Books: Goebbels Art

Most U. S. citizens know that Hitler painted water colors, but they do not know that Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels, Minister for Propaganda & Public Enlightenment, theoretician of Nazi art, benefactor and guide of young Nazi writers, was once a novelist himself. In 1929, seven years after he joined Hitler, Goebbels published Michael, subtitled A German destiny in the pages of a diary. The prose of Michael is of such high intensity that it almost blows out a fuse on its first page. Opening sentence: "No longer does the thoroughbred stallion snort under my loins," which means that Michael is home from the War. Michael goes to Heidelberg, grows lyric about a blonde maiden in the seat ahead: "Do I love Herta Hoik?" he asks himself. "I almost shudder at the crudeness of this word." But when she sends him a red rose: "Herta Hoik, I love you! I transform my little room into a royal palace. . . ."

Michael is so inspired that he decides to write a drama based on the life of Christ, commenting matter-of-factly, "Every man of substance somewhere or other or sometime or other in his life has to fulfill a mission." But because Herta is too intellectual, and "woman's task is to be beautiful and to bring children into the world," they separate. Michael writes his play, is rebuffed by Munich intellectuals, becomes a miner in the Ruhr. Then the book really gets creepy. A mysterious Russian, Iwan, appears, tempts Michael, is defeated ("I am stronger than he. I take him by the throat. I dash him to the ground"), and after making some political observations, Michael dies, murmuring "worker."

One thing Michael proves is that Goebbels was a worse novelist than Hitler was a painter. It also reveals why Goebbels takes so much interest in Nazi novels. A few established novelists, like Hans Fallada, whose Wolf Among Wolves (Putnam, $3) was published last month, avoid such mystical propaganda. But Goebbels eggs on young writers (more than 100 new authors have popped up in the last five years), while older ones like Fallada go on writing just as they did before Germany's least talented author became the director of her literary life.