Time here is no factor, for the war against England is taking on increasingly an almost religious character; from the German point of view, it will soon be, not a war, but a crusade. I get one clue to this in the new phrase of leave-taking that has gained an astounding currency in the past few weeks. Instead of saying "Good-bye" or "Auf Wiedersehen," the German now says: "God punish England!" to which the equally fervent rejoinder is, "May He do so!" This new, polite formula for leave-taking originated among the officers and men in the field, but you hear it on all sides now, uttered with a sincerity and earnestness that is peculiarly impressive. The new style of saying "good-bye" has at least the merit of being no longer a perfunctory piece of rhetoric.
This optimism is no nation-wide attack of insanity, for the German, thorough even in forming his opinions, is the last person in the world to harbor delusions, and there is a perfect realization of the titanic task that still confronts Germany. Nor is this confidence in ultimate victory due to lack of information or to being kept in the dark by the "iron censorship," for the "iron censorship" is itself a myth. It is liberal, even judged by democratic standards, and surprisingly free from red tape. There is no embargo on the importation of foreign newspapers; even the anti-German journals of neutral countries have free entry and circulation, while at a number of well-known cosmopolitan cafés you can always read The London Times and The Daily Chronicle, only three days old, and for a small cash consideration the waiter will generally be able to produce from his pocket a Figaro, not much older. Not only English and French, but, even more, the Italian, Dutch, and Scandinavian papers are widely read and digested by Germans, while the German papers not only print prominently the French official communiqués, the Russian communiqués when available, and interesting chunks from the British "eyewitness" official reports, but most of their feature stories—the vivid, detailed war news—come from allied sources via correspondents in neutral countries. The German censor's task is here a relatively simple one, for German war correspondents never allow professional enthusiasm to run away with practical patriotism, and you note the—to an American—amusing and yet suggestive spectacle of war correspondents specializing in descriptions of sunsets and scenery.
The German was never much of a newspaper reader before the war, but now he can challenge the American commuter as an absorbent of the printed word. And not only has the German been suddenly educated into an avid newspaper reader, but he has developed a tendency to think for himself, to read between the lines, and interpret sentences. Thus, no German has any illusions about the military prowess of Austria; but her failure has caused no hard feelings. "The spirit is willing, but the leadership is weak," is the kindly verdict, with the hopeful assumption that the addition of a little German yeast will raise the standard of Austrian efficiency and improve the quality of leadership.
The Germans, being neither mad nor misinformed, why they face a world of foes with this new confidence becomes a question of importance to any one who wants to understand the real situation here. The answer is Hindenburg—not only the man himself, but all that he stands for, the personification of the German war spirit, the greatest moral asset of the empire today. He is idolized not only by the soldiers, but by the populace as well; not only by the Prussians, but by the Bavarians and even the Austrians. You cannot realize what a tremendous factor he has become until you discover personally the Carlylean hero worship of which he is the object.
Hindenburg woke up one morning to find himself famous; but his subsequent speedy apotheosis was probably not entirely spontaneous. In fact, there is reason to believe that he was carefully groomed for the rôle of a national hero at a critical time, the process being like the launching by American politicians of a Presidential or Gubernatorial boom at a time when a name to conjure with is badly needed. He is a striking answer to the Shakespearean question. His name alone is worth many army corps for its psychological effect on the people; it has a peculiarly heroic ring to the German ear, and part of the explanation of its magic lies probably in the fact that the last syllable, "burg," means fortress or castle. He inspires the most unbounded confidence in the German people; the Field Marshal looms larger than his Kaiser.
The cigarmakers were the first to recognize his claims to immortality and to confer it on him; but now almost every conceivable sort of merchandise except corsets is being trade marked Hindenburg. Babies, fishing boats, race horses, cafés, avenues and squares, a city of 60,000, a whole county, are being named after him, and minor poets are taking his name in vain daily, "Hindenburg Marches" are being composed in endless procession, a younger brother is about to publish his biography, and legends are already thickly clustering about his name. He laid the Russian bugaboo before it had a chance to make its début; there is not today the slightest nervousness about the possible coming of the Cossacks, and there will not be, so long as the Commander in Chief of all the armies in the east continues to find time to give sittings to portrait painters, pose for the moving-picture artists, autograph photographs, appear on balconies while school children sing patriotic airs, answer the Kaiser's telegrams of congratulation, acknowledge decorations, receive interminable delegations, personages, and journalists, and perform all the other time-consuming duties incident to having greatness thrust upon you; for things obviously cannot be in a very bad way when the master strategist can thus take "time out" from strategizing. But the influence of "our Hindenburg," as he is often affectionately called, is wider than the east; the magic of his name stiffens the deadline in the west, and the man in the street, whose faith is great, feels sure that when he has fought his last great battle in the east the turn of the French and English will come.
While the German in the street, thanks largely to Hindenburg, regards the military situation with optimism, he sees no grounds for pessimism in the present political situation. Italy and Bulgaria are regarded as "safe."
How the Germans regard the economic, industrial, and financial situation is rather hard to estimate, because their practical patriotism keeps them from making any public parade of their business troubles and worries, if they have any. The oft-repeated platitude that you would never suspect here that a war was going on if you didn't read the papers is quite just. Conditions—on the surface—are so normal that there is even a lively operatic fight on in Munich, where the personal friction between Musical Director Walters and the star conductor, Otto Hess, has caused a crisis in the affairs of the Royal Munich Opera, rivaling in interest the fighting at the front.
There are certainly fewer "calamity howlers" here than on Broadway during boom times, and you see no outward evidence of hard times, no acute poverty, no misery, no derelicts, for the war-time social organization seems as perfect as the military. In the last three months only one beggar has stopped me on the streets and tried to touch my heart and pocketbook—a record that seems remarkable to an American who has run the nocturnal gauntlet of peace-time panhandlers on the Strand or the Embankment.
Business is most certainly not going on as usual. You note many shops and stores with few or no customers in them. About the only people who are making any money are army contractors and the shopkeepers who sell things available for "Liebesgaben" ("love gifts") for the troops in the field. Those businesses hardest hit by the war are in a state of suspended animation, embalmed by the credit of the State.