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Settling Scores
German Music,
Denazification, &
the Americans,
1945–1953
david monod
The University of North Carolina Press

Chapel Hill and London

Settling Scores
∫ 2005
The University of North Carolina Press
All rights reserved
This book was published with the assistance of
the William R. Kenan Jr. Fund of the University of
North Carolina Press.

Designed by Richard Hendel

Set in Galliard by Keystone Typesetting, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for

permanence and durability of the Committee on

Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the

Council on Library Resources.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Monod, David, 1960–
Settling scores : German music, denazification, and
the Americans, 1945–1953 / by David Monod.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
isbn 0-8078-2944-7 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Music—Germany—20th century—American
influences. 2. Germany—History—1945–1955.
3. Denazification—Germany. I. Title.
ml275.5.m66 2005

780%.943%09044—dc22 2004029685

09 08 07 06 05 5 4 3 2 1
for michael kater
This page intentionally left blank
 contents

Acknowledgments ix

Abbreviations xiii

Introduction 1

1 Preparing for Music Control 12

2 Facing the Music:

Denazification and Revolution, 1945 44

3 Reforming Music Culture, 1945–1946 96

4 Learning to Keep Quiet:

Wilhelm Furtwängler and the End of Denazification 128

5 From Major to Minor:

The Retreat from Reform, 1947–1950 167

6 Paying Guests:

American Artists in Cold War Germany, 1948–1953 205

Conclusion: A New Day in Beulah 253

Notes 265

Bibliography 303

Index 317
illustrations

The foyer of the Munich Staatsoper, 1945 25

Hans Rosbaud and the Munich Philharmonic 63
The Vienna Staatsoper, Auditorium and
Proscenium, 1946 80
Jerome Pastene, Newell Jenkins, and
Carl Or√ in Stuttgart, 1946 111
John Bitter conducting the
Dresden Philharmonic Orchestra, 1947 120
Wilhelm Furtwängler conducting the
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra 147
John Evarts lecturing in the Amerika Haus,
Augsburg, 1947 169
Audience at a Munich Philharmonic Youth
Concert, 1948 194
Sergiu Celibidache, Paul Hindemith, and
Carlos Moseley, Berlin, 1949 220
Everyman Opera Company production of
Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, Final Scene 238
Paul Hindemith, Mateo Lettunich, and
John Evarts, Berlin, 1949 248
acknowledgments

Two very di√erent military occupations imprinted themselves on these

pages. The first, which occurred a half-century ago, raised perplexing
questions about the American authority’s confusion over goals, rap-
idly changing priorities, diminishing commitments, di≈culties with
establishing legitimacy, and ambivalent successes. The second occupa-
tion, which occurred as this book was being written, helped me recog-
nize some of the answers to those questions. Music is not one of the
concerns of the American administration in Iraq, but it was an issue for
the occupiers in postwar Germany. The peculiarity of that concern is
what first drew me to the subject; my fascination with issues such as
the moral responsibility of the artist and the value of music as a com-
municator of ideas sustained me during my ten years of research; and
the frustration I felt watching America’s current engagement with oc-
cupation government stimulated and shadowed my writing.
The present has also impinged on this study in other, and more
pleasant, ways. I was tremendously fortunate to have been able to
interview a number of the men and women who had been involved in
the administration of music in postwar Germany. Talking to the sub-
ject of one’s research inevitably changes one’s perception of the archi-
val material, and I am glad that my own thinking was challenged,
grounded, and, I believe, humanized by the interviews. I admit to
having been captivated by the generosity, intelligence, and spirit of the
individuals I interviewed and, most important, having come to appre-
ciate their deep musicality. Music, I quickly realized, was not simply
the subject of their endeavors in Europe: the men and women I spoke
to could not have been administering mining or health care. Music
was something tangible for them, a social force with its own power
and culture and moral attributes. Though not uncritical of their fetish-
ization of music, I understand and respect it and even see it as strangely
ennobling. My great regret is that many of the individuals I spoke
with have not lived to see the publication of this book. My profound
gratitude to Carlos Moseley, Mateo Lettunich, Virginia Pleasants,
John Bitter, Edward Kilenyi, and Newell Jenkins for what they taught
me about Military Government, music, and themselves and to John
Boxer, Henry Pleasants, Suzanne Arco Heidsieck, Sir Georg Solti, and
Isaac Stern for their memories and reflections on music, their col-
leagues, and Germany.
I was also extremely fortunate in that all of the archives I ap-
proached, with the exception of the Or√-Zentrum in Munich, did
their utmost to facilitate my research. I am especially grateful to Becky
Colyer and Amy Schmidt at the National Archives in Washington for
their assistance over many years. I am also grateful to archivists at the
Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace; the Harry Ransom
Center; Yale University Archives; the Library of Congress Performing
Arts Division; the Dwight David Eisenhower Library; the Harry S.
Truman Library; the Oskar Diethelm Library of Cornell University;
the Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee Theatre Research Institute
at Ohio State University; the Washington State University Archive;
the Stadtarchiv Stuttgart; the Stadtarchiv München; the Staatsarchiv
Ludwigsburg; the former Stadtarchiv Berlin; the Landesarchiv Berlin;
the Institut für Zeitgeschichte; the Hauptstaatsarchiv Stuttgart; the
Hessisches Hauptstaatsarchiv; the Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv; and
the Akademie der Künste for making material available and for en-
suring that my visits would be memorable. Although the archivists I
dealt with in all of these places were unfailingly helpful, I must single
out Volker Viergutz and Klaus-Dieter Pett at the former west Berlin
Stadtarchiv who, recognizing the high cost of international travel,
allowed me to keep researching even on days when the archive was
o≈cially closed.
My research was supported by a major grant from the Social Sci-
ence and Humanities Research Council of Canada and by a number of
smaller awards from my home university, Wilfrid Laurier. I am also
grateful to the Deutscher Akademischer Austausch Dienst for a Ger-
man Study Grant and to the German Historical Institute, Washing-
ton, for inviting me to spend a memorable summer at the German-
American Center for Visiting Scholars. Wilfrid Laurier University also
awarded me a Book Publishing Grant, which assisted in the final prep-
arations of the manuscript.
While I was researching this book a number of people—some of
whom I still hope to meet in person—took the time and trouble to send
me information and documentation. Much of this material had taken

x | Acknowledgments
them years to accumulate, and without their generosity it would have
remained well beyond my reach. The Knappertsbusch biographer,
Kazuhide Okunami, provided me with valuable documents regarding
the conductor’s denazification; Claudia Maurer Zenck supplied me
with an amazing collection of her notes on new music performances in
Berlin; W. Howard Cotton Jr. sent me a package dealing with the first
music chief in Bavaria, Harry Bogner; Jean Massud dispatched a stack
of War Department photocopies pertaining to the New York Field
O≈ce; David Farneth gave me a bundle of material from the Weill-
Lenya Research Center on Otto Pasetti; and Reuben Silver shared his
memories of his former colleague, Benno Frank. I was also privileged to
have enjoyed the hospitality of Jeremiah Evarts and his family, who
allowed me to live in their home while I studied the remarkable and
moving diary and memorabilia of John Evarts. I am grateful to Carlos
Moseley for sending me copies of the letters he wrote home in the late
1940s; to John Bitter for allowing me access to his scrapbooks; and
to Mateo Lettunich, Carlos Moseley, Virginia Pleasants, John Bitter,
Newell Jenkins, and Jeremiah Evarts for allowing me to reproduce their
personal photographs.
Because I was sure I had used up my share of good fortune during
the researching and writing of this book, I did not expect a smooth
passage through the publication process. I am so pleased to have been
proved wrong. The sta√ at the University of North Carolina Press is
a terrific bunch: courteous, intelligent, and professional. The manu-
script went through its various appraisal and editorial stages with star-
tling e≈ciency. One could not want a more supportive or knowledge-
able editor than Chuck Grench or a more warmly enthusiastic person
fielding one’s questions than assistant editor Amanda McMillan. With
green pen and sharp pencil, Brian MacDonald did a superb job of
copyediting the manuscript, and Ron Maner, UNC’s managing editor,
guided the book and me through the stages of publication with little
fuss and a great deal of positive encouragement.
A large number of friends and colleagues also shared their expertise
and advice and read portions large and small of the manuscript. The
book would have been infinitely poorer without the time and knowl-
edge they brought to that task. I am grateful to Joan Evans, Celia
Applegate, Toby Thacker, Elizabeth Koch Janik, Je√ry Diefendorf,
Thomas A. Schwartz, Michael Kater, Boris von Haken, Carol Gruber,
Michael H. Gray, George Urbaniak, Paul Monod, Michael Sibalis,

Acknowledgments | xi
and Guido Heldt for their comment, criticism, and cheer. To Toby, a
special thank-you for sorting out so many of the research questions I
could not solve; our email correspondence is now something of a
military government archive in itself. Michaela, Adam, and Emma
endured months of my absences on research trips and tolerated, with-
out too much complaining, my monopolization of the computer. Mi-
chaela also put up with endless questions regarding German grammar
and endured (still endures) a burgeoning list of undone household
jobs. I am so grateful to you for your laughter and conversation and
hugs and for the privilege of having such a close and loving family.
Finally, this book is dedicated to Michael Kater, whose support was
crucial to its completion. Michael’s willingness to sponsor a newcomer
in his field placed me in vital and early contact with an exceptional
community of scholars and invaluable sources of funding; his archival
knowledge (and private archive) filled in the blanks in my research,
and his scholarship served as a model for my work. Michael’s sense
of history is personal, immediate, and alive; he hauls it up from
the archives and engages his audience with it provocatively and vig-
orously. What a pleasure it has been to experience his enthusiasm and
to take directions from his intellectual compass. This book is a partial
thank-you.

xii | Acknowledgments
abbreviations

absie American Broadcasting Station in Europe

acc Allied Control Council
ascap American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers
bpo Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
cdu Christlich-Demokratische Union
(Christian Democratic Party)
cic Counter Intelligence Corps
csu Christlich-Soziale Union (Christian Socialist Party)
gdb Genossenschaft Deutscher Bühnenangehöriger
(theater workers union)
gema Gesellschaft für musikalische Au√ührungs
(copyright society after 1949)
hicog O≈ce of the High Commissioner for Germany
icd Information Control Division
iia International Information Administration
ill International Lending Libraries
isb Information Services Branch
jcs Joint Chiefs of Sta√
kpd Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands
(Communist Party of Germany)
mg Military Government
nsdap Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (Nazi Party)
omgb O≈ce of the Military Government Bavaria
omgus O≈ce of the Military Government United States
oss O≈ce of Strategic Services
owi O≈ce of War Information
pad Public A√airs Division
pwd Psychological Warfare Division
pwe Psychological Warfare Executive
rias Radio in the American Sector
rkk Reichskulturkammer
(Chamber of Culture in the Third Reich)
sa Sturmabteilungen (‘‘Storm Sections’’ of the Nazi Party)
sed Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands
(Socialist Unity Party of Germany)
shaef Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force
smad Sowjetische Militäradministration Deutschland
(Soviet Military Government in Germany)
spd Socialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (Socialist Party)
ss Schutzsta√el (‘‘Defense Squad’’ of the Nazi Party)
stagma Staatlich genehmigte Gesellschaft zur Verwertung
musikalischer Urheberrechte
(copyright board prior to 1949)
swncc State-War-Navy Coordinating Committee
ToK Tarifordnung für die Kulturorchester
(orchestral pay scale regulation)
usfa U.S. Forces Austria
usfet U.S. Forces European Theater
usis U.S. Information Service

xiv | Abbreviations
Settling Scores
This page intentionally left blank
 Introduction

As president of the American Society of Composers, Authors

and Publishers (ascap), which licensed works and collected royalties
on behalf of composers and music publishers in the United States,
Deems Taylor felt he had to respond. The implication, after all, was
that his organization was helping the enemy. And so he chose to ad-
dress the biggest audience he could: listeners to his regular intermis-
sion commentary for the Sunday radio broadcast of the New York
Philharmonic. What he couldn’t understand, he told listeners on 22
February 1942, was how Erika Mann, daughter of the novelist Thomas
Mann, ‘‘whose father’s books are being burned in Germany,’’ could
advocate censorship over here. If people didn’t want to listen to Ger-
man performers, Taylor argued, that was fine; but they mustn’t smash
their records: ‘‘[I]t’s a Nazi technique. . . . Don’t imitate those barbar-
ians.’’ He then focused on Richard Strauss, the best known of Ger-
many’s living classical composers, whom Mann had recently declared
was ‘‘putting his genius at the disposal of the enemy’’ by ‘‘conducting
for storm troopers,’’ while Americans ‘‘sheepishly’’ listened to his mu-
sic and ascap collected the U.S. royalties that it would hand over to
him at the cessation of hostilities. Art, Mann insisted, should not take
precedence over politics: after all, if Hitler’s pictures were really good,
would that justify exhibiting them during the war in American art
galleries? Taylor’s defense was to try to separate the composer from his
work and to insist that, while Strauss might be a bad man, his work
was still worth hearing. Why ban Strauss’s music? ‘‘[W]e’re not fight-
ing music, we’re fighting Germany, Italy and Japan.’’ If the democ-
racies were to prevail, he continued, they had to practice the kind of
civilization they were defending and that meant renouncing the tactics
of the enemy. He quoted with approval the conductor Bruno Walter’s
recent comments on Strauss: ‘‘I detest him as a person, and I abhor
everything for which he stands,’’ but he ‘‘is a genius, and some of his
works are masterpieces. I cannot in all honesty boycott masterpieces
because I detest their composer.’’∞
The problem Taylor, Mann, and Walter were addressing is still
relevant to our appreciation not just of midcentury German music but
of the cultural expressions of all those whose values we find repugnant.
During the early years of the Cold War, many people in the West felt
they should not listen to the works of Dimitri Shostakovich because he
was thought to be a model Soviet composer; some today cannot bear
the hallucinogenic novels of Céline, a French fascist, while others re-
main disturbed by D. W. Gri≈th’s films because the director was a
white supremacist. Today, it has to be admitted, assertions such as
Walter’s that the composer and his work must be kept separate seem
somewhat trite, for ours is a time when the politicization of the arts
and the identification of producer and product are increasingly taken
for granted. Contemporary Western culture, which genders the gaze
and deconstructs the racial and social foundations of the artistic canon,
which sees a Coke can and a Chagall as equally significant message
carriers, and which has to debate whether a crucifix floating in urine is
art or obscenity, has become less hospitable to people like Taylor and
Walter and their idealistic assumptions concerning the value of art in
itself and for its own sake.
But if time has been on Erika Mann’s side, Taylor’s view still serves
to check the prejudices that so easily accompany her perspective. Art
may no longer rise pristinely above the context of its production (or its
reception), but whether out of nostalgia or for the sake of openness
many still cherish the hope that it might do so. Moreover, as his-
torians, we need to recognize not just the importance of Taylor’s view
but also its audacity. Amid wartime hardship’s terrible vindictive-
ness (for while the Americans in February 1942 had yet to engage the
Germans, their forces were being overwhelmed in the Pacific), Taylor
spoke in favor of tolerance and liberality. He did not approve of mu-
sicians who chose to perform in Nazi Germany—and he followed
Mann in singling out the pianist Walter Gieseking—but he continued
to feel that their art could give pleasure and enlightenment to Ameri-
cans. Although Taylor can be criticized for pretending music was non-
political and for accepting the artistic genius of an enemy people, his
defense of free speech at a moment of xenophobia, war, and fear re-
mains commendable.
What Taylor lacked, however, was an actual plan for how to be

2 | Introduction
liberal and tolerant. Mann’s position had clear political ramifications:
ban the cultural products of the Third Reich and seize the assets of its
citizens. Taylor’s had only negative ones: do nothing and let the public
decide. He did not condemn those people who stopped listening to
German music because they were uncomfortable doing so, but that
was as far as he would go; even ascap, he insisted, could not appro-
priate the royalties of enemy composers, although he did advocate first
using them to compensate American artists who were not receiving
payment for works of theirs that might have been performed in oc-
cupied Europe. But decency of Deems Taylor’s kind has always been
more of an attitude than a plan for action.
Fortunately for both Taylor and Mann, they did not have to make
policy or implement regulations; they were able to debate the issues
without really sorting out how to put their views into practice. The
same was not true, however, for the o≈cers who had to assume control
over the arts in Germany once Hitler’s Reich was defeated. Suddenly,
American bureaucrats were confronted with the very real problem of
what to do with an arts sector that had made peace with the most
repulsive regime imaginable. They had to judge who was guilty and of
what and to what extent, and they had to decide if the Germans should
be given the chance to listen to the same music that had entertained
them through fascist tyranny and war. They had to remove Nazi con-
trols from cultural life and to chart a new relationship between the
artist and society. Moreover, once they determined what constituted
artistic freedom, they had to design laws and appoint people capable of
maintaining it. At the most basic level, they had to take a stand in the
debate between Taylor and Mann and to put their beliefs into action.
This study deals with the results of their endeavors in the American
occupation zone in western Germany. It documents the complex, con-
fused, and often contradictory e√orts of the American authorities to
punish musicians for the things they had done in the Third Reich
while establishing the foundations of a democratic cultural life. The
conflict between the American occupiers’ two goals—punishment and
freedom or, put another way, control and democracy—is the central
theme of this work. What this study shows is how di≈cult it was to
establish freedom within the context of military rule, to democratize
the arts while controlling them, and to find a usable middle ground
between Deems Taylor and Erika Mann.
The culpability of the artist working under tyranny was unques-

Introduction | 3
tionably the most complicated and contentious of all the problems
those supervising Germany’s cultural sector addressed. Even at the
time it was a question that provoked fierce debate. Most of the promi-
nent musicians who remained in the Third Reich had made deplorable
choices, even if one can today understand the expectations, fears, and
weaknesses that made them do so. Those Americans who pushed for a
complete denazification of German artistic life—through the removal
from public performance of all those artists who had compromised
with Hitler—had sound reasons for desiring a cultural revolution. But
it was naive of the occupation authorities to feel that culture should or
could be completely ‘‘purified,’’ and the radical denazifiers’ drive to
ostracize all those tainted by fascism was simplistic and bound to fail.
In fact, their heavy-handed e√orts at revolutionizing German music
had the unfortunate e√ect of encouraging artists to obliterate their
own past by lying about what they had done. While this enabled
German music to recover rapidly from the shock therapy of denazifica-
tion, it also perpetuated myths concerning music’s unpolitical nature,
the innocence of the artist, and, worse, the fundamental incompatibil-
ity of Nazism and Kultur. Only now, with the death of almost every-
one who enjoyed a notable career in the Third Reich, are the myths
being punctured. And this reversal, in so many ways, comes too late.
This book is not devoted to naming names or exposing lies; other
scholars have undertaken that important task.≤ Rather, my interests lie
in exploring the debate over what should have been done with Ger-
many’s tainted generation of musicians and its debased culture. As a
work of history, it confronts the moral questions not in their abstract,
as Mann and Taylor debated them, but as they were dealt with at the
time by American o≈cers working in Germany with restricted re-
sources, competing objectives, and imperfect knowledge. Without
denying that the decisions the occupiers made were often poor ones, as
a historian, I am interested in what led people to make them and in the
consequences of their actions. The book asks readers to confront the
question of the culpability of the artist, but it wants them to do so in
the context of a time and a place and to understand what was possible,
what was known, and what was thought then to be right.
This study of music politics under American occupation, however,
does not deal with the type of twentieth-century music that the United
States has dominated. For a variety of reasons, wartime planners de-
cided to leave popular music alone and to make classical music the

4 | Introduction
focus of postwar controls. The ramifications of that decision were far-
reaching. Instead of being instruments of Americanization—pressing
swing and boogie-woogie on the Germans and manipulating mass
tastes—Military Government (mg) personnel were agents of reedu-
cation. The American music o≈cers in Germany were not there to sell
their own popular culture but to reform German Kultur: the high
culture of the educated classes. The Americans, who came from a
society in some respects even more segregated—in a cultural sense—
than Germany’s, took for granted the distinction between high and
low culture even if they realized the terms had a particular resonance
in Europe. For Germans, Kultur was part of the national identifica-
tion. Where Americans often looked to business, scientific, or political
leaders, such as Lincoln or Ford or Edison, when thinking about who
they were, the Germans tended to refer to artists and philosophers: to
Beethoven and Bach and Goethe.≥ Because American policy makers
understood this, they made classical music one of the targets of their
reeducation e√orts.
Understandably, for all its intrinsic interest and cultural signifi-
cance, music control remained one of the least important elements in
military government. For postwar planners in London and Washing-
ton, music paled in significance next to such administrative nightmares
as feeding the German population, collecting reparations, demobiliz-
ing the army, rebuilding the education system, and reforming the
economy. And yet, while considered unimportant within the broader
context of occupation policy, music control dealt with moral issues of
equal complexity to those confronting decartelizers and educators. As
a result, its career mirrored that of most of the U.S. administration’s
larger sections. All of the units involved in reorientation, whether they
dealt with journalism, theater, book publishing, education, or film
making, experienced a similar trajectory. All began by wiping clean the
slate: closing schools, shutting down theaters and movie houses, and
stopping presses. Operations were then resumed under new German
management, using personnel whom the Americans had screened to
ensure their political cleanliness. At the same time, in the late sum-
mer of 1945, the Americans launched a major purge of cultural per-
sonnel and imposed blacklists of Nazis, militarists, and nationalists.
During the winter of 1945–46, after the first wave of the purge was
completed, American supervisors put specially chosen artists, educa-
tors, and journalists to work creating a democratic culture; domestic

Introduction | 5
film producers were the last to be rehired, in early 1946. Then, in the
spring, things began to come unstuck. In March 1946, by order of the
military governor, denazification was returned to German control, and
many of those whom the Americans had blacklisted were cleared by
the Spruchkammern, or local denazification courts. The newly elected
Land and municipal governments then moved to reappoint these re-
cently cleared people to their former jobs and to shunt aside those
whom the Americans had installed. Briefly, in the fall of 1946, some of
the cultural divisions fought back and a second purge followed, but it
was short-lived. By early 1947, military government had ordered a
winding down of controls, and American influence was being sharply
curtailed. In fact, the year saw a transition in policy from rule to role
modeling as mg dictated that its remaining personnel should influence
Germans by example and advise rather than control. The accelerating
conflict with the Soviets over the latter half of 1947 only added a
further dimension to the new task: that of convincing the Germans
that the Americans and not the Russians were their friends. The tran-
sition was gradual and uneven, but by 1948–49 all of the cultural
divisions had been themselves reoriented to the task of winning Ger-
man loyalty and support. Denazification, which had been a diminish-
ing concern of Military Government for two years, was quietly put
to rest.∂
The brevity of America’s controlling season and the suddenness
with which it was transformed into something altogether di√erent and
more familiar (the containment of communism) make understanding
its impact especially challenging. For historians, the occupation period
rests indecisively in twentieth-century west German history between
the compelling blackness of the Nazi Reich and the chromium bright-
ness of the economic miracle. It has been generally seen as a transi-
tional time when, depending on how critically one approaches the
subject, Germany’s past was either mastered or suppressed. Because
the Americans put a quick end to denazification—and there is an un-
fortunate tendency in the literature to see the foreigners who handed
responsibility over to the locals as somehow more culpable than the
German Spruchkammern that actually did the deed—some historians
accuse them of allowing the crimes of the Third Reich to be white-
washed. Time here is often foreshortened, and mg’s interest in closing
its own book on Nazism is attributed to its desire to get on with the
job of Americanizing German business or fighting communism. His-

6 | Introduction
torians who feel a new Germany did emerge after 1945 also see the
occupation period as an in-between time: it either laid the ground-
work for what was to follow or temporarily obstructed its develop-
ment. Military Government is particularly significant to these scholars
because it helped embed capitalist and consumerist values, though
some find this a happier development than others.∑
The indefinite status that has been accorded the occupation period
can be justified, in part, by the confusion it encompassed. The decision
makers appeared to have no long-range plans and goals or to have
issued insu≈ciently detailed short-term guidelines. Multiple huge
American bureaucracies—the War Department, the State Depart-
ment, the Treasury—had fingers in the German pie, and the O≈ce of
the Military Government (omgus) itself generated a vast quantity of
poorly organized paper but little in the way of consistent policy. Critics
of Military Government generally point to the contradictory lines of
authority and the confusion over directives to explain why the whole
thing was such a mess. In fact, some have suggested that the best one
could say for omgus was that it phased itself out reasonably quickly.
Others use an even sharper point and suggest that Germany became
a democracy partly because the locals had to exercise their political
rights in order to battle the oppressive and incompetent Americans.∏
So dominant has this negative assessment become that it has forced
those wanting to defend the idea of a positive American influence on
Germany to look below the policy level and study local interactions
and attitudes. Today we are left with the muddied image of overall
policy failure combined with the success of a grass-roots, unplanned
Americanization and democratization.π
Underlying these various interpretations regarding the importance
and impact of the U.S. occupation is the debate over continuity and
change in German history. Those who deplore the survival of tradi-
tional German values in the 1950s, the authoritarianism of the coun-
try’s political culture and the continuing power of its prewar elites,
tend to criticize the Americans for not having done more to revolu-
tionize the country. Others, who see a new society under construction
in the postwar period, point to the subversive influence of American
GIs, American movies, and American values. Conservative Germans,
they point out, may have regained control and resisted these trends
for a time—condemning the relations between American soldiers and
German girls, lamenting the popularity of rock ’n’ roll, and regulat-

Introduction | 7
ing against changing gender relations—but eventually even they were
forced to assimilate a postwar world of American design. Germany did
change, according to this interpretation, but its transformation was
gradual and not fully achieved until the 1960s.∫
In recent years, some scholars have argued against the dichotomiza-
tion of continuity and change in postwar German history. They have
suggested that the conservative restoration and the new ‘‘American-
ized’’ values were connected (not opposed) and that real societal
change could only have been achieved without America. They point
to a brief moment in 1945–47 when the elements of a truly new
and homegrown democratic Germany began to assemble themselves.
These ‘‘golden hunger years’’ were marked by the appearance of au-
thentically democratic and antifascist political movements, an artistic
awakening, and a spiritual rebirth. One writer has likened this Stunde
Null to the rousing of a long-slumbering princess, while another has
written of a rising ‘‘historical movement that had at last brought en-
lightenment, emancipation and a radically questioning discourse to
this belated nation.’’ But to these historians, the moment soon passed,
a victim of the Cold War’s quickening. mg authorities were unwilling
to accommodate true democracy, the conflict with the Soviets allowed
the old elites to rise like scum to the surface, and American popular
culture swept in, obliterating the fragile cultural renaissance and turn-
ing Germany into a caricature of the United States.Ω
This book is designed to build upon, modify, and add to the sub-
stantial edifice that now constitutes occupation studies. It too has at its
heart the question of continuity and change after 1945 and addresses
such issues as the long-term contribution of Military Government, the
e≈ciency of the American administration, and the centrality of the
policy shift from denazification to anticommunism. The following
chapters argue that, in the cultural field, mg did have a lasting impact
on Germany, though they also suggest that the Americans’ most posi-
tive contribution was in promoting structural changes in arts admin-
istration and in subtly a√ecting certain values. I do not find any signifi-
cant shift in musical tastes, despite mg’s e√orts to promote a new
repertoire, nor do I find that denazification was handled e√ectively or
omgus run e≈ciently. Further, while this study shows that a modest
cultural regeneration was observable in the classical music sector in
1945–47, unlike most historians, who depict it as occurring despite the
boorish occupiers, I argue that it was in large measure due to the

8 | Introduction
policies and actions of the American o≈cers and the people they ap-
pointed to guide the country’s regeneration. Moreover, and more con-
tentiously, this book suggests that the postwar cultural reawakening
was largely possible because of the truly revolutionary and transform-
ing impact of denazification. In fact, it was the decision to end Ameri-
can control over denazification that allowed more traditional musi-
cians to regain their positions within cultural life and first turned art
back on a more conservative axis. One year after the end of radical
denazification, the crippling e√ect of currency reform completed the
reactionary drift, destroying whatever elements of experimentation
remained in the mainstream by emptying the concert halls and opera
houses. In the music field, concertgoers no longer wanted to pay to
hear pieces they did not recognize or to see unknown performers. So
far as classical music’s repertoire and artistic personnel were concerned,
currency reform and the Spruchkammern together propelled a conser-
vative restoration.
This study o√ers a more positive assessment of the American oc-
cupation than is common in the scholarly literature. mg did make
an important contribution to the musical arts in Germany, even if its
most obvious successes were short-lived. Much more could have been
achieved. Denazification, as it was initially conceived, would have
transformed German music life over time, but it was curtailed too
soon and so badly that its ultimate impact was overwhelmingly nega-
tive. Moreover, the program was implemented so crudely that, even if
it would have worked over time, it would have been at the expense of
other important undertakings and policies and at great cost to many
innocent people. In the cultural field, omgus’s failure to find a middle
ground between the hard-peace and soft-peace advocates meant that
neither side was able to achieve as much as it might. The confusion
within mg, a result of the conflicting lines of authority, poor organiza-
tion, and rapidly changing policies, was a major factor in weakening
the e√ectiveness of the occupation. In other words, it was not anti-
communism that derailed the e√ort to transform Germany but the
failure of Military Government itself to decide on goals and methods.
In view of this, the Americans’ modest achievements in the musical
field were somewhat remarkable.
I tell the story of classical music’s reconstitution in postwar Ger-
many in six chapters organized thematically and (to a lesser extent)
chronologically, the main body of which can be grouped into three

Introduction | 9
substantive sections. The first chapter introduces some of the prob-
lems the Americans faced in Germany in 1945 and shows why the
occupiers’ directed their e√orts at ‘‘serious’’ (as opposed to ‘‘commer-
cial’’) music. The next two chapters deal with the high tide of Ameri-
can influence in 1945–46. The first looks at the activities of those who
adopted the Erika Mann approach—radical and punitive denazifica-
tion—while the next focuses on those Americans who resisted censor-
ship and pushed for modest reform rather than revolution. The second
substantive section, also composed of two chapters, traces the gradual
easing of mg control and the return of German authority over the arts
in 1946–50. Chapter 4 concentrates on the ending of the denazifica-
tion program, and chapter 5 deals with the way the retreat from revo-
lution together with the currency revaluation constrained e√orts at
reform. The third substantive section (chapter 6) deals with the pe-
riod after 1947 when American attention shifted from transforming a
culture that had produced Nazism to encouraging German resistance
to communism. In the music field, Cold War tensions manifested
themselves primarily in the e√ort to convince the Germans that the
Americans, exemplified by touring U.S. artists, were ‘‘just like them.’’
The book closes with a brief discussion of the impact of the occupation
on German music life through a critical evaluation of the new Bay-
reuth Festival of the 1950s, an institution that symbolized both Ger-
man music’s corruption and its regeneration.
In sum, although the American cultural o≈cers were deeply di-
vided and lacked clear policy guidance, they did push through im-
portant structural reforms and encouraged new thinking about the
freedom of the arts and how to ensure them. Their failure to reach
consensus in the debate between Deems Taylor and Erika Mann hurt
their e√orts, but it did not prevent them from doing valuable work.
Many of the reforms they implemented took root and provided the
structural foundations for a more democratic and liberal administra-
tion of cultural life. Less successful were their attempts to broaden
hidebound tastes by importing American compositions and touring
American performers. Most Germans continued to regard America as
su√ering from severe Kultur-deprivation, and few went out to hear the
artists who visited. Still, even here, a few seeds of change were planted,
and not only in new music centers like Darmstadt. Further, although
the Americans’ steel-plated denazification program survived just a
few months, it did have a powerful e√ect on Germany’s artists. Most

10 | Introduction
of those who had enjoyed prominent careers in the Third Reich felt
threatened enough to want to black out all memory of their Nazi-era
selves. In multiple ways this development was unhealthy, but it helped
create the image, fiction though it was, that the postwar arts were
clearly and cleanly separate from the prewar—an illusion that, for all
its subsequent costs, helped the Federal Republic move ahead and
allowed marvelous music to sound again.

Introduction | 11
 1 Preparing for Music Control

For John Bitter it began in silence. A former intelligence of-

ficer attached to the 4th Armored Division, Bitter had come to Berlin
three months after Germany’s surrender as a new addition to Amer-
ica’s Military Government. Disgorged from a c-37 at Tempelho√ air-
port with a jeep and three other soldiers, Bitter headed north, eager for
a look at the remains of Hitler’s Berlin. Unable to proceed around
military roadblocks or along rubble-congested streets, the GIs circled
west of the administrative center and north of the Tiergarten park.
Although it was growing dark, Bitter hoped to get a view of the city
and climbed onto what was left of a wall. ‘‘I’ll never forget this,’’ he
recalled, ‘‘because this was in Moabit, an old industrial part of Berlin.
There was not a sound. I’ll tell you, for a musician to hear absolute
silence is very odd. There is always some tone. You will hear the fan or
the air conditioner or the wind or something and airplanes pass by. But
here, not a sound. No lights. And it was like a moonscape.’’∞
A few days before, instead of going back to his job as conductor of
the Miami Symphony Orchestra, Major Bitter had volunteered to join
the American Military Government and remain in Germany. Telford
Taylor, a friend of his from college days at Yale who was heading
the team assembling material for the Nuremberg trials, had recom-
mended him to one of his colleagues, General Robert McClure, the
commander of the Psychological Warfare Division (pwd). On the
lookout for men with fluency in German and expertise in specialized
cultural fields, McClure approved his appointment.≤ And so the kind,
doughy-faced American arrived in Berlin as a member of one of the
more peculiar elements in Germany’s postwar military administration:
the music control branch of the Psychological Warfare Division.
Part of an omnibus field unit that included Theater and Film, the
branch John Bitter joined was charged with the duty of coordinating
the denazification of German musical life and reorienting it according
to democratic principles. His job was to serve as a kind of sentinel
watching over the birth of artistic freedom. As a music o≈cer, Bitter
was to ensure that no works endorsing fascist or militarist ideals were
performed, that compositions suppressed in the Third Reich (such as
Mendelssohn’s) were restored to the concert hall, that artists cele-
brated by the Nazis were blocked from further performances, that the
influence of the state in the cultural sector was minimized, and that
German audiences were taught that the music of other nations and
cultures was as valid and worthy as their own. Music control aimed at
creating a rupture in German cultural history by shattering the public’s
sense of superiority in Germany’s musical achievements and by pro-
moting performers and works that had been neglected or banned un-
der Nazi rule.
In undertaking all of these tasks, music o≈cers in the American
occupation zone were participating in a massive undertaking whose
goal was to obliterate the culture of Nazism and reorient German
thinking. This was considered necessary because pwd planners be-
lieved they had to eliminate the forces that made Germany such a
warlike and expansionist power. They considered the notion, popular
at the time in Germany, that the Third Reich’s atrocities and the war
were caused by a small group of Nazis much the same as the country’s
e√ort in 1919 to deny its war guilt. ‘‘A repudiation of Nazism,’’ a
shaef Joint Intelligence Report concluded in July 1945, ‘‘is one of the
ways in which the average German can avoid [an] unpleasant feeling
and the only fault they acknowledge is that they once trusted Hitler
and add that they can hardly be blamed for failing to see how things
would turn out.’’≥ Forcing the Germans to accept their collective re-
sponsibility for the crimes of Nazism was considered essential for
the country to achieve a more peaceful future. ‘‘Our goal,’’ President
Truman’s secretary informed the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, is to
‘‘teach the Germans a lasting lesson by treating them as a defeated
nation and pariah.’’ This, however, depended on the occupation forces’
ability to compel the defeated to accept that Nazism was simply the
latest manifestation of their own innate aggression and chauvinism
and that peace would only come to Europe once the Germans re-
formed their character.∂ In order to achieve this, wartime planners
prepared for the control of all aspects of German cultural expression:
film, theater, museums, literature, radio, and newspapers. The idea
was that if the Allies could supervise the news and entertainment me-

Preparing for Music Control | 13

dia for long enough, prevent expressions of German patriotism and
intolerance, and bombard the population with democratic and guilt-
inducing messages, in time the country would be reformed.

why classical music?

For most of the war, it had been the job of the U.S. O≈ce of War
Information (owi), rather than the U.S. Army, to engage the enemy
in cultural warfare, which it did by broadcasting messages from its
London studios into the occupied countries. Here the idea of using
the media to change German attitudes was first explored. As Virginia
Pleasants, who worked for owi’s American Broadcasting Station in
Europe (absie), remembered, ‘‘we scoured London for people with
languages, because all kinds of expatriates [had] fled to England, and
for GIs who spoke a foreign language. They would come and make
short talks: morale building or information, something like that. . . . It
was really propaganda, you know, because the announcer would say:
‘Here is somebody who speaks a dialect,’ but in reality he was a GI.’’∑
As part of its radio campaign, owi sent music banned or disfavored
by the Nazis and performances by American ensembles, both classical
and popular, over the airwaves. Popular music—‘‘the best of boogie-
woogie and the baritone of Bing Crosby’’—dominated owi’s trans-
missions, composing almost 50 percent of its broadcast time, but clas-
sical music was also prominently featured. In fact, absie had initiated
its overseas transmission with a Stephen Foster tune played on the
banjo followed by a Toscanini recording of Beethoven’s Seventh Sym-
phony. These two dimensions—the popular and the serious—were
each considered important to the war e√ort. In addition to attracting
audiences with varied musical tastes and boosting morale among Eu-
rope’s subject people, they were intended to show the Germans that
the United States was a vital and enviable musical superpower. The
American composer Roy Harris, who headed owi’s music program,
emphasized that the agency had a two-pronged mission in Europe:
first, ‘‘to show the interest, appreciation, understanding and activity in
the performance of the music of the European nations as it is practised
in this country. The second part concerns the development of a native
music.’’∏ In e√ect, those in occupied Europe would gain hope and the
Germans despair on learning that U.S. bands could not only play
Brahms and Beethoven but also really jump and stomp.
owi’s o≈ces were once described as a ‘‘palace of culture, wisdom

14 | Preparing for Music Control

and swing,’’ and it seems fitting that the three categories were itemized
separately. Although Harris was sympathetic to popular idioms, and
the head of absie’s music division, Marc Blitzstein, was a composer
who explored the middle ground between popular and classical forms,
the agency kept its musical o√erings carefully segregated: culture and
swing were presented as separate sound worlds, at di√erent times of
day, and in dissimilar formats. And while it was popular music that
filled up the day and later evening, the prime-time broadcast hours
were largely devoted to ‘‘the Music of the Great Masters.’’ The implicit
rank ordering of owi’s musical propaganda was echoed in the press,
and it was always the popular idiom that the critics who doubted the
value of owi’s broadcasting ridiculed. ‘‘Occupied Europe dances
while the American taxpayer pays the bills,’’ snarled one hostile press
report in early 1945, while another mocked, ‘‘[A] German who can’t
be cured by hot jazz or Harlem rhythm will bear watching. . . . It is the
world’s tragic misfortune that the owi music division didn’t start
operating on Hitler and Himmler several years ago.’’ Interestingly
enough, there was little or no press criticism of the broadcasting of
classical music, a reflection of both the reluctance of the American
intelligentsia to recognize the artistic value of the popular idiom and
the inadequacies Americans still felt in presenting their homegrown
culture to Europeans. Most Europeans, they felt, looked down on
Americans as uncultured, a view substantiated by the country’s popu-
lar music. Many in the American establishment were vaguely embar-
rassed by owi’s support for a music they found primitive. Even Roy
Harris occasionally betrayed doubts, as when he told the press that he
thought the most enthusiastic foreign audience for jazz broadcasts
might be found among ‘‘many of the tribes of the Pacific.’’π
Despite the symbols of equality Americans cherished, their music
culture was deeply stratified. Classical music recordings and broadcasts
had a sizable audience, which included large numbers of working-class
immigrants, and conductors like Toscanini and Stokowski and soloists
like Heifetz and Rubinstein were real celebrities. Indeed, as the popu-
lar columnist George Marek remembered, the audience for serious
music in the United States had been growing in the interwar years:
‘‘[A]s more homes were equipped with radios, more people listened to
symphonic broadcasts. As more people listened, more orchestras took
to the air. Attendance at concerts leaped to a new spectacular high.’’ But
while classical music did have a widening public, the fine arts establish-

Preparing for Music Control | 15

ment in the country remained centered in the East Coast and was
presided over by such influential arbiters of taste as the newspaper
critics Virgil Thomson and Olin Downes. In the late nineteenth cen-
tury, concertgoing had become, for the a∆uent, an emblem of their
status and a mark of cultivation. Their financial support maintained the
country’s musical institutions. Well-to-do Americans often measured
their sophistication in terms of their su√usion in European culture,
and they believed (as did elite Germans) that classical music had an
enlightening e√ect. Listening to serious music, it was suggested, made
one a better, more cultured and more spiritually alive person.∫ Views
such as these had, by the mid-twentieth century, become part of classi-
cal music’s image, despite the e√orts of many contemporary composers
and musicians to challenge their rather hidebound associations. Conse-
quently, although many people enjoyed classical music, it had a reputa-
tion for being high-brow, educational, and somewhat stu√y.
Prevailing attitudes to the classical repertoire helped shape re-
sponses to and the image of popular music in early twentieth-century
America. Even though many well-to-do people enjoyed commercial
music and jazz had a sizable audience among the young white-tie
crowd, its associations were hardly refined. American race prejudices
were central to popular music’s construction and the black origins of
jazz made it and its o√shoots seem unclean and base. If classical music
was considered uplifting, popular music was connected in its public
imagery with drink, drugs, sex, and miscegenation. Its defenders ar-
gued that it was all good fun and pure entertainment, but this too,
with the commercialism it implied, tended to debase its coinage.
In the 1930s, Tin Pan Alley had been legitimized somewhat by the
crooners—such as the pipe-smoking, golf-playing Bing Crosby and
the debonair Fred Astaire—and jazz had achieved a measure of re-
spectability thanks to the e√orts of Paul Whiteman, who led his or-
chestra (not band) with a baton, but popular music continued to
su√er comparison with the status-enhancing classical sound. If the
boundaries segmenting American culture were starting to become
more fluid, and if a new midbrow terrain was emerging on the turf
occupied by the popular classics, Broadway musicals and swing, tradi-
tional associations continued to dominate tastes. As a result, owi
had a much harder time convincing American critics that its boogie-
woogie broadcasts were as important as its classical programming.

16 | Preparing for Music Control

 If owi had di≈culty establishing the propagandistic importance of
popular music, it had even greater problems convincing the army that
it should play any role at all in the upcoming campaign for Europe.
owi’s great limitation, as U.S. ground forces began engaging the en-
emy, was that as a civilian agency it had no connection to Eisenhower’s
headquarters (shaef) and no mandate to operate in combat areas.
owi, together with the American secret service agency, oss, had ini-
tially demanded and financed, in September 1942, a liaison unit, the
Information and Censorship Section, that was attached to shaef.
The new section’s job was to keep the two civilian administrations
aware of the army’s needs and to help direct their propaganda e√orts,
press releases, scores of war correspondents, and secret service opera-
tions to military purposes. As the new unit would be coordinating
both British and American propaganda e√orts, the promotion of Rob-
ert McClure, former military attaché at the embassy in London, to the
section’s command made a good deal of sense. As McClure explained,
the job of the various leaflet writers, radio and press correspondents,
and censors under his command was to disseminate propaganda ‘‘de-
signed to undermine the enemy’s will to resist, demoralize his forces,
and sustain the morale of our supporters.’’ McClure’s untidy unit was
first employed in a combat situation in Morocco, but it was in Sicily
where, he believed, it really proved its value by helping to break the
morale of the Italian troops.Ω
In early 1944, with the prospect of an invasion of France nearing,
Eisenhower approved the creation of a new division, with greater
autonomy from the civilian agencies and with more military asso-
ciations. The new Psychological Warfare Division was to assume re-
sponsibility for ‘‘all psychological warfare activities against the enemy
and all consolidated propaganda activities in liberated countries.’’ Al-
though the division, under McClure’s command, continued through
the first half of 1945 to operate largely through civilian-controlled
channels, distributing owi pamphlets, transmitting over the Ameri-
can Broadcasting Station, and employing former owi o≈cials in its
senior positions, it was slowly militarizing its ranks by recruiting sol-
diers with language and technical specializations. These activities
geared up in the winter of 1944–45 when the decision was reached to
make pwd, rather than owi or another civilian agency, responsible
for media control and censorship during the military occupation phase

Preparing for Music Control | 17

in Germany. As a result, by April 1945, the psychological warfare
functions of owi were gradually ‘‘dropped in the ashcan,’’ although its
influence continued to be felt for some time to come.∞≠
Headquartered in Paris, pwd began in February 1945 to train per-
sonnel to run Germany’s information and entertainment sectors. Ini-
tially, the new division would control the press, radio, and entertain-
ment industries, but the full range of its responsibilities still had to
be specified. In January, shaef drew up Military Government Law
191 which prohibited all film, theatrical, and musical entertainment
in Germany that was not authorized by the military administration
through the issuance of a license. Two months later, pwd composed its
own plans for a three-phase psychological warfare o√ensive in Ger-
many. According to initial planning, the army was going to occupy
Germany for only a short time and had to be prepared to ‘‘pack up on
24 hours notice.’’ pwd therefore recognized the need to establish rapid
controls over German media services to be followed by a lower-level
surveillance phase that could be continued under State Department au-
thority over the long haul. In phase one of the occupation, pwd would
issue propaganda to demoralize enemy combat units and broadcast
orders to civilians in occupied areas. It was also charged with assem-
bling information regarding potential insurrections, encouraging anti-
Nazi sentiment, and easing German fears regarding the occupation. In
phase two, pwd was to get the production of newspapers under way,
initiate radio transmission, and lay the groundwork for a licensing
system. In phase three, Germans whom the division had vetted regard-
ing their political allegiances would be allowed to assume respon-
sibility for the various information services under pwd’s supervision.∞∞
The entertainment industry was to receive precisely the same treatment
as the radio and print media, although at this point no one had yet
defined what ‘‘entertainment’’ was supposed to mean.
Several factors, however, were combining to narrow the scope of
pwd’s understanding of entertainment. In the first place, pwd began
seconding personnel with experience in arts administration from owi,
the most important of whom were drawn from America’s East Coast
establishment. The first chief of the Radio Section was Davidson Tay-
lor, the former head of classical-music broadcasting at cbs, and his
deputy was Sam Rosenbaum, a wealthy Philadelphia lawyer and vice-
president of the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. The first chief of
the Entertainment Section was the eminent stage and film producer

18 | Preparing for Music Control

John Krimsky, another owi o≈cial who before the war had produced,
among other classic films, Three Faces of Eve and Emperor Jones, as well
as the New York premier of the Three Penny Opera. The division’s
London-based cultural expert, who participated in the discussions
with the British over what aspects of German culture to control, was
Warren Munsell, who prior to enlistment had been the producer for
the New York Theater Guild and who, among his many credits, had
managed the Boston and New York premiers of Porgy and Bess.
These men appear to have shared the general American belief in the
di√erence between ‘‘legitimate’’ and ‘‘popular’’ entertainments. Mun-
sell’s Theater Guild, for example, was a self-conscious promoter of
art theater. Born as an experimental playhouse in Greenwich Village,
the guild moved uptown shortly after World War I and developed
a subscription-based program dominated by such European authors
as Shaw, Ibsen, and Strindberg. American dramatists, like Rice and
O’Neill, did find a place in the guild’s repertoire, but Europeans were
always its centerpiece. By the end of the 1930s, the guild had estab-
lished itself as the premier art theater in New York and as the fashion-
able alternative to Broadway’s commercial entertainments. Munsell
and his colleagues promoted the idea that drama and show biz were
antithetical forces, and they underlined their contempt for the Great
White Way by describing themselves as members of the ‘‘legitimate
theater.’’ Not surprisingly, then, when Munsell was asked to partici-
pate in allied planning discussions regarding German theater and mu-
sic, he accepted the distinction made by his British colleagues between
classical music and ‘‘pure entertainment.’’ Military Government, the
planners concluded, needed to concentrate its attentions on propagan-
dizing allied achievements in the European repertoire as the Germans
would get ‘‘their fill of light music and jazz’’ from the British and
American troops. As another cultural a√airs o≈cial announced, pwd
could best attack Nazi sentiments in the music sector by showing the
Germans that Americans could sing Wagner better than they. There
was no need to promote U.S. achievements in the more commercial
media, for ‘‘popular music manages to find its own way. Nobody
thought that America didn’t have popular music. . . . But serious music
was another matter.’’∞≤
Developments in America’s international cultural mission served to
reinforce these views. In early 1945 the Roosevelt administration de-
cided to wind up owi’s operations and transfer its overseas branch to

Preparing for Music Control | 19

the Department of State. The plan was to merge owi’s European
operations with the State Department’s cultural a√airs branch, the
International Information Agency (iia), and create a new organiza-
tion to be known as the U.S. Information Service. usis would take
over the propaganda e√ort in liberated countries and, it was assumed,
replace pwd when the army relinquished control over Germany to the
Department of State. If pwd would oversee the initial phase of re-
building the defeated’s cultural life and purging it of Nazi influences,
usis’s job would be long-term reeducation through a promotion of
the cultural achievements of the democracies. This was a continuation
of State Department programs that had hitherto aimed at creating
international capital for the United States by advertising its cultural
achievements through visiting lecturers, touring exhibitions, and the
establishment of lending libraries. Under its music program in Latin
America, the iia operated twenty libraries holding classical music
scores and books, and it sent one or two consultants a year on tour to
lecture on American music. Although the agency began, in the mid-
1940s, to distribute recordings of American folk music, it had no pop-
ular music program. Because pwd planned to surrender its cultural
operations to usis, it was closely tied to the civilian agency. In fact,
until July 1946 the division continued to receive policy instructions
and supplies from the Department of State rather than the army. This
was why pwd had, from the outset, adopted owi /iia’s goal of work-
ing to ‘‘destroy long-standing and unfortunate impressions held by
Europeans that American cultural achievements are well behind the
nation’s industrial development.’’ The Nazis, explained Edward Bar-
rett, owi’s overseas director, ‘‘have been telling Europeans that Amer-
ica is backward, barbaric, decadent, and is not to be included among
the progressive, civilized nations of the world.’’ To fight this, ‘‘the
United States must busy itself convincing Europe that America has a
culture.’’∞≥
Clearly, culture was becoming a more important concept in post-
war planning than entertainment. The conviction within the various
policy-making circles was that it was the serious cultural media, the
legitimate theater and the classical music sectors, that needed atten-
tion, rather than the commercial arts. Popular music, like Broadway
theater and comic books, was not considered a ‘‘cultural’’ achievement
so much as a business success. Its influence would flow through com-
mercial activities and not at the cost of taxpayers.

20 | Preparing for Music Control

 From the perspective of long-term reorientation, it was in many
ways unfortunate that the Allies adopted this position. Fighting the
battle to reorient German culture on a terrain which that country had
long dominated disadvantaged the occupiers from the beginning. By
1945 the Americans were already leaders in the popular cultural field,
and pwd disregarded that advantage. But given the cultural divide in
America itself and the views and backgrounds of the people involved,
the decisions they made were unavoidable ones. After all, the psycho-
logical warriors argued, those Germans who listened to popular music
had already demonstrated their willingness to break with their coun-
try’s traditional chauvinism and accommodate North America. It was
the committed cultural elitist, the believer in the preeminence of Ger-
man Kultur, whose intolerance pwd really had to combat. And so
culture became the primary operating concept, even if music had yet to
be singled out as a particular target of pwd control.
Music first attracted the attention of pwd in October 1944, when
American forces liberated Luxembourg and the division came into
possession of one of Europe’s most important and centrally located
transmitters, a 150,000-album record collection, and intact recording
and broadcast studios. The radio station, while serving listeners in
liberated areas, also had the capacity to broadcast into much of western
Germany, making it a powerful propaganda weapon. The Luxem-
bourg government hoped the station would one day be returned to
its control and was particularly concerned with saving its celebrated
radio orchestra. Through owi Lend Lease funds were secured to keep
the musicians working, but pwd determined what they would play.
Davidson Taylor, whose primary concern was with breaking German
morale, directed the station to broadcast recorded music by the finest
allied orchestras, to have the Radio Luxembourg orchestra perform
with American and British conductors and soloists, and to spotlight
the works of non-German composers. In order to assist in this mis-
sion, Rosenbaum, who was placed in charge of the station, recom-
mended the transfer to pwd of an intelligence o≈cer he knew in the
101st Airborne, a fellow Philadelphian, Edward Kilenyi.
A pupil of Ernö Dohnányi, Kilenyi was an exceptionally gifted
pianist who had enjoyed an impressive concert career prior to his
induction in 1942. An elegant, nonobtrusive, gently sarcastic young
man, Kilenyi was conservative in both his attitudes and his musical
preferences. Although his father (an eminent music teacher) had for a

Preparing for Music Control | 21

time taught George Gershwin, Kilenyi had no taste for jazz or popular
music. The presence of Rosenbaum and Kilenyi, both of whom were
classical in their musical tastes, helped shape Radio Luxembourg’s
broadcast policy and influenced pwd’s thinking about music control.
In particular, the people Rosenbaum assembled at Radio Luxembourg
became lobbyists within pwd, pressing the importance of music in
German entertainment and urging policy guidance on its postwar con-
trol. Their e√orts were aided by the fact that on Davidson Taylor’s
insistence and with owi’s support, pwd was assembling a library
of scores and recordings that was overwhelmingly classical in content.
By June 1945 the division had collected enough classical recordings by
allied artists to fill 160 broadcast hours but only 60 hours of popu-
lar music.∞∂
Although pwd’s involvement in Radio Luxembourg meant that its
classical music stock was steadily rising, as late as mid-February 1945
the Entertainment Section still claimed not to know the extent of its
job in Germany. Finally, in early March 1945 McClure responded to
the combined voices from Paris and Luxembourg and asked for input
into whether the division should undertake the specific control of
music. By the end of the month, the Psychological Warfare Executive,
a British committee that was developing plans for the occupation,
had heard a report on Nazi influences in German classical music
life. Warren Munsell, attending the pwe meeting as an American liai-
son, relayed the report to pwd. On the basis of his London notes,
Rosenbaum compiled a ‘‘Draft Guidance on [the] Control of Music,’’
which was submitted to McClure in April 1945. By May the necessary
changes had been implemented, and the former Entertainment Sec-
tion had been reconstituted as a Film, Theater, and Music unit with
three separate branches under a single chief. McClure’s headquarter
sta√ then amended, to include music, the standard control instructions
prohibiting the dissemination of information and art ‘‘associated with
Fascism, the nsdap, Pan-Germanism or any of the German Armed
Forces,’’ forbidding the employment of people who have been ‘‘noto-
rious or active Nazi[s] or ardent Nazi sympathizers,’’ and outlining
conditions for the licensing of artists. In May, Davidson Taylor was
appointed first chief of the new section.∞∑
Between October 1944 and April 1945, the momentum of events
and the prejudices of people had worked a trick on entertainment and
transformed it into classical music, film, and the legitimate theater.

22 | Preparing for Music Control

Although music o≈cers would spend some of their time supervising
the cabaret and circus, their primary concern was with opera and ‘‘se-
rious’’ orchestral music. Dance bands and musicians performing in
clubs that served food or drink were specifically exempted from their
administration. Show business was allowed to follow its own course,
whereas culture came in for regulation and control. This approach was
in harmony with the one being developed by the public a√airs o≈cers
in the Department of State and owi, and it reflected the preferences of
the arts patrons and performers who now wore the uniforms of pwd
o≈cers. But the choice was in many ways a strange twist in strategy,
because the psychological warriors were neglecting the great num-
ber of Germans who preferred jazz bands to chamber ensembles and
crooners to symphonies. Some, such as the usfet liaison o≈cer in
Vienna, found the approach adopted a mistake. As he later remarked,
‘‘most American o≈cials didn’t have a feel for what younger Euro-
peans wanted. . . . they were interested in us as Americans, but we were
interested only in showing them that we were good Europeans.’’∞∏ As
a result, American confidence (which among pwd’s planners was
mingled with contempt) in the power of free enterprise and the influ-
ence of the GIs won out. Germany’s high-brow culture would be
reconstructed by design; its popular music would be reoriented by the
sheer force of America’s swinging sound.

music and nazism

By the time the decision was made to include classical music in the
reorientation program, American soldiers had already fought their
way into Germany. Despite this, pwd’s main planning documents—
mg Law 191 and the Information Manual—provided only the most
general information concerning the cultural profile of Nazi Germany.
pwd o≈cers knew that Nazism had contaminated cultural life and, as
soldiers, they anticipated the damage of war and the hostility of the
locals. But no instruction or preconception prepared them for the
multiple and daunting tasks they now faced.
What the Americans found was that most of the larger centers in
their zone, the south German Länder of Bavaria, Hesse, Württemberg
and part of Baden, had been destroyed by bombing and ground fight-
ing. Municipal services did not function, streets were impassible, bod-
ies decayed among the ruins, and there was no food or water or fuel.
Remarkable pockets of life—buildings that had miraculously avoided

Preparing for Music Control | 23

the bombs and fires—speckled the wreckage and most of the houses in
the leafy neighborhoods beyond the centers remained untouched. But
the destruction was nonetheless staggering and would take many years
to clean up. When he first toured Munich in April 1945, Edward
Kilenyi asked his German driver to show him Richard Wagner’s for-
mer house; he was taken past a pile of rubble. Three years later, one of
Kilenyi’s successors made the same request and was shown a big hole
in the ground.∞π
Because concert halls and theaters were mostly located downtown,
the American music o≈cers found almost all the larger ones bomb-
damaged, with Wiesbaden possessing the only fully functioning house
in the American zone. Everywhere, costumes and opera sets had been
destroyed or scattered, musical instruments lost or crushed in rubble,
scores burned, and companies and orchestras devastated by deaths and
dispersals. Most concerts in Germany ceased following Goebbels’s 20
August 1944 announcement of total war, and many of the major opera
companies and orchestras had not worked full-time for the last eight
months. Some organizations, such as the Berlin Philharmonic Or-
chestra, continued to perform at special concerts designed to boost
morale, but they did not run regular seasons. Several groups shut
down completely. Ordinary musicians with less celebrated ensembles
found themselves drafted into the army or serving in civilian defense
units; many were dispersed or wounded or killed. The disruption that
resulted was devastating and it was di≈cult after the war to find the
musicians to sta√ most of the larger ensembles. Not that there were
many places for them to play, even if they could be rounded up. Any
hall that survived with a roof over it was being used by the army as
shelter: in Munich, the seats on the balconies of the minimally dam-
aged Prinzregenten Theater had been ripped out to make room for
GIs to sleep; in Bayreuth, the Festival House was serving as a billet for
soldiers of the 11th Tank Division.∞∫
Nowhere was the destruction greater than in the Berlin John Bitter
toured in late July 1945. Ravaged by years of Allied bombing and
devastated by ten days of bitter street fighting at the end of the war, the
city had just endured two months of savage Soviet occupation. The
Red Army, which pummeled its way through Berlin in the last days of
April, only withdrew from the city’s western half on 11 July to make
way for the British, American, and, eventually, French troops. When
the Americans arrived, thousands of bodies still lay unburied and rot-

24 | Preparing for Music Control

The foyer of the Munich Staatsoper, 1945
(Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Evarts)

ting, clogging cracked sewers and subway tunnels and feeding the
proliferating swarms of rats and flies; the water was foul and contami-
nated, the streets narrowed by debris, the population starving. For
weeks, Soviet soldiers had ransacked the city, removing everything of
value and raping the terrified women they found hiding within the

Preparing for Music Control | 25

ruins. It was, according to Lucius Clay, commander of the American
military government, a city of the dead. As one of his o≈cers re-
marked, ‘‘there remains nothing human about it. The water is pol-
luted, it smells of corpses, you see the most extraordinary shapes of
ruins and more ruins and still more ruins . . . people in civilian clothes
among these mountains of ruins appears merely to deepen the night-
mare.’’ As late as 1949, an American visitor to Berlin observed, if ‘‘one
were let loose to walk on the surface of the moon, to trudge through a
lunar landscape of craters and jagged peaks, up-heaved against the
black of empty outer-space, perhaps one might begin to sense the
comfortless, forsaken quality of these pulverised sections of the city. All
life had crept out of those areas which take in the biggest part of the
city. No trees in the Tiergarten. The Siegesallee a cemetery of unburied
marble mutilations, only the Siegesäule bolt upright carrying its gilt
angel with uninterrupted audacity. The Reichstag, the Kroll Oper,
tangles of twisted girders, resembling empty bird cages. Beyond the
Brandenburg Tor, the blocks seem to be made of brown sugar that has
gone hard in lumps and streaks.’’ To this observer, it felt like a city
‘‘buried above ground’’ Blasted into a living death, it was a metropolis
‘‘hushed to a whisper.’’∞Ω No wonder John Bitter remembered his ma-
jor challenge as one of raising music out of the silence.
Reassembling the pieces of a disrupted art was the first job under-
taken by the music o≈cers. They had to secure halls for performances,
vet artists, and determine the terms on which music would be orga-
nized. Costumes and scores had to be gathered and a mechanism for
circulating them established. But the Americans also had to figure out
who was to take responsibility for hiring musicians, paying them, and
rebuilding the damaged theaters. Although the Länder and municipali-
ties continued to exist as organizational entities, they functioned with
local administrations appointed by the Americans and without intrin-
sic political authority. Because full German self-governance had been
terminated, the Americans had to determine the role that governments
would assume in cultural life. Unlike in the United States, where the-
aters were mostly privately organized and financed, in Germany they
were traditionally supported by public subsidies and their senior per-
sonnel were government appointees. As occupied Germany no longer
had wealthy patrons who could underwrite the costs of private organi-
zations, some form of government subsidy was accepted as necessary.
But an overweening state was perceived by the Americans in 1945 as

26 | Preparing for Music Control

one of their former enemy’s hereditary ailments. The Germans’ pre-
disposition to subordinate themselves to the will of the state, they
believed, largely explained their willingness to elect Nazis and accept
their tyranny. Allowing a government to reassert its financial and ad-
ministrative authority over the entertainment sector was therefore a
dangerous proposition. For German cultural life to be reconstructed
according to democratic principles, the power of the state in the arts
would have to be held in check by the rights of the public and the
freedom of the artists. Somehow, then, governments had to be brought
to accept the necessity of paying the piper without calling the tune.
In seeking to limit government authority over the arts, the oc-
cupiers confronted what they believed to be innate German predispo-
sitions. But they felt they had to persevere because they saw in the
Third Reich not primarily a ‘‘racial state’’ (whose first principle was
racial purification) but a bureaucratic behemoth. The Nazis had estab-
lished layer upon layer of bureaucracy within the arts, each held to-
gether by the desire to realize party purposes and every one of them
peppered with party loyalists. Musicians were strongly encouraged to
join Nazi cultural associations, and all were required to have mem-
bership in the regime’s professional union for musicians, the Reichs-
musikkammer, or one of its associated chambers. Everything from the
artists’ pension fund to the copyright association was coordinated by
the Propaganda Ministry to serve political goals. The Nazi state was
never all that rationally organized and its administrative structure was
byzantine, but the ideal that each part worked toward the center (the
Führerprinzip) was essential to its functioning. For the Americans,
then, eliminating party influence meant more than simply outlawing
Nazism; it entailed fostering a connection between the state and the
arts that rested on principles of decentralized authority and democratic
checks and balances. Only in this way, they believed, could the public
sector manage and fund music life without manipulating it for political
purposes.
Even as they grappled with the problem of democratizing the arts
bureaucracy, the music o≈cers had to ensure that specifically Nazi
influences were removed from the opera house and concert hall and
that party supporters and profiteers were punished. This was not easily
done because, as the Americans discovered, Nazi influence within mu-
sic life was pervasive. In the 1930s, the Nazis purged the entertainment
sector of Jews, utterly skewing its character. Jewish artists were segre-

Preparing for Music Control | 27

gated, ostracized, and driven out, and the works of Jewish composers,
even those central to the repertoire, were banned. Because the regime
su√ered severe international criticism for its actions, the maintenance
of artistic quality in a Jew-free arts sector became a focus of national
pride. Consequently, all those musicians who continued to perform in
Germany after the Jews were barred from appearing with or before
Gentiles were, in fact, accomplices in the crime of ‘‘Aryanization.’’ By
continuing to excel musically, they were legitimizing the Nazi claim
that ‘‘true’’ German art did not need the Jews.
Musicians could not but have known what the regime was up to in
this: they knew that Jews were being isolated and abused and mur-
dered, that anti-Nazis were disappearing, and that the Gestapo was an
instrument of torture and death. One could not really claim not to
have understood what the Nazis were about, even if awareness of the
ultimate extent of their genocidal depredations was limited. Certainly
Goebbels used the German musical canon as an advertisement for the
regime, and artists often heard their own talents used as an explanation
for the war. As Goebbels declared in an April 1944 radio address, ‘‘our
natural superiority makes us hated and disliked . . . [but the] hymns of
hate against the Reich . . . are only the stammerings of their [the
Allies’] inferiority complexes.’’ This was a view that the psychological
warriors found many Germans had assimilated: ‘‘[T]hey are fond of
finding comfort in times of misfortune in the thought that their mis-
fortunes are undeserved,’’ one report noted. ‘‘They are fond of asking
why it is that other nations so dislike them and giving the satisfying
answer that it is the tribute of envy to their universally recognized
excellence.’’≤≠
The di≈culty the music o≈cers now faced was one of deciding for
themselves the degree of guilt involved in the artists’ complicity in
the crimes of National Socialism. Should they hold to any extent re-
sponsible the violinist who occupied a position in an orchestra once
held by a Jew? Had that violinist not profited from the racial purge and
contributed to the normalization of life in this racially perverted state?
Even more critically, what should the Americans do with the conduc-
tor who led the ensemble, who performed before Nazis and accom-
modated himself to the racial remodeling of his orchestra? Was the fact
that many of the more prominent musicians helped ease the Jews out,
by writing letters of recommendation, or giving them money to leave
the country, to their credit or discredit?

28 | Preparing for Music Control

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