Zeit (Berlin: Kongress Verlag, 1962); Zu meiner Zeit – Geschichte aus vier Jahrzehnten (Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1977); Altweiberspiele und andere Geschichten (Leipzig: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1986). 9 Notably, Elfriede Brüning, Kinder ohne Eltern (Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 1968). 10 For example, Elfriede Brüning, Gabriele: Ein Tagebuch (Berlin: Verlag Neues Leben, 1956); Jasmina und die Lotusblume (Berlin: Kinderbuchverlag, 1976). 11 Notably, Elfriede Brüning, Partnerinnen: Erzählungen (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1982). First published by Mitteldeutscher Verlag, Halle in 1978. 12 Notably, Elfriede Brüning, …damit du weiterlebst (Berlin: Verlag Neues Leben, 1949). 13 For example, Elfriede Brüning, Jeder lebt für sich allein: Nachwende-Notizen (Berlin: Dietz, 1999) and Gedanken-Splitter: Von Freunden, Zeitläufen und Zeitgenossen (Berlin: Spotless-Verlag, 2006).

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been a very popular author in the GDR,14 and she enjoyed regular reprints of many of her works.15 A review of previous research on Brüning and her literary output reveals, however, that Brüning has been largely neglected in academic criticism before and since 1989.16 Of this limited material, a significant proportion of analysis focuses on Brüning’s literary output in the context of her involvement with the BPRS and resistance to fascism.17

14 15

16

17

See Elfriede Brüning, “‘Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe – eine bessere DDR’: Sara Jones im Gespräch mit Elfriede Brüning,” Argonautenschiff, 16 (2007): 261. For example: …damit du weiterlebst was first published in 1949 by Verlag Neues Leben and subsequently by Mitteldeutscher Verlag and reached its 15th edition in 1985; Regine Haberkorn was first published by Verlag Tribüne in 1955 and reached its 10th edition in 1961. The novel was published again in 1966, 1970 and 1974 by Mitteldeutscher Verlag; Partnerinnen was first published by Mitteldeutscher Verlag in 1978 and reached its 6th edition in 1981. This collection of fictional portraits was also published in West Germany by Fischer in 1982. A review of Germanistik from 1971 to 2006 and a search of the online catalogue of the Bibliographie der deutschen Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft produced only four pieces of scholarship under the search term “Elfriede Brüning”: Elisabeth Simons, “Interview mit Elfriede Brüning,” Weimarer Beiträge, 30.4 (1984): 610–19 and “Eigenes Erleben von der Seele schreiben. Bemerkungen zum literarischen Schaffen von Elfriede Brüning,” Weimarer Beiträge, 30.4 (1984): 620–28; Ruth Eberlein, Untersuchungen zur Darstellung der Persönlichkeitsentwicklung und des Ringens um Gleichberechtigung der Frau in den Büchern Elfriede Brünings und zu deren Aufnahme durch die Literaturkritik und die Leser der DDR 1950–1983, (unpublished doctoral thesis, Pädagogische Hochschule Magdeburg, 1985); Ilse Nagelschmidt, “Literatur als Lebenshilfe: Elfriede Brüning als Wegbereiter und Wegbegleiter der sozialistischen Frauenliteratur der DDR. Zum Werk der Autorin in der Literatur der fünfziger Jahre,” in Zwischen politischer Vormundschaft und künstlerischer Selbstbestimmung: Protokoll einer wissenschaftlichen Arbeitstagung vom 23. bis 24. Mai 1989 in Berlin, ed. Irmfried Hiebel, Hartmut Kahn, and Alfred Klein (Eggersdorf: Tastomat, 1990), 117–22. Brüning is mentioned only once in Emmerich’s Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR (90). Ricarda Schmidt scathingly describes Brüning as “tedious and justly neglected.” Ricarda Schmidt, “Im Schatten der Titanin: Minor GDR Women Writers – Justly Neglected, Unrecognised or Repressed?,” in Goodbody and Tate, Geist und Macht: Writers and the State in the GDR, 151–62 (152). Eberlein also notes this neglect of Brüning’s works in academic criticism in the GDR (Untersuchungen zur Darstellung der Persönlichkeitsentwicklung, 210). For example, Christel Berger, “Die ‘jungen Alten’: Zu Büchern ehemaliger Mitglieder des Bundes proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftsteller,” in DDR-Literatur ‚88 im Gespräch, ed. Siegfried Rönisch (Berlin: Aufbau, 1989), 20–37; Simone Barck, “Mythos BPRS-Literatur? Zum widersprüchlichen Umgang mit der BPRS-Tradition in der DDR,” UTOPIE kreativ, 102 (1999): 64–71; Lydia Marhoff, Zwischen Abwehr und Anpassung: Strategien der Realitätsverarbeitung in den Texten nichtfaschistischer junger Autorinnen von 1930– 1945 (Berlin: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 2002); Joanne Sayner, Women without a past: German Autobiographical Writings and Fascism (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 249–99.

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Working with Party Policy: Brüning and the Critical Writers Party-loyal Writers and the Eleventh Plenary As seen in previous chapters, the Eleventh Plenary of the Central Committee in December 1965 was a key event in the cultural history of the GDR. The harsh attack by Honecker and Ulbricht on critical intellectuals, particularly Stefan Heym, Wolf Biermann and Robert Havemann signalled an end to any immediate hopes of a liberalisation in cultural policy. In the wake of the Eleventh Plenary, the works of several authors were removed from circulation or refused publication, and Heym, Biermann and Havemann suffered repressive measures, including, in Heym’s case, a ban on the mention of his name in the GDR media. What, however, was Brüning’s response to this shift in the official Party line, as a loyal writer little known in the West? How did she view the hard line taken by the Party at the Eleventh Plenary? How did the ambiguity in the relationship between the Party and its internationally famous critics impact on her own relationship with the regime? Brüning’s initial response to the Eleventh Plenary suggests that the hard line taken by the ruling elite at the Eleventh Plenary resulted in a greater clarity in her own relationship with publishers and functionaries: as a politically reliable author, she was now in high demand. Where she previously perceived the desire of publishers to print the works of more famous and more critical writers as an obstacle to the publication of her own works, this obstacle now appeared to have been removed. In a letter to Henrik Becker of the Institute for Language Cultivation [Institut für Sprachpflege] in Jena, dated 18 December 1965, Brüning states that these latest developments in cultural policy have been of benefit to her regarding the willingness of publishers to reprint her 1955 novel, Regine Haberkorn, “which will probably now appear quickly in the place of a few new publications that have become questionable.”18 Furthermore, she states that Helga Zimmermann of the Berliner Zeitung contacted her to request a contribution to the discussion in the newspaper of the events of the Eleventh Plenary, “I had apparently proved repeatedly how one should write about our present, my books were well received by readers, and if I couldn’t perhaps, on the basis of my experiences...and so on” (Ibid.). However, as indicated by the dismissive tone of Brüning’s comment in this letter, despite this private rejoicing in her success, Brüning is, in fact, reluctant to take a public stance on the issues raised by the Eleventh

18

Fritz-Hüser-Institut Dortmund (FHI), Bestand Brüning (BRÜ), 28.

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Plenary: she describes her rejection of Zimmermann’s request to be the result of a lack of talent for polemics (Ibid.). Rather than give a clear demonstration of her commitment to the Party line, Brüning attempts to stay out of the political discussion. After the Wende, this attempt is echoed in her statement in reference to the Eleventh Plenary, “I didn’t really concern myself too much with all these discussions. I simply wrote my books. Besides that I had my home to keep and my child.”19 However, the letter itself demonstrates that this attempt failed, as she benefits from the new cultural policy, which promotes her works above those of more contentious writers. This indicates a tension between the effort to describe one’s life in non-political terms and the political nature of GDR society and particularly of intellectual life. The second reason Brüning gives for her refusal to write a contribution for the Berliner Zeitung indicates further ambivalence in her view of the cultural policy of the regime. Brüning states that she can hardly advertise her own products, especially as she has never received even the smallest literary prize, despite being in the running with three of her works, Regine Haberkorn (1955), Sonntag der 13. (Sunday the 13th, 1960) and Wege und Schicksale (Paths and Destinies, 1962). She also states that she was once proposed for the Goethe Prize “from very high up,” but that she still did not receive it, concluding, “there must be something about my books that people don’t like!”20 Moreover, Brüning suggests a reason for this incongruence: You will have been following all of this very closely and will know that until recently it was only people whose work was also published in the West who were considered respectable. The fact that those of us who wrote about our [emphasis in original] present […] were not privy to this ‘great honour’ was, after all, natural, but the reasons for this didn’t interest anyone, we were simply ‘oldfashioned.’21

In a letter to Alexander Abusch (Vice President of the Council of Ministers), dated 4 January 1966, in which Brüning complains about her publisher’s refusal to reprint her works, she states even more plainly, “that recently it seemed that books were still only considered valid if, due to their criticism of conditions here, they had also been printed in West Germany.”22 She 19 20 21 22

“Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe,” 261. FHI, BRÜ, 28. Ibid. FHI, BRÜ, 349. Reprinted in Elfriede Brüning, ‘Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt…’: Briefwechsel mit Zeitgenossen 1930–2007, ed. Eleonore Sent (Essen: Klartext, 2008), 59– 60 (60). It is not clear to whom Brüning is referring in these comments; however, in the context of the Eleventh Plenary, this may be a reference to those writers criticised

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thereby sets herself and her works in direct opposition to those critical intellectuals who were celebrated as dissident in the West and argues that critical intellectuals have, until the Eleventh Plenary, received more attention from literary criticism. In this respect, Brüning’s letters echo the uncertainty in the responses of writers loyal to the Party to the treatment of Heym in the early 1970s and suggests that the ambiguity in the treatment of critical intellectuals by representatives of power resulted, in turn, in a lack of clarity in the position of writers who were publicly loyal to the Party. In a letter to Anna Seghers dated 19 October 1968, Brüning states that it was authors who did not publish in the West who had been “buried alive a long time ago,”23 or, as she puts it in the letter to Abusch, “Elfriede Brüning doesn’t exist anymore.”24 She thus employs language more frequently used to talk about the censorship of critical works and authors to talk about her own difficulties; however, as she also sets herself in opposition to these authors, she reinterprets this discourse for her own purposes: in the letter to Abusch, negotiation of reprints of her works. This distinction between critical intellectuals and Brüning comes not solely from Brüning herself. Helga Zimmermann identified Brüning as a possible contributor to the discussion of the Eleventh Plenary on the basis of her style of writing and Regine Haberkorn is to be published in the place of several, presumably more critical, works, which have become unpublishable.25 This demonstrates that publishers turned to Brüning as a politically reliable author in times of stricter cultural policy. A letter from Yvonne Freyer, editor in chief of the magazine, Für Dich, dated 10 January 1966, however, demonstrates that this division was not absolute and indicates further the uncertainty resulting from the shift in Party line. Freyer states that she felt unable to publish Brüning’s commentary on the trial of a young woman who left her child alone to go out dancing with her friends, Gedanken zu einem Prozeß (Thoughts on a Trial), because in the wake of the Eleventh Plenary the focus is on “a series of forward-looking contributions”

by leading Party functionaries, e.g., Stefan Heym (who had an international reputation and was published in the West) and Wolf Biermann (who had published Die Drahtharfe in the West shortly before), although these writers and their works were hardly received positively by leading Party functionaries at this time. 23 FHI BRÜ, 21. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 75–77 (77). 24 FHI, BRÜ, 349. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 59–60 (60). 25 The existence of a 1966 edition of Regine Haberkorn, published by Mitteldeutscher Verlag, indicates that this did happen.

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and that Brüning’s problematic contribution, which considered the social problems behind the young woman’s behaviour, did not fit in with this.26 Other unpublished correspondence from the pre-Wende period indicates that Brüning also saw this distinction between authors published in the West and those only known at home in the later years of the GDR and considered that it affected other areas of her professional life. In a letter to Klaus Höpcke, dated 29 January 1979, Brüning complains of the size of the reprint of her work Kleine Leute (Little People) in Verlag der Nation. She asks Höpcke: What kind of edition policy is it that results in a situation in which the books of socialist authors are repeatedly missing from book traders’ stock, whereas those of others – and I’ll name here, just as a representative example, those of a Mr. Seyppel – can be found in piles everywhere in the shops.27

Again, Brüning makes a clear division between herself and critical writers like Joachim Seyppel, who was to be expelled from the Writers’ Union only five months later. Furthermore, Brüning indicates that this distinction works to her disadvantage in terms of the size of print runs and the presence of her work in GDR bookshops. Similarly, in a letter to Helmut Küchler (First Secretary of the Berlin Writers’ Union), dated 20 April 1982, Brüning complains that her application for a long-term visa, which she requires to undertake research into the peace movement in the FRG, has been rejected; instead she has been offered a ten-day visa.28 She insists that this is not adequate and asks Küchler to intervene on her behalf, adding: “I don’t see why only dissidents should have the advantage of receiving a visa for one or several years, and not comrades who have a concern that is completely in the interests of our state and our fight for the maintenance of peace.”29 Again, Brüning sets herself in direct opposition to the “dissidents,” who have been granted permanent visas to the FRG, often as an alternative to leaving the GDR completely. Moreover, she considers that representatives of power also make this distinction and that it does not, as might be expected, work in her favour. In this respect, the ambiguity in the relationship between openly critical writers, such as Heym, and the Party in the late 1970s, the granting of visas to intellectuals whose works could not be published in the GDR, also led to a lack of clarity in the relationship between publicly loyal writers and the Party. Comments by Hermann Kant after the Wende suggest that 26 27 28 29

FHI, BRÜ, 319. FHI BRÜ, 813. See FHI, BRÜ, 1189. FHI, BRÜ, 1188.

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this attitude on the part of loyal writers was common. In the collection of interviews with Gutschke, he recalls his astonishment when a well-known female writer stated: “if so and so is now gone, then the fame can be redistributed to so and so.” He notes that such authors genuinely believed that it was simply a matter of “unjust distribution” that made Günter Kunert more famous than them.30 After the Wende, however, Brüning presents the division between writers with an international reputation and writers who were only known in the GDR in notably different terms. In her autobiography, Brüning describes her interaction with Höpcke regarding the writers’ retreat in Wiepersdorf. Renovation of the buildings in Wiepersdorf had led to there being a number of more luxurious apartments in the castle, which the manager of the home refused to rent to Brüning and her colleagues. Brüning describes how she wrote to Höpcke to question if the rooms were perhaps never intended for them: Is the castle reserved for those colleagues, who, through their earnings in capitalist countries, were able to buy themselves here via Genex? If so, then it should, please, be openly acknowledged that one now intends also to divide the writers of the country into two camps: into one, only those with the good old D-Mark are allowed, and into the other, all the rest. (Und außerdem, 298)

This statement is similar to her complaints in pre-Wende unpublished correspondence regarding the different treatment of writers with an international reputation, who earned money in the West. However, before the Wende, Brüning refers to these authors as “dissidents” and sets herself in clear opposition politically to these critics. In her autobiography, she indicates a division between her and such authors, but not on an ideological basis, but rather on a financial one. This is further emphasised by her framing of this division between writers who had a Western income and writers who did not in terms of a division between those GDR citizens who had access to Western currency through inheritance, gifts from Western relatives or work on the black market, “the rift went through the whole population” (Und außerdem, 298). Through this comparison, Brüning depoliticises any distinction made between internationally famous authors and those only known in the GDR, by indicating that this was a division common to the rest of the population. In this passage, Brüning does not distinguish herself from critics of the regime, but rather from writers who occupied a privileged position. In her autobiography, Brüning thus deliber30 Gutschke, Hermann Kant: Die Sache und die Sachen, 138. See also pages 123 and 124 for similar comments regarding the division of authors into those who were published in the West and those who were not.

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ately blurs a political distinction that she previously presented as clear-cut. At the same time, through depoliticising her charge of neglect, she also fails to acknowledge the ambivalence of her own position vis-à-vis the cultural policy of the SED: in her autobiography, she is not a Party-loyal writer neglected by the regime; she is simply an unprivileged writer.

Post-Censorship or Controlled Debate? The Role of Literary Journals As has been suggested above, Brüning perceived incongruence between the popularity of her works, her public adherence to the official Party line and the reception of her texts in literary criticism. To what extent did this ambivalent reception of Brüning’s texts represent a form of censorship and a political response to her works? What can the discussion of Brüning’s texts in literary journals and newspaper reviews reveal about the processes of literary production in the GDR and the tension between the desire for both control and prestige? How does Brüning herself view the reception of her works and what impact does this have on her relationship with cultural functionaries? Septemberreise: Petty-Bourgeois Trivial Literature? In February 1967, Elfriede Brüning’s short prose work Septemberreise was published in Neue Deutsche Literatur, the literary journal of the Writers’ Union. Published in the same issue was a scathing criticism of the work by the Germanist and author, Hans Jürgen Geerdts.31 Among others, literary critics such as Annemarie Auer responded to Geerdts’s criticism and spoke out in defence of Brüning’s text in a later volume of NDL.32 Furthermore, the debate surrounding the work in the journal was included as a discussion point on the agenda of the Working Group for Literary Criticism [Arbeitskreis für Literaturkritik] in the Writers’ Union shortly afterwards.33 31 32 33

Hans-Jürgen Geerdts, “Bemerkungen zu Elfriede Brünings Erzählung Septemberreise,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 2 (1967): 173–82. Annemarie Auer, “Unterhält uns die Unterhaltungsliteratur? Bemerkung zur Bemerkung,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 6 (1967): 135–40. This is demonstrated by a position statement Brüning submitted to the working group. No date is given for this event in Brüning’s position statement; however, I would suggest that Brüning is referring to the “Initiative for Literary Criticism” [Aktiv für Literaturkritik] in the Writers’ Union, which was set up in 1967 in response to the frustrations of writers regarding the failures of literary criticism in the GDR, which they felt either

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The narrative of Septemberreise is constructed in the form of a letter from the narrator to her dead lover, only referred to as “Du.” The narrator, Vera, has travelled to Bulgaria, where the narrative is set, in order to engineer a meeting with her daughter who was taken to the West by her husband in 1945. However, when Vera finally meets her daughter, she discovers a vain and shallow young woman, realises that they are worlds apart and decides not to reveal her true identity. The stay in Bulgaria causes Vera to reflect on her relationship with “Du”: from the early days of revolutionary politics in the Weimar Republic, through his emigration and her marriage to a member of the bourgeoisie in the Third Reich and finally to his death in the GDR in the 1960s. Throughout their relationship, her lover remained married to another woman, Marietta, and, at the end of the work, Marietta and the narrator finally come to an understanding as both acknowledge that he only ever loved himself. A key feature of the debate in NDL was the assumption, shared by critics and supporters alike, that Brüning’s work should be placed in the category of light or “entertaining” fiction [Unterhaltungsliteratur]. As, Brüning recalls in her autobiography, she, along with Hildegard-Maria Rauchfuß und Marianne Bruns, was considered for many years to be an author, “who wrote light entertainment” (Und außerdem, 215). What is more, Geerdts states, in reference to Septemberreise, that it would be a great achievement for a female socialist writer to counter the type of entertaining “‘women’s novel”’ [Frauenroman] so popular in the West, but that Brüning fails to achieve this through her lack of socialist perspective. Geerdts thus places Brüning’s work into a specifically constructed category of “women’s writing,” assuming that it was her intention to produce a novel of this type, without stating explicitly what the features of the genre might be. Brüning notes this gender dimension in the reception of her work in her autobiography, stating that Anna Seghers and Lilly Becher questioned the criticism of her writing in these terms: “was it then only women who wrote ‘light’ books, while men produced high literature?” (Und außerdem, 215). Similarly, in an interview in 1984, Brüning argues that it is predominantly female writers who suffer from a lack of attention on the part of GDR literary criticism.34 This gendered reception of Brüning’s work is echoed by post-Wende interpretations of her texts. In his analysis of “trivial literature” in the

took no notice of their works or dealt with them inadequately. See Barck, “Dimensionen literaturkritischer Arbeit,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 404–17 (407). This also points towards the fact that such complaints regarding literary criticism were not uncommon among GDR writers. 34 Simons, “Interview mit Elfriede Brüning,” 619.

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GDR, for example, Walter Nutz identifies Brüning’s earlier works, …damit du weiterlebst (...so that you live on, 1949), Vor uns das Leben (Life before Us, 1952) and Regine Haberkorn (1955), as examples of GDR “women’s novels,” which aimed to fulfil the need for trivial literature, but which were not devoid of political content.35 Such categorisations of work by female authors as “women’s novels” is, however, highly problematic and contains implicit assumptions about the demands and expectations of female readers and the interest that male readers might have in works written by women. As Eva Kaufmann argues, the term “women’s writing” has “pejorative connotations where aesthetic values are concerned” and “since the second half of the nineteenth century ‘women’s writing’ has been understood to refer to inferior fiction produced en masse by women, about women and for women. It was all classed as shallow, kitschy and trashy.” She adds that these traits were more readily applied to the work of female writers than to that of their male counterparts.36 In the GDR context, the construction of Brüning’s work as trivial “women’s” literature does not, however, exclude it from political criticism. Geerdts may not call into question the concept of the “women’s novel” as writing of inferior aesthetic value produced by and for women, but he does indicate a shift in the perceived political use value of such literature. Nutz argues that from the early years of the GDR critics did not attack the “women’s novel” per se, but considered that this form of literature could not focus solely on love: the “women’s novel” should also transmit a socialist worldview.37 Trivial literature was still felt to have a place in GDR society, but such “socialist” light entertainment fiction, in contrast to Western trivial literature, was supposed to be part of the process of creating the ideal socialist individual or “socialist personality.”38 Nutz considers that critics had the difficult task of damning the old, bourgeois kitsch, while accepting the need for this type of literature as a method of propaganda for higher socialist ideals.39 In this context, several of the reasons Geerdts gives for his criticism of Septemberreise are criticisms of its lack of socialist perspective. He accuses Brüning of presenting the story from a petty bourgeois position and 35

Walter Nutz, Trivialliteratur und Popularkultur. Vom Heftromanleser zum Fernsehzuschauer: eine literatursoziologische Analyse unter Einschluss der Trivialliteratur der DDR (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1999), 229–43. 36 Eva Kaufmann, “Women Writers in the GDR, 1945–1989,” in Postwar Women‘s Writing in German, ed. Chris Weedon (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1997), 169–209 (169). 37 Nutz, Trivialliteratur und Popularkultur, 233. See also Nagelschmidt, “Literatur als Lebenshilfe,” 118. 38 Nutz, Trivialliteratur und Popularkultur, 250. 39 Ibid., 265.

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states that, despite the main female protagonist’s, Vera’s, criticism of petty bourgeois behaviour, Brüning offers no alternative to this mode of thought and does not demonstrate the historical truths, which lead individuals to behave in this fashion.40 Furthermore, he argues that Vera’s contradiction of another protagonist’s claim that her home was unjustifiably ransacked by the GDR police is not strong enough; that she offers no counter to the impression that Soviet soldiers planted a gun in her husband’s suitcase out of revenge and that Vera’s assertion that her marriage with the bourgeois Olaf prevented her from studying at the Workers’ and Peasants’ Faculty (ABF) presents a false image of this institute (177–178). This criticism of perspective is, in turn, connected to Geerdts’s understanding of Brüning’s work as a form of light entertainment fiction. Despite the weaknesses he identifies, Geerdts does concede that she knows how to entertain her reader and argues that this is the reason for her popularity: “with all this [her skill at entertaining], above all with the ensuing contradiction in the artistic result, she practically demands a more fundamental discussion of the problem of so-called light fiction [Unterhaltungsliteratur]” (178). Geerdts defines socialist light fiction as a literature, “whose specific characteristics facilitate its impact on the masses [Volkswirksamkeit], but which also simultaneously attest to particular qualities within this framework” (179); a literature that is far removed from the commercialised, trivial literature of a capitalist society. The most important factor for this kind of literature is, for Geerdts, “the aspect of mass appeal that serves the needs of wide sectors of the public, to inform and to entertain […] in a particularly clear and vivid way,” but with “conscious limitation” of the demands made on the aesthetic “reception abilities” of the reader (180). This, combined with the correct worldview can, according to Geerdts, create a new folk literature [Volksliteratur], which has a limited, but important place in socialist society (180). However, Geerdts does not consider that Septemberreise fits into the category of “socialist” light fiction, but rather that, with this story, Brüning has produced the “type of the light novel (or light narrative) in the narrower sense” (italics in original): he attributes her failure to the limited characterisation of the main protagonists, the lack of insight into thoughts, feelings and actions, which in turn leads to a loss of realism (180–181). He accuses Brüning of a lack of “aesthetically effective partisanship” (178). Geerdts’s view of the weaknesses of Septemberreise and the role of this kind of literature in the GDR is thus evidence of Nutz’s assessment that the writer of “socialist” light fiction is expected not only to entertain the

40 Geerdts, “Bemerkungen zu Elfriede Brünings Erzählung Septemberreise,” 176–77.

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readers, but also inform and instruct them in the socialist world-view.41 This view of the purpose of literature was not, however, confined to assessments of light entertainment fiction in the GDR. Wolfgang Emmerich describes this conception of the role of the writer, particularly prevalent in the early years of the GDR, as a view of writers as “socialist educators and guides of the GDR population” and, correspondingly, a view of the GDR reader as an immature individual, who should not be left to make his or her own choices according to his or her secret needs.42 Indeed, the similarity between these criticisms of Brüning’s text and the criticisms of Kant’s Das Impressum, as discussed in chapter one, demonstrate that accusations of presenting a false historical perspective and petty-bourgeois attitudes were not confined to those writers considered to produce light fiction. The quote above demonstrates that, for Geerdts, the distinction between light fiction and literature proper is the distinction of aesthetic quality, with the work of “entertainment” being written in a deliberately less challenging manner in order to appeal to the masses. Geerdts thereby constructs a particular type of poorly educated, undemanding (female) reader of Brüning’s works, towards whom Brüning is presumed to be directing her writing.43 In this regard, this understanding of trivial literature feeds back into the gendered construction of Brüning’s literary output as “women’s literature,” and the construction of “women’s literature” itself as unchallenging works of little aesthetic value written by and for women. Annemarie Auer’s response to Geerdts’s criticism of Brüning is presented as a defence of the novella. The focus is on Geerdts’s suggestion that Brüning’s work lacks partisanship, rather than on his criticism of her presentation of sensitive cold-war issues or his negative assessment of the aesthetic quality of her work. Auer reminds the reader that Brüning is widely popular, that she consistently writes about the present and argues that her partisanship is proven by the fact that she “faced the demands of the socialist present.”44 She also argues that Brüning’s own biography, in which at all important stages she has demonstrated socialist partisanship, would necessarily have flowed into her work (137). In this respect, Auer believes

41 See Nutz, Trivialliteratur und Popularkultur, 216, 233–34 and 263. 42 Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 46. See also Ian Wallace, “Teacher or Partner? The Role of the Writer in the GDR,” in Wallace, The Writer and Society in the GDR, 10–12. 43 Eberlein also notes that Geerdts anticipated the readers of Septemberreise to be individuals, “who did not posses the skills to judge the attitude of distance from literary figures and towards the inclusion of individual experiences,” but considers that Auer, in contrast, assumed a “a reader who had now come of age” in her critique (Untersuchungen zur Darstellung der Persönlichkeitsentwicklung, 227). 44 Auer, “Unterhält uns die Unterhaltungsliteratur?,” 136.

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that Brüning does fulfil the task of “socialist” literature identified by Nutz and Emmerich to educate and inform the masses in the socialist worldview. Auer also distinguishes Brüning’s work from the trivial literature of the bourgeoisie, arguing that she demonstrates a genuine literary approach to the material, which results in a certain literary quality (137), and she contends that Brüning’s focus is on the development and emancipation of the female protagonist and that this is the substance of her popular appeal [Volkstümlichkeit] (137–138). However, Auer does not dispute that Brüning’s work is light fiction and her defence of Brüning is ambivalent. Her argument that Brüning’s “quality of nearness to the people or popular appeal” is silently acknowledged by all critics is tempered by her statement that Brüning’s work does not, aesthetically, reach the quality of the “top level” (136). She agrees with Geerdts that Brüning runs the risk of presenting “petty-bourgeois features” [Kleinbürgerlichkeit] through her failure to demonstrate the historical processes at work and any alternative to this mode of behaviour (136). The seeming incompatibility of this statement with Auer’s argument that Brüning’s partisanship would necessarily have flowed into her work indicates a tension in Auer’s assessment of Septemberreise between a defence of Brüning as an individual, highlighting her antifascist background, and a critical approach to her work. She does not question Brüning’s partisanship, but she does question Brüning’s ability to demonstrate this linguistically and artistically, commenting bluntly, “nobody can escape the limitations of their own talent” (137). For Auer, it is Brüning’s style that risks reducing her work to the level of the “old style of light novel”: her language is not precise enough and she carelessly uses cliché and colloquialisms (139). However, she concludes that Brüning offers her readers a work constructed of life experience, which is readable, involves the readers and, “makes them [the readers] conscious of the socialist outlook on life as being inherently their own,” thereby fulfilling a fundamental task of “popular literature” (140). In this manner, although Auer seriously questions Brüning’s abilities as a writer, she defends Brüning’s work because she considers that it fulfils the purpose of this form of literature, principally as a result of Brüning’s own antifascist biography. The narrow parameters of this debate surrounding Septemberreise are symptomatic of the limited range of discussion in literary journals in the late 1960s. As Emmerich notes, literary criticism in the GDR was seldom a critical and productive aid to the reader, but rather an, “accomplice to a dark literary pedagogy.”45 Emmerich goes on to describe the role of literary 45

Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 51. See also Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 38–39. Bathrick notes that while the major literary journals might serve as “yet another medium of constraint vis-à-vis writers who dared to deviate from cultural or

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criticism, in the case of annihilating verdicts, such as Geerdts’s view of Septemberreise, as playing the role of a “post-censor.”46 A critical work might be published, perhaps in order to avoid adverse publicity, but the reader was discouraged from buying the text or promoting the work to others by the highly critical appraisal of it in literary journals. As has been seen in chapter one, this method of controlling literary production was also suggested in the publication of Kant’s Das Impressum. The example of the publication of Septemberreise demonstrates that a work might even be published alongside a scathing review, which, as Brüning herself notes in a letter to Anna Seghers, dated 10 October 1968, makes it difficult for readers to form their own opinion of the novella.47 The long delay in the publication of the story in book form suggests, as will be discussed below, that publishers may also have been reluctant to take on the work after such a critical review. Nonetheless, the editors of NDL invited readers to comment on the story and on Geerdts’s criticism; Auer’s review was among those contributions later published in the journal. In this respect, NDL engineered debate, albeit about a relatively uncritical work, and thereby created the impression of a wider range of discussion, without touching upon more controversial works. Mary Fulbrook also argues that such discussions in the GDR were often designed to “influence popular opinion, for example by having functionaries put forward the ‘correct’ arguments in response to hesitations, doubts, queries and downright ‘counter-revolutionary’ arguments on the part of the participants.”48 Not only can the use of literary criticism as post-censorship be regarded in this light, the discussion surrounding Septemberreise in NDL, particularly with respect to the similarity of the views of Geerdts and Auer regarding the role of light fiction, can also be seen as a method of instructing the reader on the “correct” approach to political propriety,” they have also “periodically served as major forums for ideological conflict and dissent.” 46 Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR, 51. For example, Stephen Parker notes that following the fierce criticism of Heiner Müller’s Der Bau and Peter Hacks’s Moritz Tassow at the Eleventh Plenary, Wilhelm Girnus, editor in chief of Sinn und Form, who had published the works, stated that, in future, such works should be followed as quickly as possible by a “critical position statement,” although he did not add who should be responsible for this (“Fortsetzung folgt: Sinn und Form unter Wilhelm Girnus,” 350). 47 FHI BRÜ, 21. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 75–77 (77). It should, however, be noted that such orchestrated discussions were not always successful in discouraging the reader from buying the work. Barck notes that the attempts by Party and cultural functionaries in Halle to initiate a wave of negative responses to Christa Wolf ’s Der geteilte Himmel through the accusation that the work, “exhibited decadent ways of life,” were countered by an overwhelmingly positive reaction by readers contributing to the discussion. See Barck, “Öffentlichkeit als ‘gesellschaftlicher Lektor’ und die Steuerung von Lesarten,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 317–20 (319). 48 Fulbrook, The People‘s State, 258.

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such texts. As Martina Langermann notes, since NDL was the organ of the Writers’ Union, critiques of texts printed in the journal represented, “important indicators for the accepted status quo and official language conventions.”49 Brüning’s Response What then is Brüning’s response to this reception of her texts? How does she reconcile her public loyalty to the Party with these scathing comments on her work in a publication such as NDL? In pre-Wende unpublished archive material, Brüning perceives this reception of her work to be a result of the attitude of Party functionaries towards the writers of the “inner emigration” and towards members of the former BPRS. The BPRS, founded in 1928, was an organisation of writers, including Johannes R. Becher, Anna Seghers and Jan Petersen, who believed that art could be used as a weapon in class warfare and that literature should reflect the present of the proletariat. The BPRS was banned in 1933, but existed underground until 1935 when its remaining members were arrested by the Gestapo. Brüning was a member of the organisation between 1932 and 1935.50 As discussed above, in the letter to Anna Seghers, dated 19 October 1968, of which a near identical copy was sent to Gerhard Henniger (First Secretary of the Writers’ Union), Brüning complains at length about the lack of attention paid to her works by literary criticism, the failure of her publisher to republish her works, the failure to include her in various anthologies and the failure of the Writers’ Union to acknowledge her reportage, Kinder ohne Eltern (Children without Parents, 1968), in their discussion of the genre. She adds that a further “insult” is the manner in which Septemberreise was published in NDL and adds that, in reality, she “was buried alive as an author a long time ago.”51 Brüning implies in the letter that the reason for this neglect is a lack of respect for her underground resistance to Nazism before 1935: “apparently all that does not count for

49

Martina Langermann, “Neue Deutsche Literatur (NDL) – Zeitschrift für deutsche Gegenwartsliteratur,” in Jedes Buch ein Abenteuer, 364–91 (364). Langermann also notes that NDL frequently organised readers’ forums in an attempt to attract working-class readers and involve them in the process of literary production through allowing them to put forward their expectations and demands, but that this increasingly functioned only as an alibi, convincing those in power of the journal’s “attachment to real life” [Wirklichkeitsverbundenheit] (388). 50 For a comprehensive analysis of the BPRS see Hein, Der Bund proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftsteller Deutschlands. 51 FHI, BRÜ, 21. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 75–77.

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much [her illegal work for the BPRS], at least that is what I can assume from the treatment that I, as a writer, have since received from significant cultural institutions of our state.”52 Furthermore, her letter of complaint is framed by reasons for not being able to be present at a ceremony honouring the remaining members of the BPRS. She notes that a large number of writers will not be able to attend because, as she had previously pointed out, the celebration had been organised in the “Week of the Book,” when most would have other duties. She is thereby suggesting that this indicates a lack of any real desire to celebrate the work of the BPRS and its former members and thus sets her complaints of neglect and the criticism of Septemberreise in this context. In a position statement, which she submits to the “Working Group for Criticism” of the Writers’ Union when she is unable to attend the meeting to discuss the debate in NDL, Brüning suggests that the criticism of her work as “petty-bourgeois” is the result of a division between writers who are considered to produce great literature and about whom one cannot write anything negative, and writers who are considered to write “light fiction” and about whom one can write nothing positive. She states that this division is the result of taboos and prejudices, but gives no indication of where she perceives these taboos and prejudices to stem from.53 Again, although Brüning presents a united front with the Party in key public debates, behind the scenes her relationship lacks clarity, as she is unable to find any consistency in their response to individual writers. Cultural functionaries do not, in her view, appropriately reward her antifascist credentials and her partisan approach, which official rhetoric demands of the socialist author. Simone Barck notes that immediately after the war, the specifically proletarian-revolutionary approach and the manner of writing common to members of the BPRS were indeed not part of the post-war literary discourse.54 As Brüning herself states, the President of the Cultural Association of the GDR [Kulturbund], Johannes R. Becher, aimed to promote an “all-German literature” and, despite previously being a member, saw the BPRS as “Proletkult.”55 Barck states that from 1957 onwards, the BPRS tradition was no longer ignored, but suffered a “cultural-political instrumentalisation […] in which the BPRS tradition was discursively constricted and had to serve the exclusion of other traditions.”56 Literary

52 53 54 55 56

Ibid. FHI, BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13. See note 33. Barck, “Mythos BPRS-Literatur?,” 65. “Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe,” 260. Barck, “Mythos BPRS-Literatur?,” 64.

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critics celebrated the literature of the BPRS only as the basis upon which contemporary socialist literature was built.57 In the 1960s, Otto Gotsche (himself a former member of the BPRS) set up a working group for research into the proletarian-revolutionary literature of Germany in the Academy of Arts, whose aim was to prove that there had existed a proletarian-revolutionary socialist literature of a high quality before 1933, and the former members of the BPRS were remembered at intervals, for example on the fortieth anniversary of its foundation in 1968. However, Barck considers that a greater level of interest in the new literature of the Bitterfelder Weg (such as that of Christa Wolf, Erwin Strittmatter and Erik Neutsch) and an “uncritical canonisation and ideological myth building” of those works written by members of the BPRS before 1933 created a lack of interest in this literature and that the surviving members felt sidelined.58 Brüning’s view of the reasons behind the poor reception of her own works would seem to confirm this view. However, in her post-Wende autobiography, Brüning frames Geerdts’s and Auer’s criticism of her work in quite different terms. She states that Geerdts’s criticism was “a barely disguised shredding of her work” (Und außerdem, 281), goes on to describe his positive comments regarding her ability to keep the reader’s interest and arouse their curiosity about Vera’s life-story and notes, “following on from this laudatory observation, he found a great deal worthy of criticism in my story”; however, the only criticism she names is the view, “‘our people are not like that’” (Und außerdem, 281), that is, the criticism of perspective, rather than that of the literary quality of her work. Regarding Auer’s response to Geerdts’s criticism, Brüning notes Auer’s statement that Brüning has a wide readership and that she always writes about the present (Und außerdem, 281), but makes no mention of her criticisms of Brüning’s style and her scathing comments regarding the impossibility of writing beyond one’s natural talent. In her analysis of Brüning’s autobiography, Joanne Sayner argues that these exchanges with reviewers allow “a retrospective defence of her writing” and that “within a dominant post-Wende framework of criticism of East German authors’ support of the state, these negative reviews function as positive indications of past distance to official discourse.”59 Comparison 57

58 59

An example of this reception of the BPRS is in Alfred Klein, “Kühnheit und Begeisterung: Der Bund proletarisch-revolutionärer Schriftsteller Deutschlands (1928–1935),” Weimarer Beiträge, 24.11 (1978): 5–19. Klein was the head of the Working Group for the Research of Proletarian-Revolutionary Literature [Arbeitsgruppe zur Erforschung der proletarisch-revolutionären Literatur], working under Otto Gotsche. Barck, “Mythos BPRS-Literatur?,” 69–70. A late example of this ambivalent reception of the BPRS tradition is Berger, “Die ‘jungen Alten’.” Sayner, Women without a past, 283.

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with the reviews themselves demonstrates that, in respect of the conflict surrounding Septemberreise, Brüning actually emphasises Geerdts’s criticism of the perspective of her works and downplays the criticism of the style and form and, in this manner, sets her own work in the terms of official discourse regarding other, more critical, works by writers who, in the West, were celebrated as dissident. Furthermore, by failing to mention Auer’s comments on the stylistic weaknesses of Septemberreise, emphasising instead her remarks on the support of the wider population for her works, Brüning is suggesting that she wrote works that the people wanted to read, but that conflict with those in power prevented these works from reaching their intended readership. This impression is emphasised by her statement that, in Septemberreise, she had aimed to attack the “narrow-minded middle-class man [Spießer] […] a highly respected scientist and exemplary comrade, who had always remained a petty-bourgeois in his private life” (Und außerdem, 282). Brüning makes a similar comment in her position statement on Ruth Eberlein’s thesis in 1984;60 however, in her autobiography she adds that even as she was writing the text she knew, “that this figure would meet with little affection on the part of my male colleagues, because too many of them, without admitting it to themselves, would feel targeted” (Und außerdem, 282). With this assertion, she suggests that, in Septemberreise, she had intentionally attacked “exemplary comrades,” and that she was punished for this. In this respect, Brüning suggests a more clear-cut relationship with those in power in her autobiography than is indicated in pre-Wende archive material. Brüning’s reassessment of her relationship with critics in the GDR after the Wende can also be linked to a broader framework of post-Wende retelling of one’s past in autobiography against the background of the post-Wende political context and the preoccupation with demonstrating distance from the old regime. The Effects of Post-Censorship: The 1974 Publication What, however, were the effects of this criticism of Brüning’s works on the publication of the text in book form? Does a critical response in journals result in a similar reaction on the part of the publisher? As seen above Geerdts recommended that Brüning vastly rework her manuscript before publication in book form. An unpublished letter from Brüning to Heinz Sachs, the head of the Mitteldeutscher Verlag (MDV), dated 24 March 1967, that is, after the publication in NDL, indicates that the publisher was

60 FHI BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13.

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not prepared to accept Septemberreise for publication at this stage, which might be considered unusual, as MDV was Brüning’s main publisher.61 MDV did eventually publish Septemberreise, but not until 1974. In 2006, Brüning recalls that she was asked to rework the manuscript, but that she refused, simply leaving it to one side until it was accepted for publication, without changes, six years later. Furthermore, Brüning states that she believes that Geerdts’s criticism of her work played a role in this delay in publication.62 Unpublished correspondence from the late 1960s and early 1970s indicates that this was also a view that Brüning held at the time: in the letter to Anna Seghers, dated 19 October 1968, described above, Brüning complains that the publication of Septemberreise in NDL, “makes it almost impossible for an unbiased reader to form an objective opinion about the story, and […] has been very detrimental to me.”63 I would argue that the reference to the damage done by Geerdts’s fierce criticism of Septemberreise is a reference to the refusal of MDV (or any other publisher) to publish the work in 1967. Similarly, in the position statement submitted to the Working Group for Criticism of the Writers’ Union, she alludes, again indirectly, to the difficulties she is experiencing with her publisher, stating that she did not choose the first person narrative, “in order to make the book (that isn’t even one yet, because for the time being it lacks a publisher who will print it) ‘more attractive’.”64 Furthermore, she concludes with the statement that she hopes, “that one day I will also be able to present Septemberreise to all those readers who are not currently subscribed to NDL, and who were always my best critics.”65 The response of the publisher to Geerdts’s criticism points towards further uncertainty in the wake of the Eleventh Plenary. Where, as seen above, publishers initially identified Brüning as a “safe” author in times of political uncertainty, Geerdts’s criticism suggests ambivalence in the official reception of her texts. Mitteldeutscher Verlag responds to this ambivalence with a decision not to publish the work. This once again demonstrates the difficulty for publishers of identifying and reacting to any clear Party line.

61 62

FHI, BRÜ, 401. “Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe,” 261. In Und außerdem war es mein Leben, Brüning recalls that she changed nothing except for a few stylistic improvements (283). 63 FHI, BRÜ, 21. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 75–77 (77). 64 FHI, BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13. This comment is made in reference to Werner Ilberg’s contribution to the debate. Ilberg states that the partisanship seen clearly in Brüning’s earlier works and in the intention underlying Septemberreise has been lost in the text as a result of the search for a new form and that Brüning had overlooked the fact the form should serve the content. See Werner Ilberg, “Die Form und der Sinn,” Neue Deutsche Literatur, 6 (1967): 150–51. 65 FHI, BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13.

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In respect of Brüning’s interaction with her publisher, a letter from Ursula Steinhaußen, Brüning’s editor at Mitteldeutscher Verlag, dated 5 September 1972 indicates that the publisher had by this stage reconsidered its initial refusal to publish the novella, but that the editor in chief, Helga Duty, insisted that the work was not long enough to be published alone, but rather in a volume with another of Brüning’s short works.66 In a letter from Steinhaußen, dated 25 September 1972, Steinhaußen refers to the publication of Septemberreise as “your [Brüning’s] wish,” implying that the publication was not a collective decision on the merits of the work, but in some way a response to a request by Brüning.67 It seems that, even as late as 1972, the publisher was proceeding cautiously. In a letter of 7 November 1972, Steinhaußen indicates that the MDV had commissioned two readers’ reports on Septemberreise: one of these reports was sent to Brüning by Steinhaußen and can be found in the collection of Brüning’s letters housed in the Fritz-Hüser-Institut. Although the author, Dieter Laux, does not mention Geerdts in his report, his view that Brüning reduces the story to its “erotic-moral problematic” and obscures the “professional and social activities of the figures, which undoubtedly exist,”68 is very similar to Geerdts’s criticism that she does not develop the thoughts, feelings and motivations of the main characters and that the male protagonist’s moral development is obscured, “because neither his individual activities nor his social relationships are given clear contours.”69 However, for Geerdts, this criticism leads him to recommend a complete reworking of the novella before publication, whereas Laux feels able to recommend publication despite these misgivings.70 However, Steinhaußen was not satisfied with the final version and, in a letter dated 23 February 1973, continues to recommend changes to the manuscript. The majority of these changes, which Steinhaußen asks Brüning to consider as suggestions, are of a stylistic nature – certain formulations or the use of colloquialisms; however, Steinhaußen also states that the heroine’s attitude towards petty bourgeois behaviour in the novel, especially towards the problem of “illegal emigration” [Republikflucht], must be clearer, “that is also the case with particular formulations in respect of political or historical events.”71 Again, this is similar, if formulated less critically, to Geerdts’s statement in 1967, that in the novella, “a woman

66 67 68 69 70 71

FHI, BRÜ, 710. FHI, BRÜ, 708. FHI, BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13. Geerdts, “Bemerkungen zu Elfriede Brünings Erzählung Septemberreise,” 175. FHI, BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13. FHI, BRÜ, 705.

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emerges, who certainly disapproves of the demeanour of West German tourists, but she does not emerge as a comrade”72 and that Vera’s criticism of these characters is, “a criticism of petty-bourgeois consciousness from virtually petty-bourgeois positions.” 73 As has been seen in the case of Kant’s Das Impressum and the works of Heym, this internal discussion among figures in the publishing world regarding Brüning’s work further indicates that the decision to publish emerged from this discussion. It also indicates further the different positioning of publishers in terms of their willingness to produce particular works. Where publishers such as Der Morgen attempted to push through the publication of texts such as Heym’s Lassalle in the 1970s, Mitteldeutscher Verlag displays quite a high level of caution regarding the publication of the relatively uncontroversial Septemberreise. Indeed, Simone Barck notes that Mitteldeutscher Verlag became in the 1960s, “a highly unpredictable minefield for all those involved: authors, editors, publishers, the Main Office and even the Department for Science in the Central Committee,”74 and that it subjected works to fiercer criticism and greater scrutiny than other publishers. Barck argues that this was a result of MDV’s central strategic role in the production of contemporary socialist literature: “everything that appeared in the leading publishing house in this field functioned as a signal to others.”75 Furthermore, although a consensus regarding the quality of the novella in terms of style and perspective can be observed, there is no consensus among critics, reviewers and editor regarding the seriousness of these flaws, with Geerdts recommending a fundamental reworking of the novel and Laux recommending its publication. As openly critical writers, such as Heym, experienced different treatment by different individuals in positions of power, according to their different ideas of what best served socialism, different tastes and perceptions of the role of literature, so were there different opinions on the value of Brüning’s work and the role that she might play in the GDR. It should also be noted that the second wave of criticism came after Honecker’s accession to power in 1971 and his statement at the Fourth Conference of the Central Committee of the SED in December 1971 that there could be no taboos in art and literature if one started from a socialist perspective. Although Septemberreise was criticised in very similar terms both before and after December 1971, after 1971 this criticism did not prevent the publication of the work in book form.

72 73 74 75

Geerdts, “Bemerkungen zu Elfriede Brünings Erzählung Septemberreise,” 176 Ibid., 177. Simone Barck, “Der Mitteldeutsche Verlag in den sechziger Jahren,” 230. Ibid., 230.

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Grumblings of Discontent: Behind-the-Scenes Criticism and Public Support David Bathrick argues that, “successful and established authors in the GDR gained not only considerable political power as spokespeople for official policy but, in a number of cases, also a political independence not found in other areas of official public life. This was particularly true for those authors with international reputations.”76 The analysis of the political room for manoeuvre available to both Kant and Heym by virtue of their reputations and Brüning’s complaints regarding the preferential treatment given to internationally famous critical intellectuals would seem to confirm this view. Brüning was little known outside the GDR. How did this lack of international reputation impact on her relationship with Party functionaries? What methods and what linguistic strategies does Brüning use in her behind-the-scenes negotiations for the republication of her works or for visas to the West? Behind-the-Scenes Criticism: The Issue of Print Runs As seen above, despite her public support of the Party at key points in GDR cultural history, Brüning was critical of specific aspects of cultural policy in behind-the-scenes communication, notably regarding what she perceived as the preferential treatment given to critical writers, and was willing to contact leading Party functionaries, such as Klaus Höpcke and Helmut Küchler with complaints and requests for help. This is further demonstrated by unpublished correspondence between Brüning, Ursula Ragwitz (Head of the Department for Culture in the Central Committee of the SED), Kurt Seibt (Chairman of the Central Revisions Commission of the SED) and Klaus Höpcke in 1977 and 1978. The exchanges with these functionaries also clearly reveal the linguistic strategies used by Brüning in her criticism of these aspects of Party policy. In a letter to Ragwitz, dated 2 December 1977, Brüning complains once again about the small print runs offered to her by her publisher. She also criticises the system of book ordering and delivery and states that the failure to ensure that her work, Zu meiner Zeit (In my Time), reached the bookshops has meant that readers have begun to suspect that the book can only be obtained, “‘under the counter’.” She concludes with a request for Ragwitz’s help in her differ-

76

Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 42.

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ences with her publisher.77 Brüning’s use of the phrase “under the counter” is another example of her appropriation of language more commonly used in relation to more critical works, which have only been produced in small editions in order to prevent wide distribution. It can also be argued that the use of this phrase is designed to put pressure on Ragwitz to ensure an increase in the size of Brüning’s editions, by implying that a failure to do so would create the impression that Brüning was a dissident author whose works were being deliberately repressed. In this respect, Brüning is using a particular expressive style, one generally used in the linguistic market of critical authors, in order to create a link between her and these writers and highlight discrepancies between official rhetoric and everyday practice, which, in Brüning’s eyes, leads to an author loyal to the regime being treated like a dissident. However, as Brüning indicates in a letter to Kurt Seibt, dated 7 February 1978, Brüning’s tactics of negotiation resulted only in limited success: although Ragwitz agreed to help her in her difficulties with her publisher regarding the “small circulation” and “very sluggish production of subsequent editions,” Brüning has heard nothing from Ragwitz in two months, despite repeated attempts to reach her by telephone. Brüning turns to Kurt Seibt to complain about Ragwitz’s treatment of her, stating that at the very least she has a right to be informed of the result of Ragwitz’s efforts on her behalf. 78 A second letter to Ragwitz, dated 17 February 1978, reveals that Seibt acted on Brüning’s letter. Brüning indicates that she has received a very angry telephone call from Ragwitz, who perceived the letter to Seibt as a hostile action against her. Brüning responds that, as a member of the Revisions Commission of the Writers’ Union, whose purpose was to regulate the running of the organisation, she understands the function of the Central Committee Revisions Commission only too well and that one of these functions is to ensure that letters from the public are answered in a reasonable amount of time. She states that she only made use of her democratic right and is astonished that Ragwitz is reacting so subjectively.79 Furthermore, Brüning informs Ragwitz that she has, in the meantime, turned to Klaus Höpcke for help in her problems with the publisher, that he had reacted rapidly and that as a result of his initiative she has been able to come to an agreement with the Mitteldeutscher Verlag.80 Thus Brüning

77 SAPMO BArch, DY30/IV B2/9.06/92. Also found in FHI, BRÜ, 899 and reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 129–133. 78 FHI, BRÜ, 898. 79 FHI, BRÜ, 897. 80 FHI, BRÜ, 897. See also the letter to Klaus Höpcke dated 15 February 1978 in which Brüning thanks Höpcke for his support in this matter, FHI, BRÜ, 814.

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cites the support of another, more senior, leading cultural functionary in her dispute with Ragwitz and in her dispute with her publisher. However, despite the apparently successful outcome of her enlistment of Höpcke’s help, Brüning continued to pursue her complaint against Ragwitz. In a letter to Seibt, dated 28 February 1978, Brüning informs Seibt that, after Höpcke’s intervention, she is now satisfied with the working relationship with her publisher, but that the behaviour of Ragwitz has been unacceptable. She informs Seibt of Ragwitz’s angry telephone call and the content of her letter in response. Furthermore, she states that this is the first time in her long Party membership that she has turned to the Department for Culture of the Central Committee for help, adding: I find the behaviour of the head of this Department to be unworthy of a comrade in such a prominent position, who should be an example to other comrades. I fear that the behaviour practiced here could, in the case of particular colleagues who are less committed to the Party, easily lead to false conclusions about the attitude of the whole Party, and might even lead to irrational reactions. I felt it was my duty to write this letter to you as the Chairman of the Central Revisions Committee of our Party. 81

Brüning thereby frames her complaints against Ragwitz in the terms of a concern for the possible damage Ragwitz’s behaviour might cause the Party. Furthermore, she states her alarm over the possible effect of Ragwitz’s behaviour, but at the same time demonstrates that she herself has never had doubts about the Party, nor drawn “false conclusions”; her concern is only for “less committed” comrades. Her comment that she felt it was her “duty” to write this letter to Seibt, is intended not only to further demonstrate her commitment to the well-being of the Party, it also implies that this is not the result of any personal interests or offence taken at Ragwitz’s treatment of her. She articulates individual complaints as universal interests. In this respect, in this letter Brüning is again employing the dominant language and terminology of a specific linguistic market, that of the Party itself, in order to gain the most symbolic profit from her words. Brüning’s willingness to complain to leading Party functionaries in behind-the-scenes correspondence can also be considered part of what Fulbrook describes as a “climate of complaint,”82 in which individuals were allowed, and even encouraged, to put their complaints regarding shortcomings and problems of everyday life in the GDR to representatives of the Party. As Fulbrook, notes, these complaints were “constrained to address individual issues or shortcomings that, it was at least posited, could in prin81 82

FHI, BRÜ, 896. Fulbrook, The People’s State, 269.

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ciple be rectified without querying the deeper systemic roots” (270). Brüning’s dissatisfaction regarding the size of the print runs of her works and her presentation of this issue without broader criticism of GDR cultural policy and of the process of getting a book to print would seem to fulfil this criterion. Fulbrook adds that “citizens of the GDR came increasingly to know what rhetoric to use, and what appeals to make to official ideals, in order to achieve maximum effect; in short, they learnt how to deploy a particular form of discourse in pursuit of their ends” (283). In Bourdieu’s terms, the citizens of the GDR came to learn the most appropriate expressive style and to work within a particular linguistic market in order to gain the most symbolic profit from their words. Moreover, the rhetoric described by Fulbrook in relation to the letters of complaint [Eingaben] of GDR citizens is remarkably similar to that used by Brüning in her letters to GDR cultural functionaries. As Brüning emphasises her long Party membership in the letter to Seibt, so Fulbrook notes that the most successful letters, “would begin by establishing the letter writer’s own credentials as a worthy and committed member of socialist society” (283). As, in her first letter to Ragwitz, Brüning implies that failure to put right the system of book delivery and increase the number of copies in print runs of her works risks creating the perception that her texts are being censored, so Fulbrook points towards the frequent accompanying of the specific complaint by “a threat of some sort – bringing it to the attention of a yet higher authority, refusing to go and vote, and, at the most extreme, putting in an application for an exit visa” (283). As Brüning cites the support of Höpcke in her second letter to Ragwitz, so Fulbrook identifies a tendency to “legitimate the protest by a choice quotation from Honecker or other high political authority” (283). The similarities in the linguistic framework not only in the language used by writers across the broad spectrum of loyalty and dissent, but also among the general public, point towards the wider significance of these tactics of negotiation and strategies of communication in the GDR. Public Conformity and the Failure of Negotiations It can be seen from the above that, in correspondence not intended for publication, Brüning was prepared to be quite critical of the behaviour of Party functionaries and of cultural policy regarding print runs. Furthermore, in this criticism Brüning uses strategies similar to those employed by more critical intellectuals, such as Stefan Heym: appeals to the constitution, citing of support from authority and use of the terminology of particular linguistic markets. However, Brüning firmly supported the Party line in the Biermann affair and did not publicly protest against or comment on

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the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 or the expulsion of the nine authors from the Writers’ Union in 1979. In her post-Wende autobiography, Brüning indicates that this public support did not necessarily correspond to her private views. She describes how, on the day of the march of GDR troops into the CSSR in 1968, she and Berta Waterstradt had arranged to meet friends in West Berlin. Their friends, as they had expected, fiercely criticised the action of the GDR government, and she and Waterstradt could only sit and listen: As citizens of the GDR and, what is more, members of the SED, we should, in fact, have contradicted them and defended the action. But how could we do that, since now all the hopes that we too had associated with the Prague Spring had been dashed into nothing? (Und außerdem, 286)

Brüning also recalls that she and Waterstradt considered, for the first time, not returning to the GDR, but that concerns regarding the high rate of unemployment, the status of women and the signs of anti-Semitism in the West prevented them from doing so (Und außerdem, 286–7).83 In a note in the files of the MfS, with no date or author, it is recorded that, in July 1968 (before the march of GDR troops into the CSSR) Brüning had a wavering political attitude towards the cultural policy of the GDR.84 However, Brüning did not voice this uncertainty in the public sphere before the Wende, preferring instead to restrict her criticism of Party functionaries and policy to behind-the-scenes exchanges and to the narrow area of those aspects of cultural policy that affected her directly. Nonetheless, the decision to keep one’s criticism of the regime behind closed doors could lead to lack of political bargaining power in conflicts with Party functionaries. In the case of Brüning, this can be best demonstrated through the example of her negotiation with cultural functionaries regarding the removal of several of her works from local libraries in 1968/1969. In a letter to the Writers’ Union, dated 29 October 1968, Brüning describes how, after a reading at VEB Schwermaschinenbau “Ernst Thälmann” in Magdeburg, the head of the factory library informed her that she had been forced to remove three of Brüning’s works from the library (Ein Kind für mich allein (A Child all to Myself, 1950); Vor uns das Leben, 1952; Rom hauptpostlagernd (Rome post restante, 1958)). This instruction had apparently been given to the head of the library in a list circulated to local and company libraries, produced by the Central Institute for Librarianship [Zentralinstitut für Bibliothekswesen] in 1965 and updated each year. According to Brüning, in response to her request to pur83 See also “Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe,” 263–64. 84 BStU MfS Berlin Abt. XX A–540–13.

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chase these books herself, “because I receive a large number of requests for these books, which have not been available on the book market for years,” she was informed that they had received strict instructions to destroy the works.85 An undated letter from Fritz Selbmann to Klaus Höpcke, regarding this illustrative list [Beispielliste], indicates that the reason given for the removal of these books was the belief that, with a first publication in the 1950s, they were “completely obsolete or at least not of such importance and expressive power […], that their remaining in the communal libraries […] would be justified.”86 Furthermore, in an extract from the list itself, which can be found among Brüning’s letters, the aim of the withdrawal of the works is to free the libraries of “worthless stock that does not serve its purpose or which has been unjustifiably over-graded.”87 This not only indicates an attempt by the Party to control all aspects of literary production and reception, even of works which were not considered harmful as such, this is also consistent with the reception of Septemberreise in 1967. The reasons given for the removal of Brüning’s works are not a concern for their content, but a criticism of an aesthetic style, perceived to be outdated, and a failure to fulfil the task of socialist literature, that is, to instruct and direct the reader through a demonstration of the currently correct socialist perspective. Brüning concludes the letter to the Writers’ Union by stating that she reserves the right to take further action against these machinations of the Central Institute, “which are likely to severely damage my reputation as a socialist writer.”88 Furthermore, among her letters is a copy of a Protest Resolution, dated 23 December 1968, but without signatures.89 In a letter to Jochen Schäfers (Secretary of the Writers’ Union) of 9 January 1969, Brüning indicates that Karl Grünberg was the author of the protest, but that she and others agreed on its wording.90 In this protest the removal of works from local libraries is described as a “monstrous intervention on the part of a bureaucratic instance into the freedom of socialist writing,”91 and the signatories add that it is also a violation of the constitution of the GDR, “that does not recognise a censor.”92 The signatories demand an investigation into the affair and identification and punishment of those behind these “illegal” measures. They also demand that the result of this 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

FHI, FHI, Ibid. FHI, FHI, FHI, FHI, Ibid.

BRÜ, 262. I have not been able to identify the addressee of the file note. BRÜ, 246. BRÜ, BRÜ, BRÜ, BRÜ,

262. 246. 260. 246.

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investigation be published in the Börsenblatt für den Buchhandel and other professional journals. Through the use of the term “censor” the signatories of the protest are, as Brüning did in her letters to Ragwitz, Seibt and Höpcke, using the terminology usually associated with dissent to talk about less critical works. They, thereby, touch on a taboo, broken, for example, by Stefan Heym in 1964 in his speech at the International Colloquium of Writers of Socialist Countries, “Stalin verläßt den Raum,” (Stalin Leaves the Room) in which he criticises the “red pen of the censor,” which prevented real discussion.93 However, unlike Stefan Heym’s protest, the protest of the signatories is restricted to the semi-public, inner-Party sphere and the impact of this difference on the reaction of Party functionaries to these two protests is clear. Stefan Heym suffered numerous repressive measures as a result of his public condemnation of bureaucratic censorship and was unable to publish in the GDR for several years afterwards. The letter to Schäfers, dated 9 January 1969 indicates that the result of Brüning’s and other authors’ protests was simply a meeting with representatives from the Central Institute for Librarianship. Brüning found this meeting entirely unsatisfactory, because of the absence of any leading Party functionary and because the only measures that the representatives of the Central Institute could agree to take was the withdrawal of the list and the revaluation of the reputations of the affected authors in the education of librarians. Brüning states that the only way in which the reputation of the affected authors can genuinely be re-established is by making their works available to the reading public and that she expects an assurance from the Ministry for Culture that a selection of her works will be republished on the occasion of her sixtieth birthday in 1970. If the Ministry refuses to ensure that her works are once again available in bookshops, she threatens to resign from the Writers’ Union.94 In this respect, Brüning is threatening to take public action in order to force the publication of her works and is thereby using a similar strategy to that used by Heym and Kant in their negotiation of the publication of their or others’ critical works. However, in the case of Brüning, this strategy does not appear to have been entirely successful. Athough in a letter dated 17 February 1969 Schäfers states that Haid had promised to ensure a republication of Brüning’s most important works in 1970,95 in a letter to Heinz Sachs of the Mitteldeutscher Verlag, dated 12 April 1969, Brüning indicates that no

93 Heym, “Stalin verläßt den Raum,” 281. 94 FHI, BRÜ, 260. 95 FHI, BRÜ, 264.

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progress has been made on this.96 It seems that Party functionaries either did not consider that Brüning would follow through on her threat to make the conflict surrounding the withdrawal of her works public or considered that Brüning’s lack of international status would bring her little attention from the international media if she did so. Her behind-the-scenes criticism was noted and, in the MfS file mentioned above, the author remarks that, according to unofficial reports, Brüning blew the discussion surrounding the already withdrawn list out of proportion;97 however, publicly she held the Party line, did not follow through on her threats and thus had less political clout than her more critical colleagues. Brüning’s evident frustration at her treatment at the hands of cultural functionaries, indicated by the letters of complaint and threats to withdraw her public support, also point once again towards a lack of clarity in her position as a writer, as she feels compelled to accept a cultural policy that she considers disadvantageous to her and her works. It should also be noted that Brüning also suffered fewer repressive measures as a result of her adherence to the Party line on key issues. Compared to that of Heym and Kant, her Stasi file is very slender. Indeed, as Brüning herself notes after the Wende, her lack of significance in the eyes of the state could not have been demonstrated any more clearly than by the lack of interest of the secret police (Und außerdem, 264). Pushing at Boundaries: Feminism in the GDR What of Brüning’s literary output? Can her works be considered at all critical of the Party or of its politics or do these suggest the same clear-cut relationship with the regime as indicated by her silence on major issues of cultural policy? One of Brüning’s key concerns in her post–1945 writing was the position of women in the new socialist society and the effects of economic and legal emancipation. Her 1955 novel, Regine Haberkorn, which focuses on the experience of a woman taking up paid employment in a factory for the first time, has frequently been cited as an example of literature by women in the early years, which conformed to official policy on female emancipation and which was written with the aim of encouraging women to join the workforce.98 Issues surrounding gender politics 96 FHI, BRÜ, 392. 97 BStU MfS Berlin Abt. XX A–540–13. The author adds that this was partly in consultation with Heym, but the other sources offer no evidence for this. 98 See for example: Nutz, Trivialliteratur und Popularkultur, 229–43; Anna Maria Weise, Feminismus im Sozialismus: Weibliche Lebenskonzepte in der Frauenliteratur der DDR, untersucht an ausgewählten Prosawerken (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2003), 49–57; Nagelschmidt, “Literatur als Lebenshilfe,” 120–21.

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in the GDR also constituted a focus of many of Brüning’s later works, although, as will be seen, her attitude towards this topic shifted considerably. Her 1978 publication, Partnerinnen, which will form the focus of this section, is a collection of four short fictional portraits of women in the GDR, with each woman having taken a different approach to coping with the demands of career, children and marriage and with each experiencing different problems along the way – be it the need to sacrifice a career to care for children, the break-down of marriage due to a focus on career or a lack of personal fulfilment through a focus on children. Regine Haberkorn is, as noted above, considered to have conformed to official policy in the 1950s. How does Partnerinnen relate to the gender politics of the late 1970s? Statements by Party officials in this period asserted that female emancipation and gender equality had already been achieved through the creation of new employment opportunities for women and the provision of adequate childcare. Indeed, at the Eighth Party Congress in 1971, the equality of women was declared to be largely achieved both legally and in everyday life.99 The focus of policy relating to women in this period was thus on women as working mothers: traditional gender roles and the problem of the “double burden” were not called into question.100 According to Dinah Dodds, emancipation in the GDR was “only superficial, a Scheinemanzipation [scham emancipation],” although it was not necessarily perceived as such by East German women.101 Eva Kaufmann argues that official policies “saw women’s emancipation as already realised and considered critical discussion of it to be harmful.”102 Nonetheless, outside of official policy, gender issues were being discussed more fully. This was a period in which many prominent female writers approached such questions as female sexuality, patriarchal structures and the possibility of combining work and family life. Towards the end of the 1970s and the beginning of the 1980s, the first women’s groups were formed outside of the official public sphere. These provided a space for the discussion of issues such as peace, the environment, emancipation, and homosexuality.103 99 Weise, Feminismus im Sozialismus, 40. See also Madarász, “Andersdenkende Frauen,” 121. 100 See for example: Dinah Dodds, “Women in East Germany: Emancipation or Exploitation?,” in Women and the Wende: Social Effects and Cultural Reflections of the German Unification Process, ed. Elizabeth Boa and Janet Wharton (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 107–14; Chris Weedon, “Changing Subjectivities? Women and Identity,” in Boa and Wharton, Women and the Wende, 115–23; Weise, Feminismus im Sozialismus, 32; Jeanette Madarász, “Andersdenkende Frauen in der Ära Honecker,” in Barker, Ohse and Tate, Views from Abroad, 119–27. 101 Dodds, “Women in East Germany,” 107–8 and 112–3. 102 Kaufmann, “Women Writers in the GDR,” 182. 103 See Madarász, “Andersdenkende Frauen,” 124–125. Madarász notes that in the late 1970s, it was above all female emancipation and feminism that was of interest to these groups.

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Where does Partnerinnen – a moderately critical text written by a publicly loyal writer – sit in this division between official rhetoric and oppositional discourse? Analysis of the responses of readers, publishers, and reviewers to Brüning’s work reveals tensions and ambiguities in the reception of the text by different groups. In terms of her readership, archive material indicates that the text was recommended for the Prize for Art [Kunstpreis] of the Free German Worker’s Union [Freier Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund, FDGB] in over ninety letters from collectives in various companies and factories between 1978 and 1980.104 However, despite such popular support, she did not actually receive the prize until 1983. In 1982, Ruth Eberlein, who was researching her thesis on Brüning, informed Brüning of the popular support for the text. In a letter to Eberhard Günther, head of the Mitteldeutscher Verlag, dated 19 March 1982, Brüning comments on this: “well, I didn’t get it anyway. Why are these public discussions even organised, if people don’t act upon the results?” In light of this clear indication of the positive popular reception of her work, she asks if Günther would consider a new edition of Partnerinnen in the same year rather than the next.105 She thus uses the popular support for her work as a tool for negotiating with her publisher, but does not explicitly paint the failure to follow the wishes of the public in a political light. In contrast, in her post-Wende autobiography, Brüning does indicate her view of why the FDGB failed to follow the suggestions of the companies and factories. She draws a direct link between the criticism of Regine Haberkorn, which faced similar attacks to Septemberreise, and her long wait for literary recognition (Und außerdem, 246).106 She therefore sets the decision not to award her the prize in the context of a conflict with official expectations of socialist literature. In an interview in 2006, Brüning adds a further dimension to the assertion that there was a political motivation behind the lack of recognition given to her work. She states that it was, in fact, ideological objection to her presentation of the results of female emancipation in the GDR that lead to the failure to award her the prize: Yes, those in charge didn’t like the fact that I was critical of the emancipation of women. I found the emancipation of women wonderful, but it mustn’t be exaggerated. It mustn’t happen at the cost of others and it often happens at the cost of the children, who were left to fend for themselves. 107 104 See SAPMO BArch DY34/11238 and DY34/11727. 105 FHI, BRÜ, 1134. 106 In the 2004 edition of her autobiography, Brüning makes this link even more explicit: stating that the failure to award her the prize is almost certainly a result of “the reputation of being petty-bourgeois” that clung to her for years after the publication of Regine Haberkorn. See Und außerdem war es mein Leben (2004), 403. 107 “Im Grunde wollten wir alle dasselbe,” 263.

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As outlined above, the dominant image of women in official discourse in the GDR was that of the working mother. Women were expected to be able to master the demands of career, family and social work without commitments in one area impinging on commitments in the other. Brüning’s text, which calls into question the possibility of achieving even economic gender equality when women are still viewed as the primary care givers, may indeed have come into conflict with this official policy. Can Brüning’s portrayal of the difficulties experienced by women in the balancing of career and family thus be considered an example of this loyal writer touching on a politically sensitive issue? In this section, I will approach this question through analysis of documents relating to the publication of Partnerinnen and to the reception of this text in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Brüning’s presentation of the issue of female emancipation will subsequently be considered in the context of the shifting discourse around this topic in the GDR. In a letter dated 29 July 1975, Steffi Hoffmeister of the magazine, Für Dich, writes to Brüning to reject the publication of an unnamed story. Hoffmeister’s comments on the portrayal of women of various generations in the story indicate that this is one of the portraits in Partnerinnen, or has much in common with the stories in the collection.108 Hoffmeister insists that they are not rejecting the story because it is critical, stating that they believe that art has the function of “shaking people into action.”109 However, her comments on the story suggest that it is Brüning’s problematisation of the emancipation of women under socialism that is the reason behind the rejection of the work. Hoffmeister criticises Brüning’s portrayal of the older generation of women as “the ‘dupes of the new society’,” of the middle generation as evil careerists and younger women as ambitious, cold and selfish. She states that through the narrative, it is clear that Brüning stands on the side of the protagonist, the member of the older generation: “in this way you resign with her, judge and label with her the young generation per se” (emphasis in original).110 Hoffmeister’s accusations of pessimism and her criticism of the women in Brüning’s story who are either resigned to their fate or are cold and ambitious, that is who call into question the possibility of managing both career and family, is evidence of a very narrowly drawn approach to literature that determines what gets into Für Dich at this time. As Martha Wörsching argues, the image of a

108 I would suggest that this is a version of the first portrait in the collection, “Johanna,” which focuses on the problems of a member of the older generation in balancing the demands of the new socialist society with the upbringing of her children. 109 FHI, BRÜ, 668. 110 Ibid.

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woman successfully combining career, motherhood and marriage remained dominant in this women’s weekly right up to the Wende.111 What about the publication of the text in book form? Was this reaction echoed by Brüning’s publisher, Mitteldeutscher Verlag? A letter from Brüning’s editor, Ursula Steinhaußen, dated 31 March 1976 outlines the changes Brüning is asked to make to the fourth story in the collection, “Rita,” which focuses on a woman who has chosen life as a mother and wife over her career. Steinhaußen criticises Brüning’s use of colloquial language and repetition of particular words and phrases, but does not ask her to change the content of the story. Indeed, Steinhaußen indicates that this is already a reworked version of the text and that Brüning has added sections which deepen “Ritas inner conflict.” This suggests that the text may have met with earlier political criticism in respect of Brüning’s portrayal of the tensions in Rita’s life between personal fulfilment and caring for children. However, it is clear that Brüning has removed or altered any problematic passages, thus these objections can not have been the cause of disapproval of the published work, nor of the failure of the FDGB to grant Brüning the Prize for Art.112 Similarly, a letter from Steinhaußen to Brüning dated 5 April 1976 contains comments on the first story in the collection, “Johanna,” which, in Steinhaußen’s own words are “mostly of a linguistic nature.” The eponymous protagonist of this story is a member of the older generation, who felt forced to curb her commitments to her career and to the building of socialism in order to look after her children. Steinhaußen praises Brüning for having made Johanna less polemical, more likeable and

111 Martha Wörsching, “Für Dich and the Wende: Women’s Weekly between Plan and Market,” in Boa and Wharton, Women and the Wende, 139–154 (142). In contrast, GunillaFriederike Budde argues of Für Dich that, in contrast to its predecessor Frau von heute, the “obligatory portraits of women […] now appeared less clichéd and more sensitive to the downsides of life” and the “sore points” of female emancipation were key discussion topics, notably the lack of women in traditionally male careers and in positions of responsibility and the still-existing obstacles for women wishing to move up the career ladder. See Gunilla-Friederike Budde, “Zwischen den Stühlen: Die Frau von heute und Für Dich in den fünfziger und sechziger Jahren,” in Barck, Langermann and Lokatis, Zwischen ‘Mosaik’ und ‘Einheit,’ 129–37 (135). An example of this ambivalent response towards the presentation of female emancipation in GDR literature in Für Dich is the 1983 article by Karin Hirdina, “Worüber Frauen schreiben,” Für Dich, 29 (1983) – translated and reprinted in Woods, Opposition in the GDR under Honecker, 221–28. Hirdina welcomes the questioning of traditional images of women in GDR literature, but is critical of what she describes as the “one-sided” view of the problems of the double burden, which does not recognise the “job at the same time as an opportunity for women, as a broadening of her relationships, and as a new possibility for her to develop her personality.” Hirdina is also particularly critical of the “anti-male attitude” seen in Irmtraud Morgner’s Amanda (1983). 112 FHI, BRÜ, 871.

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more just. This again could be read as indicative of earlier criticism of Brüning’s text in political terms, and is similar to the comments made by Hoffmeister. However, Brüning has evidently now changed those aspects that were previously considered problematic and they, therefore, did not appear in the final publication.113 Was the work perhaps subject to a similar form of post-censorship as seen in the publication of Septemberreise in NDL? Does the reception of the text indicate official disapproval of this view of emancipation? In a review in the Berliner Zeitung on 8 March 1978, the literary critic, Werner Neubert, notes that Brüning is a popular author and ascribes this popularity to her “closeness to life, to its social, pedagogical and also psychological questions.”114 Neubert considers that the stories offer the reader a “life-affirming, courageous image” and are of interest not only to women, but to socialist society as a whole.115 In his praise of Partnerinnen, however, Neubert glosses over the central concern of the collection, that is, the possibility of gender equality in a society which, despite steps towards the economic emancipation of women, does not challenge traditional gender roles. He describes the story “Renate,” the only one in the collection in which a woman is seen to achieve a balance between career and family, but not without sacrifice, as “a portrait of female claims on life” [ein Porträt fraulichen Anspruchs auf das Leben]. However, he ignores the criticism contained within this portrait that women continue to struggle under the double burden of work and childcare. The protagonist, Renate, states: “they [the previous generation of women] were disadvantaged in their careers, just as I am, for, in many respects, not a great deal has changed, despite the thirty years that lie between us.” She adds that it still always falls to women to put their careers on hold to care for children.116 Moreover, Neubert sets the stop in Johanna’s career development in terms of a more general “limitation on the opportunities for development,” which has since been overcome, ignoring the gender dimension of this limitation. Barbara is only discussed in terms of the stages of her transition from a member of the fascist League of German Girls [Bund Deutscher Mädel] to her role as chief editor of a newspaper and the links between her ambition and the failure of her marriage are glossed over. “Rita” is, for Neubert, a discussion of the problems of how the individual can best make use of the “humane conditions of our social order,” and he makes no mention of the issue of

113 FHI, BRÜ, 870. 114 Werner Neubert, “Im Spannungsfeld von Glück und Leid: Neue Erzählungen von Elfriede Brüning,” Berliner Zeitung, 8 March 1978. 115 Ibid. 116 Brüning, Partnerinnen, 70.

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Rita’s decision to abandon her career in an attempt to avoid the mistakes of her mother’s generation.117 Annemarie Auer’s review of Partnerinnen and Zu meiner Zeit in Neues Deutschland of 12 April 1978 is striking in two respects. Firstly, in regards to Auer’s comments on Brüning’s style: ten years after her scathing criticism of Brüning’s use of cliché and colloquialisms, which reduce her work to the level of light fiction, Auer praises this writer who produces works which are accessible, “without […] diminishing her [Brüning’s] understanding of the issues” and congratulates her on her ability to keep in touch with the changes in people’s lives, which “enables her to use a language close to the everyday” and an “easily understandable, friendly and patient style.”118 This change in approach suggests a shift in the perception of the value of Brüning’s work and, correspondingly, a change in the dominant language used to talk about Brüning’s texts. Eberlein also detects this change in the reception of Brüning’s work in the 1970s and ‘80s, noting that reviewers now praised Brüning for her “‘historical consciousness,’ ‘partisanship,’ ‘eye for the typical,’ ‘applicability’ and ‘closeness to the masses’.”119 Eberlein ascribes this change to a more general shift in views on the length of the processes of social change and the point reached in the realisation of socialist ideals. This shift, according to Eberlein, resulted in the breaking down of the dogmatic approach to the “mimetic principle” and the concept of “the typical,” and an overcoming of an overly didactic view of literature and of the “immature reader.”120 The second striking feature of Auer’s review is that, like Neubert, in her discussion of Partnerinnen, Auer largely ignores Brüning’s problematisation of female emancipation in the GDR. Auer notes that the work focuses on the “most important issues for today’s women and mothers right up to the youngest generation,” but does not state what these issues might be. Auer notes that one of the protagonists asks “What does happiness mean?” and answers that it is not only personal achievement, but also love and recognition from those close to you.121 Auer thus selects an extract, which suggests the compatibility of career and family, compatibility that the individual stories, while promoting it as the ideal, suggest is impossible to fully achieve while women are still viewed as the primary care-givers. The failure on the part of both of these leading literary critics, writing in

117 Neubert, “Im Spannungsfeld von Glück und Leid.” 118 Annemarie Auer, “Lebensnahe Kunst des Einfachen: Zu zwei neuen Büchern von Elfriede Brüning,” Neues Deutschland, 12 April 1978. 119 Eberlein, Untersuchungen zur Darstellung der Persönlichkeitsentwicklung, 198. 120 Ibid., 200. Cf. Wallace, “Teacher or Partner?,” 13–16. 121 Auer, “Lebensnahe Kunst.”

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prominent newspapers, to discuss fully the criticisms of female emancipation in the collection might indicate an attempt to steer the reading of the text towards an understanding of the work as purely an affirmation of the need for women to unite career and family. However, this particular reading of the work can be seen to have had limited impact on reviews in other publications, produced after the texts by Neubert and Auer. In Die Wochenpost of the 15 September 1978, for example, Annelore Weimer notes that despite the opportunities offered to women under socialism, many still experience difficulties in managing the various spheres of their life and that the portraits show the problems, “that still today put hurdles and obstacles in the way of female citizens.”122 In Sonntag of the 8 October 1978, Renate Drenkow insists that Brüning always presents the “women’s question” as a “class question […] embedded in general social progress, historically concretely motivated,”123 thereby following the official interpretation of female emancipation. However, in her discussion of Partnerinnen she notes that Brüning leads the reader to question whether success in one’s career leads to losses in one’s family life and if such losses are the result of old perceptions regarding the role of women and mothers.124 Writing in Neuer Tag, the regional SED newspaper in Halle, in July 1978, Helga Glöckner-Neubert states that the constitution of the GDR has guaranteed women all rights to “professional and social development.” However, she points towards the conflict inherent in each portrait and describes the text as “a stimulating book. It does not allow us to rest easy in the belief that the equality of women has been completely achieved.”125 Although discussion of texts by prominent individuals might be designed to steer the reception of a work, this varying reception suggests that other critics did not necessarily echo this particular reading. As has been seen in chapter one, newspapers and journals were not subject to the same process of gaining permission to print as other media and a large part of the responsibility for the content lay with the chief editor. The approach taken to literary texts thus depended on his or her view of the function of art in socialist society and willingness to take risks. The reviews by Neubert and Auer are, in fact, overwhelmingly positive in their comments and, in this sense, do not point towards official disapproval of Brüning’s text. They do, however, point towards an unwillingness to promote discussion on the topic of female emancipation under social-

122 123 124 125

Annelore Weimer, “Etwas sein oder nicht sein.” Die Wochenpost, 15 September 1978. Renate Drenkow, “Partnerinnen,” Sonntag, 8 October 1978. Ibid. Helga Glöckner-Neubert, “Partnerschaft verträgt keine Alternative: Zu einem neuen Buch von Elfriede Brüning,” Neuer Tag, 28 July 1978.

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ism. As we have seen, this attempt was not necessarily successful in terms of the reception of the work in other publications. What about its impact on Brüning’s readers? Which view of the work is reflected in the recommendations for the FDGB Prize for Art? In the vast majority of cases, there is evidence of an effort to reiterate the official Party line on female emancipation, that is, that it has largely been achieved through adequate provision of childcare and other state facilities designed to ease the double burden. In their undated position statement, the Kollektiv der Materialwirtschaft Thomas-Müntzer-Schacht, for example, see in Renate a model for all women, as she achieves a combination of being there for her children, satisfaction at work and equality with her partner.126 In their letter of the 17 April 1979, the Gewerkschaftbibliothek RAW Magdeburg note the difficulties experienced by the older generation in managing both career and family, but that the state has since created better opportunities for women to develop in their careers.127 However, the varied reception seen in newspaper and journal reviews is echoed in the comments by these readers. Other groups do point towards the critical concern of the portraits: in a letter of the 2 April 1980, a representative of the Gewerkschaftsbibliothek of BGW states that Brüning visited the factory in order to discuss Partnerinnen with the workers and that the discussion touched upon the question: “are all problems automatically solved with the socio-political measures designed to support mother and child?”128 The Brigade “Albert Schweitzer” of the VEB Fahrzeugausrüstung Berlin, in a letter dated 25 March 1980, found that gender equality was regulated by law, “however, for its realisation it needs above all a change in people’s attitudes” and argue that men are not subject to the same conflicts as the women in the portraits.129 These statements in the recommendations for the text might be viewed as problematic in terms of official policy on female emancipation and stand in contrast to the apparent attempt to steer the reading of the work away from this interpretation in the reviews of leading critics. This might indicate that it was, as Brüning suggests after the Wende, uncertainty regarding the central concern of the text, which led to the failure to award her the Prize for Art in 1980. However, the available evidence points, once again, not towards a clear Party line on this issue, but towards a range of views and a fragmentation of opinion. This fragmentation conflicts with both clear-cut official rhetoric and Brüning’s clear-cut interpretation of the reac126 127 128 129

SAPMO BArch DY34/11238. SAPMO BArch DY34/11238. SAPMO BArch DY34/11727. Ibid.

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tion to her text after the Wende. This ambiguity is further highlighted by a small number of letters that recommend that Brüning should not receive the prize. These indicate that the discussions were in some way orchestrated and that Partnerinnen had been put forward by the FDGB as at least a potential candidate for the prize. As indicated above, Brüning’s approach to the question of female emancipation under socialism can also be seen as part of a wider movement by GDR women writers in the course of the 1970s. Kaufmann notes that from the 1960s onwards many female writers, such as Irmtraud Morgner, Brigitte Reimann and Christa Wolf, began to regard women’s emancipation in the GDR increasingly critically and that economic independence was often felt to be “only a first step on the long road to emancipation.”130 Kaufmann tracks the development of writing by women in the GDR. In the 1950s, there was a predominance of chronological plots, omniscient narrators and the theme of the transformation of apolitical housewives into emancipated women; however the late 1960s and 1970s saw the beginnings of “feminist tendencies” and experiments in form.131 Among the developments in women’s writing, Kaufmann notes a turn to more subjective and first-person narrative forms, notably Christa Wolf’s Nachdenken über Christa T. (1968) (Quest for Christa T.) and Reimann’s Franziska Linkerhand (1974); the use of fantasy and montage, for example, Morgner’s Trobadora Beatriz (1974) and the employment of open-ended structures, for example, Gerti Tetzner’s Karen W. (1974). This new complexity in form was frequently accompanied by a critique of patriarchal structures and examination of the difficulties associated with gender politics in the GDR.132 The works named above differ starkly from Brüning’s narrative style and her approach to the problems of patriarchal structures. Brüning’s works are far closer than these texts to realist narrative traditions and the official interpretations of female emancipation. However, the development in her view of gender policy, from the superwoman of her 1955 novel Regine Haberkorn to the more critical Partnerinnen, and her use of first-person

130 Kaufmann, “Women Writers in the GDR,” 182. 131 Ibid., 180–181 132 See Ibid., 179–192. See also Weise, Feminismus im Sozialismus, especially 30–40; Ines Geipel, “Autorinnen in der DDR: Aufbruch, Dienstbarkeit und Widerstand. Eine Skizze,” in Die DDR im Spiegel ihrer Literatur: Beiträge zu einer historischen Betrachtung der DDR-Literatur, ed. Franz Huberth (Berlin: Dunker & Humboldt, 2005), 117–25. A more personal perspective on the development of the literary treatment of female emancipation in the GDR is offered in, Brita Baume, “Heldinnen nach Plan: Zur literarischen Sozialisation und zum Umgang mit der Frauenfrage in der DDR,” in ‘Der weibliche multikulturelle Blick’: Ergebnisse eines Symposiums, ed. Hannelore Scholz and Brita Baume (Berlin: trafo, 1994), 113–24.

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narrators and free-standing (but interconnected) portraits in the later text, rather than traditional prose, can be linked to these shifts in literary discourse. Moreover, the ambivalence and fragmentation of opinion in the reaction of critics towards Partnerinnen echoes the widening of boundaries by these critical women writers. This suggests that finding the contours of permissible debate, and, conversely, the areas considered “taboo,” was not simply a matter of knowing Party directives on this or that issue, but rather linked to wider cultural movements and the positioning of prominent individuals, including those who were critical of the regime, in relation to official rhetoric. In her autobiography and in the 2006 interview, Brüning paints a far simpler picture of the relationship between the official Party line and the boundaries of debate, as she suggests that even her moderate deviation from official discourse on the question of female emancipation met with clear disapproval.133

Literature and Antifascism In his analysis of antifascism and antifascist resistance as part of the founding mythology of the GDR, Herfried Münkler states that the role of Communist cells in the first years of resistance against fascism was overemphasised to suggest a continuous movement encompassing wide sections of the population.134 Münkler argues that this led to the image of the antifascist resister and victim of fascism becoming part of the cultural memory of the GDR. Indeed, Münkler contends, the emphasis on this experience of the Nazi era, which did not correspond to the memories of the majority, meant that the GDR had to rely heavily on the medium of cultural memory to disseminate this “political myth.”135 As seen in chapter one, Annette Simon describes antifascism as a type of meta-ideology, which ensured loyalty to the SED.136 Similarly, in her psychoanalytical study of GDR literature, Julia Hell argues that the discourse of antifascism and the leading role of Communists in the resistance to Hitler “legitimated the power of a single

133 For an analysis of material relating to the publication of Partnerinnen from the perspective of GDR gender politics and the role of critical female writers in the fragmentation of the official value position on the question of female emancipation, see Sara Jones, “Touching on Taboos: Elfriede Brüning and the Reception of Partnerinnen in the GDR,” German Life and Letters, 64.1 (2011): 71–82. 134 Münkler, “Antifaschismus und antifaschistischer Widerstand,” 17. 135 Ibid., 21. 136 Annette Simon, “Antifaschismus als Loyalitätsfalle.”

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party and its state.”137 Hell develops a model of totalitarianism as “an ideological project” and “unconscious fantasy” in which the social is made to cohere around the figure of the leader: in the case of the GDR, around the sublime body of the Communist hero of antifascism.138 The Communist hero, in turn, is, for Hell, an incarnation of the Party (32), and subjugation to and identification with the antifascist father/Party is the foundation of the East German hegemonic project (35). Thus, Münkler, Simon and Hell all associate antifascism with representatives of power in the GDR and argue that the Communist hero is constructed, also in literature, to inspire loyalty to the state. In this respect, analysis of the presentation of the antifascist hero in Brüning’s literature is particularly useful as part of a wider analysis of Brüning’s attitude towards representatives of power in the GDR. As noted by Sayner, Brüning’s identity as an antifascist and her involvement in antifascist resistance are key to her self-understanding.139 Furthermore, after the Wende it is not only ambivalence towards the approach and style of writing of the BPRS that she blames for the failure of literary criticism to take note of her works. In her autobiography, Brüning also sets up a distinction between those members of the Communist Party and the BPRS who emigrated and those who stayed in Germany.140 She states that, while writers were able to perfect their skills in exile, those who remained in Germany were cut off from world literature and unable to develop (Und außerdem, 63–4). Furthermore, Brüning criticises the attitude of those émigrés who did eventually return to the GDR and take on leading roles in the new state towards those writers, former comrades, who were forced to remain in Germany during the war. For example, Brüning describes her affair with Hans Schwalm, who later became the writer Jan Petersen. She recalls that, before the war, Petersen was a “good, reliable comrade […] a conscientious functionary to the core, through whom all threads of the illegal work ran together; nonetheless he had always remained modest” (Und außerdem, 227). Petersen escaped Nazi Germany, fleeing to Paris, where, as the “man in the mask,” he informed the audience of the International Writers’ Congress for the Defence of Culture about the BPRS. Petersen eventually emigrated from Paris to London where he spent the remainder of the war before returning to the GDR in 1946. Her portrayal of Jan Petersen on his return to the GDR is of a self-obsessed and slightly arrogant

137 Julia Hell, Post-Fascist Fantasies: Psychoanalysis, History, and the Literature of East Germany (London: Duke University Press, 1997), 4. 138 Ibid., 7, 17 and 19. 139 Sayner, Women without a past, 249. 140 A similar argument is advanced in Ibid., 258–60 and 277.

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individual, who promotes himself at the expense of others. She describes how, at a Writers’ Congress, Petersen took the stage to describe his heroic appearance in Paris and his book that he wrote in Nazi Berlin, but fails to mention, until prompted by Berta Waterstradt, that while he was celebrating in Paris, several of his colleagues, including Brüning, were being arrested by the Gestapo (Und außerdem, 206). Another Communist émigré, Heinz Willmann, who spent the war in the Soviet Union and returned to occupy a leading position in the Cultural Association of the GDR, is criticised for using the formal “Sie” form with Brüning, a fellow comrade. Before the war, Brüning notes, it had always been their dream that everyone would use the familiar “Du.” She comments: “even Heinz Willmann seemed in many ways to have suddenly become a stranger to me.” This criticism is further extended to include other leading members of the Party. She suggests that those in charge have forgotten their egalitarian values when they effectively create a new class system with the introduction of different ration cards and separate canteens for workers and functionaries – this was not how they had envisioned socialism (Und außerdem, 165–66). This clear criticism of those émigrés who came to take on leading roles in the GDR and of the distinction between exile writers and writers of the “inner emigration” seen in Brüning’s post-Wende autobiography is hinted at in her pre-Wende correspondence. In the letter to Seghers in 1968, she states that her illegal work in Nazi Germany obviously does not count for much in the eyes of cultural officials.141 In the copy of this letter sent to Gerhard Henniger the minor changes Brüning made include accusing Henniger, a leading functionary, directly of ignoring the risks she herself took in the Third Reich: “apparently all that does not count for much” becomes “that it does not count for much, also not in your eyes.”142 However, in her autobiography, with her statement that writers of the “inner emigration” effectively sacrificed their careers, whereas writers in exile were able to blossom in the new homeland, Brüning suggests that the sacrifices of the “inner emigration” were greater than the sacrifices of those who were forced into exile. Before the Wende, in behind-the-scenes correspondence, she does not frame her complaints in these terms. In this section, I will consider the portrayal of the relationship between returning antifascist exiles and members of the “inner emigration” in two of Brüning’s fictional

141 FHI BRÜ, 21. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 75–77 (76) 142 FHI, BRÜ, 261. See also the letter from Brüning to Eduard Claudius dated 31.1.1970 (FHI, BRÜ, 41) – reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 83–84; and the letter from Brüning to Harry Matter dated 21.1.1988 (FHI, BRÜ, 1702) – reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 235–238.

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works, Septemberreise and Wie andere Leute auch, and consider to what extent this uncertainty towards her former comrades is expressed in her pre–1989 literature. As seen above, Brüning comments in 1984 that in her literature she always drew from reality and that in Septemberreise her intention was to criticise the cowardly narrow-minded and bourgeois values that came to the fore in the private lives of many comrades who had otherwise proved themselves in class warfare.143 In an unpublished letter to Dieter Fechner (a reviewer of Brüning’s works), dated 14 September 1980, in reference to Wie andere Leute auch, Brüning states that this work originally bore the title “My Daughter and I: Almost an Autobiography” [Meine Tochter und ich: Fast eine Autobiographie], but that she is now working with the title “Mothers and Daughters” [Mütter und Töchter] in an attempt to distance herself from her own life.144 However, due to the age and history of the main and secondary protagonists and the use of a first person narrator in the sections devoted to the protagonist, Elisabeth, the original autobiographical intent is clear. These two texts thus particularly lend themselves to comparison with Brüning’s explicitly autobiographical texts, and parallels between the protagonists and Brüning’s own life can reveal tensions in Brüning’s presentation of these events in the different genres and across the political divide of the Wende. Septemberreise The main example of an antifascist exile returning to the GDR post–1945 in the novella, Septemberreise, is that of the narrator’s, Vera’s, lover, only referred to as “Du.” Early in the text the reader learns that this Communist hero, is not, in fact, a member of the working class, but rather a bourgeois intellectual who sympathised with the workers’ movement. He envies the narrator, Vera, for her working class credentials and natural class instinct (Sept., 10). In the course of the work, Vera begins to question if her lover ever truly escaped this bourgeois background, with its emphasis on appearances, comfort and its restrictive sexual values. In this respect, two key episodes in the work are Vera’s pregnancy and subsequent abortion during the 1930s and her belief that she is pregnant again in the early years of the GDR. In the first instance, Vera complies with her lover’s insistence that she abort their child and is convinced by his argument that they first had to 143 FHI BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 13. 144 FHI BRÜ, Ablieferungsliste 9. Reprinted in Brüning, Ich mußte einfach schreiben, unbedingt, 180–181 (180).

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win the revolution (Sept., 29). After all, thinking about love in such a time was “provincial” [spießig] and “petty-bourgeois” [kleinbürgerlich] (Sept., 44). She even forgives him for his neglect when she nearly bleeds to death; she attributes his short and infrequent visits to her sick bed to the constant danger under which he lives (Sept., 30). However, Vera radically reviews this position when she falsely believes she is pregnant again after the war. Her lover once again insists that she abort their child, but this time Vera refuses. She questions his previous arguments, “as if revolutionaries never had children!” and calls herself “stupid” for going along with them. She even calls into question his Communist credentials; surely this is not the behaviour of a Communist, but of someone who is merely concerned with his own comfortable life and career (Sept., 121). Although he has not changed, her perception of him has: his bourgeois attitudes to appearance and the family do not match his purported principles. She begins to question her lover’s political potency, as he continues to refuse to take decisive action. As she looks back on his funeral, she reflects that in his youth she had seen in her lover the ideal image of the Communist hero, describing him as “incorruptible,” “consistent,” “resolute,” an individual who never held back his opinion even if it meant being beaten half to death (Sept., 127–28). However, Vera reflects that later in his life her lover refused to make decisions, compromised, and had nothing in common with the “firebrand of those years” (Sept., 128). His behaviour as a leading scientist in the GDR is far from the exemplary behaviour of a Communist hero and, in this respect, the narrator’s criticism of him is similar to Brüning’s criticism of returning exiles in her autobiography. It is noteworthy that this “bourgeois” attitude towards marriage and sexual relations was characteristic of SED policy in this period: functionaries could be disciplined for extra-marital affairs. As the narrator’s lover is an example of a member of the exile generation in the work, so the narrator herself is an example of a member of the “inner emigration” and there are several key differences in Brüning’s portrayal of their behaviour. The lover’s refusal to make a decision, to stick to his principles and leave his wife, stands in contrast to Vera’s decision to turn her back on her husband and daughter as they fled to the West and, without a second’s doubt, choose her lover and her belief in the socialist state (Sept., 40). Indeed, Vera is prepared to take significant risks for their relationship; she repeatedly visits him in exile in Prague, despite the knowledge that she could be arrested and imprisoned for associating with émigrés (Sept., 41). Where he only thinks of himself (Sept., 47 and 69), she is required to risk her life and sacrifice her child for him and for socialism. She desperately wants to go into exile with him, but he insists that she stay in Germany, stating that it is unprincipled to leave without urgent political

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necessity (Sept., 42). He criticises her for marrying the bourgeois Olaf, but Vera reflects that he took the easy route: he left because of his convictions and now expects to pick up where he left off, with no consideration for how she was forced to survive the preceding twelve years of National Socialist rule (Sept., 60). Thus in a parallel with her autobiography, in Septemberreise, Brüning portrays a division between a returning émigré occupying a leading position in the GDR and a Communist who stayed in Germany during the Third Reich; ultimately, it is Vera, the member of the “inner emigration,” who is seen to have made the greater sacrifices, and the émigré and leading scientist who is the subject of fierce criticism. Wie andere Leute auch Brüning’s novel Wie andere Leute auch, published in 1983, is set in the GDR of the 1970s and focuses on the struggles of the writer Elisabeth, her mother and her daughter to cope with the everyday problems of a single woman juggling a career, childcare and relationship. The theme of disappointment with the antifascist heroes returning from exile or imprisonment seen in Septemberreise is continued in this later novel in the description of Herbert, Elisabeth’s former lover. In a similar manner to Vera’s love for the “Du” of Septemberreise, Elisabeth fell in love with Herbert’s idealism, passion and radical politics in the 1930s (Wie andere, 23–24); however, on his return from Nazi imprisonment after the war, she notes a change in him. His very manner of dress “oozed bourgeois sedateness” (Wie andere, 25), and he has given up writing in favour of a secure job as an editor. His concern is now with the material comforts of life (Wie andere, 26). The narrator perceives a strange moral development in the behaviour of those who were prepared to risk their lives in the fight against fascism. In the new order, they seem to feel that they have sacrificed enough for society and appear to be trying to make up for all that they have missed out on in terms of the comforts of life; they abandon their former lovers and fellow sufferers in favour of a bourgeois existence (Wie andere, 276). Again, clear parallels can be drawn here between Brüning’s portrayal of a Communist hero occupying a key position in the GDR in her pre-Wende fiction and in her post-Wende autobiography. In both, the hero returning from exile, or in the case of Wie andere Leute auch, imprisonment, is seen to have lost his revolutionary values. Elisabeth herself is a member of the “inner emigration” and the contrast between Herbert’s concern for material comforts and loss of passion for revolutionary politics and Elisabeth’s commitment is clear. He states that his full time position as editor makes it impossible for him to write.

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She, on the other hand, who must work during the day to feed her young daughter, recalls that she wrote her first book during the night (Wie andere, 26–27). In a parallel with Brüning’s post-Wende autobiography, Elisabeth also hints that, in respect of their writing careers, those who remained in Germany during the war sacrificed more than those who were in exile. She recalls that it took several years before books focusing on the Nazi era and written by those who had experienced the Third Reich at first hand joined those written by émigrés. However, this sentiment is tempered in the novel by her statement that the reason behind this was not the lack of opportunity to develop in contrast to the exiles, but a passionate desire to focus on the new society being built around her: “there were new things wherever you looked – and I was supposed to look backwards, recall the hated and finally overcome times” (Wie andere, 365). She does affirm the importance of the works of the “inner emigration,” stating she could not have written her book on resistance fighters if she had not experienced the atmosphere of the Third Reich in all its details. However, Elizabeth does not suggest that it is prejudice that prevents others from recognising the significance of the works of those who remained in Germany throughout Nazi rule. Criticism of the antifascists who came to rule the GDR in these terms was a common theme in GDR literature. As seen in chapter one, Wolfgang Engler identifies a typology of “functionaries” on the one side and “partisans” on the other. The partisan trusts his own judgement above the interference of others, action and readiness to take risks above pathos and ritual; the functionary, in contrast, is compliant and disciplined.145 The parallels between Brüning’s presentation of these conflicts in her post-Wende autobiography and, significantly, in pre-Wende correspondence, indicates that parallels can be drawn between the presentation of antifascist heroes in her fiction and her perception of the returning antifascist heroes in her own life, including those who came to occupy leading positions in the GDR. However, it is only after the Wende that Brüning feels able to present in non-fictional form the sense of having given more to the cause, of having sacrificed her career for the fight against fascism, which is hinted at in her pre-Wende fiction. This, in turn, further suggests an ambivalent attitude towards these functionaries and towards the legitimacy of the ruling elite in the GDR. Indeed, Brüning’s age and her involvement with the Communist resistance make her less prone to the feeling of guilt that characterised the generation of Christa Wolf and induced them to accept the moral authority of Communist leaders.

145 Engler, Die Ostdeutschen, 118–19.

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This distinction between the returning exiles and those who remained in Germany during the war in Brüning’s texts can also be seen to be an issue of gender. The members of the “inner emigration” in the works discussed are exclusively female, whereas criticism is directed solely against male antifascists returning from exile. In this respect, Brüning can be seen to be putting forward a veiled critique of the imagery of the antifascist as the male émigré. As Hell argues, the works of Bredel, Marchwitza and Gotsche, which she identifies as the “foundational narratives of the GDR” and an important part of the antifascist project,146 “focus unfailingly on male characters, while female characters and their stories remain peripheral.”147 Female characters either conflict with the male protagonist’s political mission or support it; they are not active participants in class struggle. However, in both her preWende correspondence and post-Wende autobiography, Brüning presents the image of a more active role in resistance to fascism on the part of a female Communist, who remained in Germany throughout Nazi rule. This veiled criticism of the gendered nature of the foundational mythology of the GDR is seen even more clearly in Brüning’s 2004 publication Gefährtinnen: Porträts vergessener Frauen (Companions: Portraits of Forgotten Women).148 All of these eight women, whom, as the subtitle of the work suggests, Brüning considers did not receive the recognition they deserve in their lifetime, were active Communists and all but one (Anni Sauer) stayed in Germany during the war. 149

Conclusion The analysis of Brüning’s pre-Wende correspondence demonstrates that, before 1989, Brüning considered that her lack of international status resulted in disadvantageous treatment by representatives of power. Brüning’s relationship with publishers and Party functionaries suffers from a lack of clarity due to incongruence between clear-cut official rhetoric and everyday practice, which she perceives as favouring critical writers who publish in the West. This is the result for Party-loyal writers such as Brüning of the tension between official condemnation of the political

146 147 148 149

Hell, Post-Fascist Fantasies, 18. Ibid., 36. See also Weise, Feminismus im Sozialismus, 44. Elfriede Brüning, Gefährtinnen: Porträts vergessener Frauen (Berlin: Karl Dietz, 2004). For an extended analysis of the role of antifascist heroes in Brüning’s works, including that of younger antifascists, see Sara Jones, “Sex and Socialism: The Antifascist Hero in the Life and Works of Elfriede Brüning,” glossen, 26 (2007), http://www.dickinson.edu/ glossen/heft26/article26/jones.html (accessed 11 September 2010).

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activities of critical writers by Party functionaries and the willingness to negotiate with them behind the scenes, as seen in chapter two. In this respect, Brüning did not necessarily cultivate a position of ambiguity, but nonetheless could not find a position of clarity due to the ambiguity in the relationship between critical writers and the ruling elite. Before the Wende Brüning sets herself, a loyal and reliable Party member, in direct opposition to those “dissidents” who published their works in the West. However, her appropriation of the language generally used to talk about dissidence and her use of methods comparable to those used by Stefan Heym and Hermann Kant in her attempts to force a republication of her works demonstrate once again that such binary oppositions are not appropriate for describing intellectual involvement in the GDR. The emerging patterns in the tactics of the three writers considered in this study in their dealings with Party functionaries indicate that intellectuals with different outlooks and different views of what best served socialism might use similar methods to promote the publication of their or others’ works. Analysis of Brüning’s pre-Wende correspondence also demonstrates that a writer who publicly conformed to the Party line might be very critical of certain aspects of cultural policy and certain cultural functionaries behind the scenes. Furthermore, close inspection of Brüning’s pre-Wende literary output reveals that some of her criticism of the attitude of returning exiles and leading functionaries towards members of the “inner emigration” is contained within her works published in the GDR, although this is articulated less directly than in her post-Wende autobiography. Brüning can also be seen to feed into more critical discourse in her presentation of the success of female emancipation in the GDR in Partnerinnen. While Brüning’s more conformist stance allowed her to avoid the repressive measures that were the result of Heym’s outspoken attacks on cultural policy, Heym was able to use his international status as a critic of the regime as a tool for negotiation. The example of Brüning demonstrates once more the difficulty of distinguishing between the rulers and the ruled and her critical-conformist stance leads to a blurring of the boundaries between Wolfgang Englers’s categories of the “careerists” and “faithful functionaries” on the one hand and the “partisans” on the other. The analysis of the debate in Neue Deutsche Literatur surrounding Septemberreise and the effect of this criticism on the later publication and reception of the work demonstrates not only the limited range of debate in the literary journals of the 1960s, but also the tension between the recognition of the need for light fiction and the sense that this did not fit in with official socialist ideology. In order to justify its existence, light fiction under socialism had to be distinctly different from the trivial literature of capitalism and its role was to help re-educate the masses towards the ideal

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socialist individual. In this respect, the criticism of socialist literature was highly political and not simply a criticism of the aesthetic weaknesses of a particular work. The political nature of this criticism is also demonstrated by the effect of Geerdts’s contribution to the debate on the publication of the text in book form. The publication and reception history of both Septemberreise and Partnerinnen points, once again, towards the mosaic of opinions possible within the boundaries of permissible debate, the shifting nature of these boundaries, and the resultant difficulty in identifying a clear Party line for all those involved in the processes of literary production. Comparison of this pre-Wende archival material with both editions of Brüning’s post-Wende autobiography demonstrates that Brüning’s portrayal of the reasons behind the reception of her works in the GDR has shifted. After 1989, Brüning reinterprets these events in line with the dominant discourse on intellectual involvement with the state, focusing on criticism from official bodies and, as before the Wende she emphasised the differences between her and more critical writers, after the Wende, she emphasises her differences with the regime. As with the autobiographies of Stefan Heym and Hermann Kant, however, this does not necessarily mean that Und außerdem war es mein Leben is not an authentic account of the woman Brüning perceives herself to be and as she would wish to be perceived. As has been demonstrated, there are parallels between her criticisms of antifascist exiles returning to the GDR in her autobiography with criticisms in her pre-Wende fiction, although these criticisms are not expressed in the same manner in pre-Wende correspondence. In this respect, the example of Brüning further demonstrates the complex and multiple communication strategies used by GDR intellectuals in the semi-public sphere of behindthe-scenes communication with Party functionaries and publishers and in public discourse, in which the context, addressee and purpose of the text played a key role in its formulation.

Conclusion: Ambiguity, Fragmentation and the End of the GDR What patterns emerge from these portraits of Hermann Kant, Stefan Heym and Elfriede Brüning? What broader conclusions can be drawn from these individual perspectives on the interaction between “intellect” and “power” in the GDR? What can detailed analysis of this sector of GDR society add to broader models of the GDR and of intellectual involvement in this authoritarian state? Two major issues emerge from the detailed analysis of the life and works of these very different writers: ambiguity in relationships with power and the fragmentation of the Party line. To what extent are these issues seen in other areas of GDR life and what impact does this have on our broader understanding of the East German state?

Ambiguity in Relationships with Power All three of the writers in this study can be seen to have ambiguous relationships with power. Hermann Kant, the publicly loyal Party member and leading cultural functionary, uses his position in the cultural apparatus and his status as an internationally renowned writer to promote the publication of works deemed critical. Kant informs on colleagues for the Stasi, but simultaneously is the subject of critical Stasi reports and attempts to use his contact with the MfS to pass on criticism of certain aspects of cultural policy. Kant actively cultivates this position of ambiguity, using the ambivalence in his relationship with power to negotiate space for discussion and inner-Party reform. Stefan Heym, the confrontational critic of the regime, shows willingness to meet and negotiate with Party functionaries behind the scenes in order to maintain his room for manoeuvre and to ensure the publication of his works both at home and abroad. The readiness of Heym and functionaries to compromise and the terms of Heym’s relationship with the Party shifted over the course of the GDR’s history with periods of intense public confrontation following periods of intense negotiation; however, to the end, Heym made use of and was allowed to make use of

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the “feudal” structures of power1 in order to further his own aims as a writer and public figure. Heym’s self-stylisation as a perpetual dissident in his autobiography and his reported statement in 1977 that the time of selfcensorship is over suggest that Heym sought clarity in his relationship with the regime. Nonetheless, his support for a socialist state on German soil, his desire to remain in the GDR and yet to be internationally effective, meant that his rupture with the ruling elite could never be complete. Elfriede Brüning can also be seen to actively seek clarity in her relationship with power, as she criticises the Party for not valuing the qualities of partisanship and antifascism they publicly require of the socialist writer. She expects her public loyalty to the Party and her positive response to the demands for literature focusing on the socialist present to be rewarded with large print runs, prizes and privilege, and is disappointed that the Party does not react as she expects. However, in her search for clarity, Brüning also cultivates an ambivalent position, as she uses inner-Party communication to express her discontent with these aspects of cultural policy, while maintaining the unity of the Party line in public. It is important to note in these interactions that it is not the writers alone who live in ambiguity: functionaries, publishers, editors and readers also take ambivalent and shifting positions in their approach to the demands of both critical and loyal authors, with some individuals at some points favouring more discussion and themselves promoting the publication of critical works, and others taking a more rigid attitude to the boundaries of the possible. Particularly in respect of editors and publishers, the behaviour of these individuals frequently echoes the soul-searching, compromise and tactical manoeuvring of the writers themselves. As Klötzer and Lokatis argue, “every decision was the result of a hidden political tug-of-war carried out by representatives of the various ‘social forces’ in the GDR – organizations, ministries, scientists, and artists”; moreover, “the front did not always run directly between censorship and author, but often split the censorship agency and authors’ associations within.”2 The links between the behaviour of writers and that of functionaries is further seen in the use of a specific linguistic market and expressive style in the exchanges of all those involved in the processes of cultural production; the language of commitment to the Party and to the image of the state pervades all areas of the public and inner-Party discourse. This expressive style might be used subversively, to promote the publication of critical works or by those with a different understanding of the key terms; however, negotiation between

1 2

Mittenzwei, Die Intellektuellen, 300. Klötzer and Lokatis, “Criticism and Censorship,” 258.

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the various actors in the process of cultural production outside this linguistic market does not appear to have taken place. In this respect, we can also view these dominant narratives as part of the system of control of discourse in the GDR and as a procedure of exclusion and sanction. It is also interesting to note that in their public representation of the relationship between “intellect” and “power,” both writers and functionaries present an image of clarity, which stands in contrast to this complexity: functionaries in their maintenance of the monolithic public face of a united Party line and writers in their clear-cut images of this relationship in their accounts of their own lives. This ambiguity in turn feeds into our understanding of the terms of conformity and dissent in relation to GDR writers. The ambivalent position of the critical writer, loyal to the socialist cause is matched by a similar ambivalence in the behaviour of Party-loyalists, who publicly supported even the most draconian measures of SED cultural policy, yet criticised this policy behind the scenes. This lack of clarity in the behaviour of both groups blurs the boundary between dissident and state-scribe and makes the identification of conformist and oppositional behaviour increasingly difficult in the absence of any fixed Party line on what constituted such behaviour. The complexity of the processes of literary production in the GDR, seen in this study, points towards the need to take a more nuanced approach to the examination of intellectual interaction with power within these structures and to avoid ready-made epithets, which go little way towards explaining the detail and basis of this behaviour.3 Such epithets and the resulting pressure to demonstrate distance from the regime and credentials as a critic of the SED in the immediate post-Wende period have made it difficult for individuals, particularly intellectuals, to discuss their interaction with representatives of power as they experienced it, as they felt

3

In this respect and in regard to the Nazi and SED regimes, Günter Rüther considers that there are five possible stances for intellectuals in dictatorships: identifying with power and unconditional engagement for the aims of the regime; arranging oneself with power, that is, maintaining a certain distance, but avoiding criticising the regime in public; coming into conflict with the regime through rejection of the social order; inner emigration, that is, choosing themes with little relevance to the present; exile. See Günter Rüther, “Überzeugungen und Verführungen: Schriftsteller in der Diktatur,” Deutschland Archiv, 4 (2004): 604–05. However, none of these categorisations adequately encompasses the complexity of the interaction between functionaries and any of the writers seen in this study. Rüther does state that most intellectual activity took place between the poles of “betrayal or resistance, lies or truth,” but his assessment that many writers were either “blind ‘fellow-travellers’” or “Party supporters” still tends towards a simplistic categorisation of those who were not openly critical of the regime. See “Überzeugungen und Verführungen,” 607–08.

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compelled to use the discourse of clear-cut divisions between rulers and the ruled and conformity and opposition prevalent in the media at this time. Ambiguity and the Evangelical Church Is this ambiguity a feature of cultural production alone or can similar behaviour be registered in other areas of GDR life? One area of analysis that promises to be particularly fruitful in this respect is that of the Evangelical Church. Several parallels can be drawn between critical writers and Church officials in the GDR. Joachim Heise notes that the founding of the Union of Evangelical Churches in the GDR [Bund der Evangelischen Kirchen in der DDR] in 1969 and its formal state recognition in 1971 marked the beginning of a more permanent “modus vivendi” between Church and state than had been seen in the conflict-ridden relationship in the early years of the GDR. Conflicts between Church and state would now be kept under the “threshold of confrontation,” in order to avoid endangering this delicate relationship and damaging the image of the GDR.4 In a similar fashion to internationally recognised writers, the Evangelical Church was thus, to a large extent, protected from open and severe repressive measures through agreements with the state and by the fear of the reaction of the Western media.5 Both critical writers and Church officials can be seen as representatives of an alternative to the official public sphere in the GDR, “counterofficial voices that sought to break into or establish dialogue with the officially dominating voices.”6 Otto Luchterhand notes that “events exclusively religious in character” were excluded from the requirement of official registration and that Church officials fought hard for the recognition of the broad understanding of the designation “religious” in the Evangelical Church at the beginning of the 1970s.7 This allowed the Church a relative degree of autonomy and it therefore occupied a similar position in the GDR to those 4 5

6 7

Joachim Heise, “Kirchenpolitik von SED und Staat: Versuch einer Annäherung,” in Kirchen in der Diktatur, ed. Günter Heydemann and Lothar Kettenacker (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 126–54 (134–35). The arrests of members of the Umweltbibliothek in the Zionskirche in East Berlin in November 1987 demonstrate that the protection offered by the threat of damage to the image of the GDR was not total, particularly where those concerned were not prominent individuals. Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 34. See also Parkes, “Intellectuals and the Transformation of East Germany,” 30–31. Otto Luchterhandt, “Verfassungsgrundlagen kirchlicher Eigenständigkeit, ihre Bedrohung und Verteidigung,” in Die Rolle der Kirchen in der DDR: Eine erste Bilanz, ed. Horst Dähn (Munich: Günter Olzog, 1993), 21–35 (27).

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writers who, in their critical works, offered an alternative view of the GDR to the officially dominant one. However, after the agreements of 1971, the argument that the Church must keep within the boundaries of what the Party considered its duties in the GDR to be, that is, primarily religious matters, was also frequently used to call Church authorities into line.8 Furthermore, because the relationship between Church and state was not legally regulated and many leading Church officials feared a return to the repression of the 1950s, it was in the Church’s interest to maintain room for discussion with representatives of the Party.9 Thus, in a similar manner to the writers in this study, Church officials found themselves in the complex position of a desire to negotiate a degree of space for critical voices and the need to maintain this space through willingness to compromise. Furthermore, both groups demonstrate a multitude of attitudes towards the best method of securing public or semi-public forums for the expression of critical views, with some individuals preferring a more confrontational approach and others being prepared to compromise more readily.10 Moreover, the importance of behind-the-scenes negotiations with Party functionaries in the maintenance of a working relationship with representatives of power, essential to future negotiations, can be seen in the tactics of both writers and Church officials. As Heise argues, in the period following the state recognition of the Union of Evangelical Churches in the GDR in 1971, “the hour of the ‘doers,’ the pragmatists and negotiators had come on both sides. Not ‘ideologues,’ but crisis managers were now required.”11 The willingness of certain Church officials to work with the Stasi is also well documented, as is their defence that they saw this as the only method of improving the situation of the Church in socialism.12 Although such comparisons can only be drawn tentatively at this stage and further detailed analysis would be required to come to any firm conclu8 9

10

11 12

Heise, “Kirchenpolitik von SED und Staat,” 141. See Heise, “Kirchenpolitik von SED und Staat,” 142–43; Horst Dähn, “Der Weg der Evangelischen Kirche in der DDR – Betrachtung einer schwierigen Gratwanderung,” in Dahn, Die Rolle der Kirchen in der DDR, 7–20 (15–16) and Luchterhandt, “Verfassungsgrundlagen kirchlicher Eigenständigkeit,” 30. Luchterhandt also notes that it was in the state’s interests to maintain room for discussion with Church officials in order to make them aware of the Party’s expectations of the role of the Church in the building of the socialist society. See Robert F. Goeckel, “Der Weg der Kirchen in der DDR,” in Heydemann and Kettenacker, Kirchen in der Diktatur, 155–81 (158–60) for a more detailed analysis of the variations in the views of Church officials on the role of the Church in socialism and its relationship to the state. See also Mary Fulbrook, Anatomy of a Dictatorship: Inside the GDR (Oxford: OUP, 1995), 118 and Gauck, “Von der Würde der Unterdrückten,” 261. Heise, “Kirchenpolitik von SED und Staat,” 135. See for example Dennis, The Rise and Fall of the German Democratic Republic, 220 and 249 and Fulbrook, Anatomy of a Dictatorship, 121–23.

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sions, these similarities point towards a broader significance of the methods used by critical writers in their dealings with the Party in terms of the way in which the GDR worked. Ambiguity as a Feature of Everyday Life Is this ambiguity in relationships with power perhaps restricted to those individuals who offered the potential for an alternative public sphere? Were both literature and the Church “islands of separateness” in this respect, as described by Gail Lapidus?13 More recent scholarship on the nature of participation in the structures of power in the GDR points towards similar dilemmas and ambivalence in the lives of many if not most of those who lived in the East German state. Bessel and Jessen note that ever larger numbers of the population were drawn into the apparatus of power and yet remained part of the society which was to be controlled and that this erased, “the boundary line between the ruling bodies and society.”14 Similarly, Bialas describes the way in which former GDR citizens dealt, as a matter of course, with the existence of two levels of reality, “an official one, present in the media, social organisations and parties, and the everyday one of their lifeworld.” He considers that “the mental rift in identities” went “through everyone without exception,” but that different individuals dealt with this mental split in a variety of ways, including cultivation and widening of this “double existence.”15 As has been seen, Mary Fulbrook argues for the concept of a “participatory dictatorship,” in which individuals might simultaneously participate in and be constrained by and openly critical of the apparatus of power and she criticises dichotomous models and simplistic division of the population of the GDR into “heroes, fellow-travellers and bad guys.”16 Fulbrook argues that the population of the GDR lived more complex lives and were required to make more complex moral and political choices than is frequently posited and that “the dichotomy between ‘state’ and ‘society’ does not hold up; the battle lines are more complex and difficult to delineate.”17 These models of a double existence, duality of criti13 14 15

16 17

See introductory chapter. Bessel and Jessen, “Einleitung: Die Grenzen der Diktatur,” 15–16. Bialas, Vom unfreien Schweben zum freien Fall, 203–04. Roger Woods argues that “the idea that individuals might be classifiable either as part of a monolithic power structure or as its victims breaks down in the face of a more complex reality.” See “The East German Contribution to German Identity,” in Gerber and Woods, Understanding the Past, Managing the Future, 25–37 (33). Fulbrook, “Historiografische Kontroversen seit 1990,” 43. Fulbrook, The People’s State, 13 and 236.

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cism, conformity and participation and the complexity of moral choices mesh readily with the analysis of intellectual interaction with power in this study and point towards the wider significance of ambiguity as a concept for describing life in the East German state.18

Fragmentation and Disintegration The fragmented nature of the Party line, the mosaic of opinions on the best method of dealing with critical writers and critical texts, is seen throughout the course of the GDR and in relation to all three writers in this study. The variations in opinion regarding the publication of Heym’s works in the early 1970s is matched by a similar polyphony of voices in the publication of Hermann Kant’s Das Impressum and the uncertainty in the response of publishers towards Elfriede Brüning’s Septemberreise. This is most clearly seen in the tension between the actions of the more dogmatic Bruno Haid and functionaries who appear to have favoured a more discursive approach, such as Klaus Höpcke and Hans-Joachim Hoffmann, and the influence of editors such as Wolfgang Tenzler and Klaus Hilbig. Moreover, in the interactions of all three writers with representatives of power, shifts can be seen in the Party line, which are often unpredictable, and yet can be seen to have an important impact on the publication of these authors’ texts: most notable in this respect is the accession to power of Honecker in 1971. It must also be noted, however, that this mosaic of opinions within the Party was contained within the parameters of acceptable debate, certain topics (notably the Stalinist past and the leading role of the Party) remained taboo to the end of 1989.19 These parameters placed Heym’s Collin firmly outside of the boundaries of the acceptable and brought the author harsh repressive

18

19

Another area that merits further analysis is comparisons with the interaction between writers and functionaries in other socialist states, particularly those in Eastern Europe. Steps towards such a comparison were made at the international symposium, “Writing under Socialism past and present: a comparative approach” held at the University of Nottingham in July 2008. Among the key themes that emerged from the symposium were concepts of complexity and ambiguity in relationships with power. A selection of essays based on the discussions at the symposium is due to be published as: Sara Jones and Meesha Nehru (eds), Writing under Socialism Past and Present: a comparative approach (Nottingham: Critical, Cultural and Communications Press, forthcoming 2011). Barck, “Öffentlichkeits-Defizite: Tabuisierungen,” 418 and 431. See also Barck, Classen and Heimann, “The Fettered Media,” 227. However, J.H. Reid notes that even the taboos of Stalinism were being gradually broken down towards the end of the GDR, although this is often a “matter of isolated references, implying for the attentive reader unfinished business.” See J. H. Reid,, Writing without Taboos: The New East German Literature (New York: Berg, 1990), 151–58.

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measures; however, Heym’s continued interaction with representatives of power and continued receipt of the privilege of travel indicate that pragmatic considerations, a fear of further damage to the image of the state, meant that overstepping these boundaries did not necessarily mean complete rupture with the Party and an unambiguous status as a dissident. As second feature of this fragmentation seen in the analysis of all three writers is an ever increasing room for manoeuvre and ever widening boundaries of the possible. Towards the end of the 1970s and in the 1980s, Kant is seen to be progressively more willing to criticise Party policy behind the scenes, a point he makes much of in his autobiography. Stefan Heym’s criticism of really existing socialism in the 1980s was just as fierce, if not fiercer than his political commentary in the late 1960s, yet in the 1980s, although still unable to publish in the GDR, he is granted a long-term visa to give voice to his opinions in the Western media. Brüning’s, albeit moderate, criticism of the success of female emancipation in the GDR in 1978 does not meet with official disapproval, but rather with praise and an attempt to steer the reading of the work, an attempt that was ultimately unsuccessful. These processes of increasing fragmentation can be seen as part of the “ideological deteriorization” described by David Bathrick, the most notable of which is, for Bathrick (as has been seen in chapter two), the dissolution of the “binary oppositional structure.” Bathrick considers that this process of decay played a role in the “process of peaceful revolution” in 1989 and that “the cultural sector not only reflected such a shift at the level of official utterance but offered a particularly vital area for the rearticulation of values guiding the system as a whole.”20 How does this process of fragmentation and disintegration fit into broader models of the end of the GDR? Mary Fulbrook describes a similar process of breaking down of values in her analysis of the collapse of the East German state as being in part the result of “the disintegration of collusion as far as functionaries of the regime were concerned,” which ultimately resulted in “the loss of the will to rule.”21 She considers that it was “not opposition, so much as a form of reformism, which contributed to the beginning of the end of the GDR,” that is, “attempts to improve the GDR from within.”22 Fulbrook restricts this process to the end of the 1980s, describing “a new climate of uncertainty” within the ranks of the SED from late 1987 onwards.23 Among the masses, “increasing numbers

20 21 22 23

Bathrick, The Powers of Speech, 53. Fulbrook, Anatomy of a Dictatorship, 16. Ibid., 200. Ibid., 244. See also Fulbrook, “Methodologische Überlegungen,” 294 and Ross, The East German Dictatorship, 130–31 and 136–38.

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of those who had previously sustained the regime in a variety of official capacities began to dare to say openly that, in effect, the Emperor had no clothes”;24 moreover, “private grumbles […] over material and existential problems in the GDR now became publicly articulated and expressed.”25 Fulbrook considers that the culture of discussion within the parameters of the system, seen in the later years of the state, brought about the normalisation of “‘participation’ [‘Anteilhaben’] in the everyday politics of the GDR,” which tipped over into increasing frustration and rapidly widening criticism at the end of the 1980s.26 One cause of this sudden willingness to criticise the system openly can be seen in the changes taking place in the Soviet Union, the calls for Glasnost and Perestroika, and the removal of the GDR’s external support props. However, a gradual widening of the boundaries of debate and the increasing plurality of views within cultural discourse and the Party itself can, as has been seen in this study, be traced to the end of the 1960s and was not restricted to those publicly critical of the system. In this respect, Fulbrook notes that “new social and cultural currents from the later 1970s, aided by a new structural space for activity under the partial protection as well as a limited control of the Church, exerted a degree of pressure for change within the system.”27 The radical calls for reform in the 1980s 24 Fulbrook, Anatomy of a Dictatorship, 247. 25 Ibid., 248. 26 Fulbrook, “Ein ‘ganz normales Leben’?,” 125. Konrad Jarausch similarly argues that the end of the GDR can be explained by a combination of three factors: the mass exodus of large sectors of the population in the summer of 1989; the development of an opposition, which through ever larger demonstrations demanded the establishment of a civil society and democratisation of socialism; the “self-stymieing” of the SED and Stasi through the loss of a clear concept of the enemy which forced a late and half-hearted attempt at reform, and only hastened the process of destabilisation. Jarausch considers that the processes of the collapse of dictatorial power and the self-liberation of the people were intimately linked: “the gradual erosion of the system created the preconditions for the uprising of the citizens, and their dramatic self-liberation eventually accelerated the disintegration of the regime.” Konrad H. Jarausch, “Implosion oder Selbstbefreiung?: Zur Krise des Kommunismus und Auflösung der DDR,” in Weg in den Untergang: Der innere Zerfall der DDR, ed. Konrad H. Jarausch and Martin Sabrow (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 15–40 (20 and 33–34). 27 Fulbrook, Anatomy of a Dictatorship, 271. Barck, Classen and Heimann note that in the 1970s and 1980s the turn towards the everyday in prose, theatre and film led to discussion of topics previously not addressed, such as “youth, criminality, aging, disease, death, poor housing conditions, homosexuality, or alternative lifestyles” (“The Fettered Media,” 227). Similarly, in Zensurspiele, Barck and Lokatis argue that “committed editors, reviewers and publishers made it their ambition to widen the boundaries of the permissible bit by bit.” (8). Gabriele Czech and Oliver Müller note the decline in substance of the term “socialist realism” which became “ever more incomprehensible and vague” (and consequently more flexibly applied to critical texts). Gabriele Czech and Oliver Müller, “Sozialistischer Realismus und DDR-Literaturwissenschaft: Von der

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did not open into a vacuum, but can be seen as part of a longer process of gradual disintegration of previously fixed ideological tenets. In this context, Martin Sabrow considers that pure historical factors alone cannot explain why, in a country without a tradition of opposition, “the opposition to the system in the course of 1989 suddenly spread like wildfire across the whole country” and why those in power stood by as their power was taken from them. He considers that an additional dimension to the interpretation of the GDR is required and that this can be found in the “symbolic world” [Vorstellungswelt], the system of “representations, practices and modes of appropriation,” which allows social groups to produce meaning and identity, and which represents an important part of the political leadership’s ability to create belief in its own legitimacy.28 This creation of an “internally homogenous and externally closed-off world of thought” played, according to Sabrow, a large part in the stability of the GDR. He considers that a decisive factor in the collapse of SED power was the “dissolution of a specific frame of discourse, within which one’s own real-socialist world and the non-socialist outside world were perceived and evaluated.”29 In his analysis of changes in GDR history writing, he notes that this resulted in a “gradual inner hollowing-out at the different levels of dealing with the past” and, particularly, a metamorphosis of the image of the enemy and a dissolution of the bipolar world in historians’ own representations.30 For Sabrow, the outer façade of legitimation, particularly after international recognition of the GDR, allowed this “inner hollowing-out” to pass unnoticed until the sudden implosion of the East German state. This analysis of the breakdown of the fixed perception of the world meshes readily with the concepts of widening boundaries and dissolving binaries examined in this study. Fulbrook argues that historians must consider the “unknown moments that are not inscribed in the files or the memory, the ‘dogs that did not bark in the night’,” and that for social history these are the long trends, the imperceptible developments, which Instrumentalisierung bis zum allmählichen Verfall eines Leitbegriffs,” in Timmermann, Das war die DDR, 592–609 (607). See also Reid, Writing without Taboos, 30–35. 28 Martin Sabrow, “Der Konkurs der Konsensdiktatur: Überlegungen zum inneren Zerfall der DDR aus kulturgeschichtlicher Perspektive,” in Jarausch and Sabrow, Weg in den Untergang, 83–116 (88–89). 29 Ibid., 91–92. 30 Ibid., 96–102. See also Sabrow, “Dictatorship as Discourse,” 206–08. Frank Hörnigk similarly argues that the end of the GDR was accompanied by a “disintegration of values” and “changing of code,” in particular the legitimising discourse surrounding the “‘developed socialist society’.” (“Die Literatur ist zuständig,” 27). Sabrow’s analysis of GDR historical writing points towards another area of ambiguous behaviour in the GDR, as he describes the complex manoeuvring of historians seeking to unify Party loyalty and scientific objectivity. See “Dictatorship as Discourse,” 203.

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are perhaps as important as the crises.31 The gradual broadening of debate and the breakdown of taboos and clear-cut divisions between friend and foe, seen in the interactions between writers and representatives of the Party, editors, reviewers and readers might be seen as examples of those dogs that did not bark and as part of the erosion of the system and “inner hollowingout” of common values and understanding of the world, which bound the Party and the people. In this respect, the lack of clarity and the process of fragmentation are intimately linked. The cultivation of ambiguity allowed the negotiation of space for alternative views and criticism of specific policies, this, in turn, led to a widening of the boundaries of debate, which led to increasing variation in political outlooks within cultural and social discourse. Although at no point was discourse officially permitted to touch upon the question of the organisation of the state and the leading role of the Party, the ideological tenets upon which these questions were based could be gradually eroded, particularly with respect to the superiority of the system over the West and the concept of the class enemy. This returns us to the questions posed at the beginning of the study regarding the nature of the GDR and broad categorisations of the system. Static models cannot encompass the widening of boundaries and the gradual erosion of binary structures seen in the relationship between writers and representatives of power. Moreover, top-down approaches, which emphasise a clear-cut division between rulers and the ruled and between state and society, do not allow for the cultivation of ambiguous positions within the structures of power and for the possibility of individuals negotiating space within the system for the expression of critical views. The opportunity for the cultivation of ambiguity represents a limit of the dictatorship, and this limit needs to be incorporated into models of the East German state. In this respect, the analysis of the interactions of individuals within a particular social sphere turns out to be not merely informative of the behaviour of these writers in particular or of cultural production in general; comparison with other spheres of life in the GDR allows us to recognise patterns of behaviour. These patterns contribute to broader models of GDR life and point towards the importance of combining the study of political structures with everyday or social history and the need to incorporate the individual into our accounts if we are to do justice to the memories of those who lived out their lives in the East German state.

31

Fulbrook, “Methodologische Überlegungen,” 286.

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Index of Names1

Abusch, Alexander, 153–154 Adameck, Heinz, 100, 110 Arendt, Hannah, 2–4 Auer, Annemarie, 157, 161–163, 166–167, 184–185 Baierl, Helmut, 73 Bartsch, Kurt, 72, 129, 133 Bauer, Roland, 59 Baumert, Holtz, 78–79 Becher, Johannes R., 164–165 Becher, Lilly, 158 Becker, Henrik, 152, Becker, Jurek, 72, 91, 116, 122–123, 130, 137 Beer, Frank, 104 Bentzien, Hans, 58, 66, 71, 117 Bieler, Manfred, 60 Biermann, Wolf, 14, 20, 25, 37, 42–43, 53, 71, 97, 116, 117, 121–125, 128, 135, 144, 145, 148, 152–154, 174 Borkowski, Dieter, 36 Borst, Meta, 104 Bourdieu, Pierre, 12, 39, 108, 174 Brandt, Willi, 59–60 Brecht, Berthold, 13 Bredel, Willi, 195 Brie, Michael, 1–2 Brinkmann, Jürgen, 109–110 Brüning, Elfriede, 20–22, 147, 148–197, 198–199, 204–205 Bruns, Marianne, 158 de Bruyn, Günter, 25, 26, 30, 32, 46–47, 63, 126, 128, 144 Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 2–3, 5, 7 Derrida, Jacques, 30–31 Drenkow, Renate, 185 Duty, Helga, 169 1

Eckart, Gabriele, 46–47 Endler, Adolf, 72, 130 Engelmann, Bernt, 80 Fechner, Dieter, 191 Foucault, Michel, 39–40, 108 Freyer, Yvonne, 154 Friedrich, Carl, 2–3, 5, 7 Fries, Fritz Rudolf, 32 Geerdts, Hans Jürgen, 157–163, 166–170, 197 Glöckner-Neubert, Helga, 185 Gotsche, Otto, 77, 166, 195 Grünberg, Karl, 176 Günther, Eberhard, 63, 180 Gysi, Klaus, 98, 100, 105–107, 110, 112 Hager, Kurt, 54, 56, 58, 61, 62, 65, 67, 74–76, 79, 80, 83, 89–90, 98, 100– 101, 105–108, 110, 119, 130–131, 138 Haid, Bruno, 50, 51–52, 54–58, 59, 65–66, 67–68, 104–105, 107, 112, 177, 204 Havemann, Robert, 152 Henniger, Gerhard, 38–39, 49, 60, 74–76, 78–80, 84, 105, 125, 164, 190 Henniger, Heinfried, 104, 113 Hermlin, Stephan, 37, 42–43, 48, 100 Herrmann, Joachim, 84 Heym, Stefan, 20–21, 43, 53, 66, 72, 94–147, 148, 150, 152, 154, 155, 170, 171, 174, 177–178, 196, 197, 198–199, 204–205 Hilbig, Klaus, 54–57, 113, 204 Hinckel, Erika, 100, 106–107 Hochmuth, Arno, 54, 67 Hoffmann, Hans-Joachim, 98, 112–114, 122–125, 131, 138, 204 Hoffmeister, Steffi, 181, 183

Many thanks to Sandra Beer for her invaluable assistance in compiling this index.

226

Index of Names

Honecker, Erich, 5, 66, 71, 76, 78–80, 83–85, 89, 96, 97–98, 100–101, 105, 109–110, 114–115, 117, 118, 120 , 123–124, 130–131, 137, 142, 145, 152, 170, 174, 204 Höpcke, Klaus, 63, 98, 105, 112–114, 133, 135, 138, 155–156, 171–174, 176–177, 204

Pflug, Lucie, 62–64 Pleitgen, Fritz, 129 Poche, Klaus, 72, 129, 133 Raddatz, Fritz J., 84 Ragwitz, Ursula, 75, 130, 171–174, 177 Rathenow, Lutz, 41, 116 Rauchfuß, Hildegard-Maria, 158 Reimann, Brigitte, 187

Janka, Walter, 88, 139 Kant, Hermann, 20–21, 32–93, 94, 95, 99–100, 101–105, 110, 113–115, 144, 146–147, 148, 155, 161, 163, 170, 171, 177–178, 196–197, 198, 204–205 Kantorowicz, Alfred, 36, 48–49, 83 Karau, Gisela, 73 Kaufmann, Eva, 159, 179, 187 Khrushchev, Nikita, 3 Kohlhaase, Wolfgang, 75 Küchler, Helmut, 73, 155, 171 Kunert, Günter, 37, 77, 122–123, 156 Künne, Manfred, 110–112 Laux, Dieter, 169, 170 Lejeune, Philippe, 26–28, 44 Links, Roland, 56 Loest, Erich, 33, 72, 75, 76, 79, 85, 130, Lottmann, Dieter, 80 Lukács, Georg, 139 de Man, Paul, 27 Marchwitza, Hans, 195 Markov, Walter, 88 Maron, Monika, 17, 46–47, 138 Mittenzwei, Werner, 11–12, 16, 18, 71, 77, 131, 138 Morgner, Irmtraud, 187 Müller, Heiner, 13, 20, 37, 38, 43, 49, 88, 122–123, 163 Naumann, Konrad, 85, 118–119 Neubert, Werner, 183–185 Neumann, Lothar, 109 Neutsch, Erik, 38, 88, 166 Pascal, Roy, 26 Petersen, Jan, 164, 189–190

Sachs, Heinz, 167, 177 Schädlich, Hans-Joachim, 15 Schäfers, Jochen, 176–177 Schlesinger, Klaus, 72, 129, 130, 133 Schöbel, Heinz, 103, 107, 109, 112–113 Scholmer, Joseph, 59 Schubert, Dieter, 72, 130 Seghers, Anna, 71, 154, 158, 163, 164, 168, 190 Seibt, Kurt, 171–174, 177 Selbmann, Fritz, 176 Seyppel, Joachim, 47, 49, 129, 130, 155 Simon, Annette, 89–90, 188–189 Sprinker, Michael, 27 Stade, Martin, 72, 130 Steinhaußen, Ursula, 169, 182 Strittmatter, Erwin, 39, 166 Tenzler, Wolfgang, 104, 204 Ulbricht, Walter, 67, 70, 83, 97, 114, 152 Verner, Paul, 59 Voigt, Fritz-Georg, 51, 55, 57–58, 66 Walther, Joachim, 15, 35, 36, 38, 40–41, 45, 66, 72, 73, 91, 108, 110, 111, 122, 127, 131, 136 Waterstradt, Berta, 175, 190 Weimer, Annelore, 185 Wieckenberg, Ernst-Peter, 56 Wiens, Paul, 46 Willmann, Heinz, 190 Wolf, Christa, 8, 12, 13, 20, 37, 38, 42, 43, 49, 77, 89, 102, 163, 166, 187, 194 Wolf, Gerhard, 89 Wolf, Markus, 47 Zimmermann, Helga, 152–154