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By 1944, though, he
announces his intellectual
capitulation: "I can no
longer believe in the com-
pletely un-German charac-
ter of National Socialism.
It is homegrown, a malig-
nant growth out of
German flesh, a strain of
cancer, just as there is a
Spanish influenza."
Klemperer is particular-
ly distressed. at the manner
in which his last years are
being squandered in fear,
misery and lack of produc-
tive work; for him, a schol-
ar, the last is particularly
galling (Jews are not even
allowed to own typewrit-
ers). So in addition to the
diary, in a prefiguring of
Orwell's 1984, he works
fitfully on chronicling the
Nazis' use of language.
In one entry, he shows
contempt for their
unimaginative taunts. He
writes about a woman, a
friend of a friend, who said
Eva and Victor Klemperer, circa 1940.
to her stepdaughter:
"'You'll die in the street of
he is spared the fright of being fetched
spotted fever, and then
they'll cover you up in newspaper so
and put down together with the oth-
that the birds don't peck your body to
ers. I feel very bitter for Eva's sake. We
pieces!' Note: Now that is a curse, the have so often said to each other: The
tomcat's raised tail is our flag, we shall
Gestapo people could learn some-
not strike it, we'll keep our heads
thing from that."
Although his intended role is that
above water, we'll pull the animal
of dispassionate diarist, Klemperer's
through, and at the victory celebra-
humanity seeps through every aching
tions Muschel will get a 'schnitzel
page. Particularly telling is an entry
from Kamm's' (the fanciest butcher
from September 1942, after an
here). It makes me almost supersti-
evening with a friend, Markwald,
tious, that the flag is being lowered
),
who has been ordered to report for
now.
transport to a "work camp" — a
Finally, in early February 1945,
death sentence.
time has run out. The remaining Jews
of Dresden are being rounded up. The
"So I probably seen Markwald for
the last time," Klemperer notes. The
first order for transport to the camps
style is perfunctory; the slip in gram-
comes through; Klemperer is not on
it, but he will surely be on the next.
mar from this scholar of language
hints at the unimaginable strain he
Nothing can save him. But something
does — something so improbable,
was under.
Then there's Muschel — the lone
something of such overwhelming
magnitude that no writer of fiction
light in the Klemperers' lives. "I stuff
a bowl of potatoes into myself two to
could get away with it.
Feb. 13, 1945: Dresden, long
three times a day," Klemperer writes
in April 1942. "... A large portion of
ignored by Allied bombers, is obliter-
our double ration [of meat], which
ated in a massive firebombing. Some
now amounts to 1 2/3 pounds a
30,000 to 50,000 people die; tens of
thousands of survivors flee the infer-
week, is given to the tomcat."
But with the next month comes yet no, refugees in their own land — pen-
another decree: Jews may no longer
niless, without possessions and, most
important, without identity papers.
have pets and are forbidden to give
them to anyone to look after them.
Victor and Eva see their chance.
He rips the yellow star from his jack-
"He is to be taken to the vet
tomorrow," Klemperer writes, "so that et, and together they depart, on foot,

