When Klaus Mann was born in November, 1906, in Munich, his father, Thomas, was already a dominant force in German literature. Thomas Mann’s first novel Buddenbrooks had been published five years earlier; it had won universal acclaim and would be cited as one of the principle reasons for awarding him the Nobel Prize in literature in 1929. Klaus was Thomas’s eldest son. Together with his older sister Erika they formed an inseparable bond, even to marketing themselves occasionally as the “Mann twins.” They were undisciplined in school but were part of an intense circle of friends for whom Klaus often served as dramatist and fellow actor. Thomas found it difficult to relate to his older children as they lived out the unregulated lifestyle common to well-to-do youth in 1920s. In a short story, “Disorder and Early Sorrow“ [Unordnung und frühes Leid] he portrayed his own confusion and bourgeois disapproval as he looked upon their unfettered and undirected joie de vivre.
Klaus Mann, age 12
There was always an odd tension of love and rivalry between Klaus and his father. Klaus was openly, even blatantly, homosexual, while Thomas tried to cloak his own homoerotic attraction to young boys—even to the young Klaus—behind a carefully maintained facade of bourgeois respectability. Thomas kept a regular work schedule, carefully honing each of his longer and shorter literary texts into stylistic masterpieces; Klaus poured out literary texts striking for their originality, but lacking in self-criticism. Still, Klaus became a fresh voice in Weimar Germany, and gained enough prominence—and notoriety—that the dramatist Bertolt Brecht once remarked in jest, “The whole world knows Klaus Mann, the son of Thomas Mann. By the way, who is Thomas Mann?”
In 1927 Klaus and his sister Erika embarked on a nine-month tour throughout the United States, which then evolved into a trip around the world. They financed it by negotiating writing contracts and seeking advances on unwritten articles and books, by giving lectures about German youth and German culture to civic groups and on college campuses, and by covering their heaviest travel debts in 1929 with their father’s Nobel prize money. After returning to Germany, the siblings collaborated on a chatty travel book that told of their experiences, their impressions of American culture, and their observations of class and racial discrimination; they enlivened their work by dropping names of the many celebrities they met and socialized with in Hollywood and New York. They had planned a second tour to the States that would include the Riviera and North Africa, but, during their stay in Fez, Morocco, they both had to be hospitalized for severely overdosing on hashish, and they had to return home.
Klaus continued to produce works non-stop: literary essays, book reviews, dramas, and novels. His father had produced one novel—a masterpiece—by the time he was 26; Klaus produced three, and, at age 27, wrote his autobiography. One American critic, after reading Klaus’s novel Alexander in English translation, wrote that “If the young author […] were not the son of his father, he would have had to wait awhile before publishing his novel, “ given “the painful juvenility of his conception.” Undeterred, Klaus plunged on, and, between 1932 and 1936, produced another four novels.
Klaus’s novels represented several firsts in German literature. His debut work, Der fromme Tanz (The Pious Dance) introduced homosexuality as a major theme in German fiction, Flucht in den Norden (Journey into Freedom) featured a German communist as its heroine who, after an idyllic retreat in Finland, returns to fight fascism with her comrades. Klaus’s 1936 novel, Mephisto, took his sister’s former husband as a model for every German artist who, in Klaus’s words, “prostitutes his talent for the sake of some tawdry fame and transitory wealth.”
All of Klaus’s published writings were thrown into the fires during the Nazi book burnings in May, 1933. Klaus was now working in Amsterdam, where he was fostering his ideal of a culturally unified Europe that might serve as a counterforce to Nazism. He co-founded a journal devoted to publishing works by writers who were banned in Germany; this included British and American writers, and writers from Germany and from the other European nations. In contrast, from a safe haven in Switzerland, his father tried to ride out the Nazi storm silently, lest he lose his German publisher and his German readers. Only after reading a harsh
Klaus Mann and Erika Mann, ca. 1931
condemnation in the press of the “Jewish pack” of emigrant writers, did Thomas made a clean break with the Nazis. From that moment on, there would be looking back. By the time the Nazis entered Poland in September 1939, Klaus, his sister, and his parents were all living in America.
Klaus tried to eke out living costs by lecturing to the Americans on European culture, and, as long as it was safe, returning to Europe to lecture to Europeans about American literature. He also wrote a novel—a collective chronicle of German emigration—called Der Vulkan [The Volcano]. Although set mostly in Paris, the work also covered the emigrant experience in Prague, Amsterdam, Zurich, Mallorca, Vienna, Spain, Hollywood, New York, and the Middle West, with cameo scenes set in Budapest, Scandinavia, Palestine, and China. This time his father was unabashedly proud of his son’s achievement. “I am convinced that everyone, even skeptics, who embark on reading it, will read it to the end, riveted, entertained, touched, and moved,” he wrote Klaus, “I read it all the way through, with pleasure and exhilaration, enjoyment and gratification, and more than once with emotion.” Sadly, Klaus was never able to find an American publisher, and it won an audience only among German-speaking emigrés.
First Issue of Decision, January 1941
Klaus and his sister Erika did find publishers for two non-fiction, English-language works in America, however: Flight to Life and The Other Germany. In both they emphasized “good” Germans, both at home and in exile, who opposed Nazism. And Klaus tried, once again, to found a journal devoted to furthering his ideal of global civilization, this time by offering a strong inclusion of English-writing authors among foreign names. He named the journal Decision, and it got off to a promising start; Thomas referred to it as “arguably really the best and most colorful literary revue that America has ever seen.” In it Klaus incorporated not only established writers, but included new voices, as well. But here, too, the journal foundered, even with the strong vocal and monetary support of his father. Klaus was at his wit’s end. His drug usage increased dramatically, he made two attempts at suicide, and he got involved in a number of sordid homosexual encounters.
He turned once again to writing for his salvation, producing a second memoir, The Turning Point. And, the day after correcting the last chapter of this work, Klaus went for the blood test that was the first requirement for entrance into the US Army. “For too many years,” he declared, “I contented myself with the role of a commentator, warner, propagandist, and critic […]. For the first time in my life, I want to belong to the rank and file.”
Klaus had no way of knowing that he was under FBI surveillance. This caused his induction to be delayed for six months, during which Klaus produced a scholarly work, Andre Gide and the Crisis of Modern Thought, which met with general acclaim. In January, 1943, he was finally inducted into the US Army, then hospitalized briefly for treatment of syphilis at Fort Dix. Upon his release, Klaus cheerfully assumed tasks of collecting cigarette butts and performing mess duty before being.shipped off to Camp Joseph T. Robinson for eight weeks of basic training. There he was amazed at his American comrades’ ready acceptance of his age, his foreign accent, and his concentrated literary activities. “They don’t dislike or scorn things they don’t understand,” he noted. “In Germany, the uncultured people are implacable enemies of culture: they loathe and persecute it in all its forms. Not so in this country.” His fellow soldiers nicknamed him “the professor,” and, in his basic training, Klaus found a sense of purpose that he had not known for quite some time. He quit taking drugs completely, and, despite temptation, avoided any homosexual activity.
Klaus inspects items for War Bonds Sale, 1943
At the end of his basic training, he was sent to Camp Ritchie, to train in psychological warfare and propaganda services. He was part of a new venture, called the First Mobile Radio Broadcasting Company. The 40 men in the core unit of the company were being trained to produce propaganda pamphlets that would be fired directly into the enemy lines, to interrogate German prisoners to evaluate enemy morale, and to speak directly with the enemy by microphone in order to urge their surrender. Klaus was no longer among American infantrymen; in fact, he said, “The place is jumping with old friends from Berlin, Vienna, Paris, and Budapest; it is almost as if one is in a club or one’s regular coffeehouse.” He was trained by a German specialist, Martin F. Herz, a native New Yorker who had spent 14 years of his childhood living in Vienna. In addition to his native fluency and thorough knowledge of the German psyche, Herz was, as an American non-Jew, able to analyze intelligence dispassionately and without rancor, and, when he put this thoughtful analysis into practice, he became a “recognized propaganda genius in World War II.”
At the end of April Klaus was promoted to technical sergeant and told that he would be moving out and sent overseas with the rest of the men in the First Mobile Radio Broadcasting Company, or MRBC. When he brought up the fact that he had not yet received his citizenship papers, he was sent to Baltimore in a staff car to pick them up. When he arrived there, however, he was informed by the judge that “special information” had been received regarding his case, and that he had to be investigated again. Apparently, informants had accused him of being a secret communist agent and sexual pervert. He returned to Camp Ritchie, then, six weeks later, was assigned to the 825th Signal Repair Service Company in Camp Crowder, Missouri. It was a mistaken assignment; the Army had misinterpreted the meaning of “Mobile Radio Broadcasting Company,” and assumed that Klaus had been trained in the technical and mechanical aspects of radio repair work. For the next six months, Klaus languished in Missouri, while bombarding the army and state department officials with assurances of his loyalty to America and pleas that he be granted citizenship and allowed to join his company. Martin Herz assured Klaus from overseas that he was keeping his vacant position unfilled until he could join his old company.
Once Camp Crowder recognized that Klaus was not a radio technician, he was assigned to public relations work. He lectured on conditions in Europe, wrote informative articles for the Camp Crowder newspaper, and, at his own initiative, launched a major campaign for raising money for US War Bonds by collecting scores of signed works and photos from his and his father’s friends in New York and Hollywood. This collection included works by best-selling authors, composers, journalists, and film stars, and sold for one million dollars. The entire collection was bought by a trustee of the University of Kansas City, and donated to the University.
Finally, in late September, Klaus was granted American citizenship, and on Christmas Eve 1943 he embarked for North Africa from Norfolk, Virginia. There he was assigned to the Psychological Warfare Branch, or PWB. This cooperative endeavor of British and Americans served as an umbrella organization for coordinating base units in London and Washington, combat propaganda units attached to front-line forces, and occupation units working in recently captured territories. Martin Herz was now assigned to a PWB combat unit and made Klaus part of his three-men team. He immediately gave Klaus on-site assignments, such as interviewing newly captured German soldiers, preparing propaganda, and even pleading directly from the front lines with the enemy by microphone and urging their surrender.
Klaus conducted these tasks as part of the Italian campaign, working sometimes with the American Fifth, sometimes with British Eighth Army. He spent many days in tents or bombed out houses, slogging through the mud, and digging trenches around his tent to prevent its being flooded. At one point he came down with malaria, and was briefly hospitalized before returning to action on the front lines. When Herz was reassigned to the London base unit, Klaus took over the job of producing most of the propaganda pamphlets.
But Klaus also took advantage of cultural opportunities throughout this time. In Rome, which was spared ruin, he attended dinner parties, concerts, opera, and movies. When he was briefly assigned to Naples to translate American field newspapers into German, he ate in good restaurants and attended the opera, despite the severe damage that had been done to the city.
Near the end of his stay in Naples, the Allies made another powerful air raid on the city; a few days later—on March 17, 1944—Mt. Vesuvius suddenly became active and nearby villages had to be evacuated. It was a common belief among the GIs stationed there that the force of the American air raid had awakened the volcano and caused its eruption. Klaus had been producing journalistic pieces for American publications throughout his wartime assignments; now he turned this event into a short story in which a young American GI visits Pompeii and meets up with a Roman legionnaire who had been jolted back to life by the volcanic activity. The legionnaire addresses the GI as his “successor” and “the new conqueror,” adding that, although the great Roman cities lie in ruins, “your great cities, too, will go to pieces, friend,” since “there are […] barbarians always ready to rebel and to offend the law.” This, like all the other fiction Klaus produced during and after the war, was never published. Still, it provides insight into Klaus’s sadness over the destruction that was being done to Italian cities as the cost of the Allies’ slow progress in the war against Hitler.
Klaus composing propaganda pamphlets in Italy, 1944
Italy suffered through a miserable October, with Klaus spending part of the month living in an icy tent “through whose canvas roof the Italian winter rain slowly seeped.” From there he was assigned to the village of Castel del Rio, where he slept in the basement of a deserted granary. During nights of rain, and of fierce shelling, Klaus read his father’s newly published novel Joseph the Provider [Joseph, der Ernährer] by candlelight. Several months later, he wrote, “When I recall the grim days in the shelled Italian village, it is primarily Joseph the Provider who comes to mind. The wild visions of war pale, become untrue and shadow-like, while the figures of the beautiful God-invention gain in plastic reality.”
November 1944 continued cold, wet, and muddy, and Klaus’s morale was low. He had petitioned the Army for a promotion to lieutenant, but been turned down. He had written to the Commanding Officer of the Psychological Warfare Branch operating in the Italian Theater, and asked for a discharge from the Army so that he could be made a civilian staff member of the PWB and continue his propaganda activities more effectively in post-war Europe. He felt that, in a civilian position, he could reach the defeated Germans in ways that he could not as an American soldier and “conqueror.” He outlined any number of jobs that a man with his qualifications could perform. “I could be used in the field of German political intelligence, or as a radio commentator, public speaker, lecturer, journalist, newspaper- or magazine editor, theatrical director, or general cultural adviser and contact man,” he argued. His request was not only denied, but Elmer Davis, the Director of the Office of War Information, brutally disabused him of this notion and raised for Klaus future difficulties that he had not anticipated. “It is our view at present that our work in Germany could best be conducted by men who had not had intimate contact with pre-war controversies and politics,” he wrote. Klaus understood the irony. Those who, like himself, had been among the first to speak out against Hitler, were not wanted in the building of a new Germany.
Things finally looked up for Klaus late in November when he was approached and asked to write an article for a Stars and Stripes special Sunday edition. By this time Klaus was tired of writing dozens of propaganda leaflets. Besides, he wrote his mother, “I would much rather write in English again.”
His article was published on December 13th. It was entitled “My Old Countrymen: A German-Born Yank Tells Why He Fights the Reich.” His case, he wrote, was not unique: “I am sure that I speak also for the thousands of other former German citizens now active in the various armies of the United Nations in saying that our militant resolution has a two-fold psychological and moral source: first, our natural loyalty to a new homeland to which we are deeply indebted; and second, our intimate, first-hand knowledge of the mortal danger which Hitlerism means to civilization.” Two months later, Klaus transferred over to Stars and Stripes as staff writer and moved into the newspaper’s quarters in Rome. His articles now began to list him as “Private” rather than as “Sergeant” Klaus Mann, since it was the policy of the newspaper to have all its military writers begin as privates, regardless of their previous rank. He served under John Willlig, the editor of the Sunday Stars and Stripes Magazine, and Klaus became its main contributor of foreign news analyses. “It’s good to be out of the mud,” Klaus declared, “to do some real writing again […], and to lead a more civilian and more civilized kind of life.”
Klaus was delighted that, in his foreign news analyses, he was allowed to present a contextualized view of the war situation; this was something he had been prevented from doing in his propaganda pamphlets. He also began writing about the various European cities newly freed from Nazi domination: on Paris, Rome, Weimar, and Nuremberg.
Klaus visits the shell of his childhood home, May 1945
When the war was over in Europe, Klaus left on a tour to Austria and Germany as special correspondent for Stars and Stripes. This included a visit to Munich, where he visited the home he had grown up in. He found the outside structure of the house well preserved, but the inside was a mass of rubble. He was told that members of the SS had lived there, and that it had served as a Lebensborn or “baby factory,” with Aryan women being brought in to share in the creation of racially superior children. “To look at these broken walls and empty windows was like facing a sinister caricature of my own past,” he wrote. “I made haste to get out.” He wrote to his father, advising him not to consider returning to Germany. “Conditions here are too sad,” he told him. “In the end you would be blamed for the country’s well-deserved, inevitable misery. More likely than not, you would be assassinated.” Klaus was no longer an interrogator of prisoners of war, but rather a reporter seeking information from the conquered Germans. The results of these interviews were the same, however: all the people he spoke with claimed to have been against Hitler all along, and maintained that the Allies had “liberated” them.
His articles for Stars and Stripes now turned to subjects that would interest the GI at leisure, such as Switzerland as a tourist destination, and the varied theaters, vaudevilles, operas, and ballets now open in Rome. And it was two films that Klaus attended in Rome that led to a new literary project. On July 28 he attended a preview screening of Roberto Rossellini’s film Rome, Open City. And, on the following day, he went to the cinema to watch the William Wellman movie The Story of GI Joe. Both of these realistic war films were set in Rome. And now Klaus himself came up with the idea for an Italian war film: Seven from the U.S. It would, Klaus wrote in his prospectus for the US Embassy, not focus on warfare, but rather on the relationships that arose in Italy between Americans and Italians. The Americans, as he saw it, would be representative types: a tank driver, a flyer, a chaplain, a nurse, a black MP, an Italo-American soldier. The film would be comprised of seven stories, with each having a different writer. Klaus, with the help of Rossellini’s friend Marcello Pagliero, would serve as overall supervisor of the writing by managing the basic story outline and making whatever changes would be needed as the film progressed. As Klaus outlined it, each of the seven Americans would die, and each story would end with a shot of a cross in a military cemetery, showing that, in his words, “the film intends to be a warm and respectful homage to the memory of those Americans who lost their lives for the liberation of Italy.”
Rossellini, it turned out, had quite a different vision for Klaus’s film idea. He wanted to turn the film’s basic conceit on its head and, rather than tell the film stories from the Americans’ point of view, tell them through the eyes of the Italians. He called in an Italian scriptwriter, Sergio Amidei, as Klaus’s Italian counterpart in story management, and Klaus was essentially shut out, as the film was turned into a story for and about Italians. Rossellini called his film Paisà [Paisan], and it is considered one of the great feats of postwar filmmaking. Klaus got very little credit for his work, but he did at least get a sizable paycheck to help tide him over as he tried to transition into civilian life.
In Rossellini's Paisa, (1946) Klaus's
stories were given an Italian perspective.
But Klaus was adrift in the postwar world, at home neither in an America that was quickly entering a cold war with Russia, nor in a Germany that looked with hatred upon those who had emigrated. Klaus wandered between continents, trying to get a foothold and to fashion his life to a world no longer focused on the dangers of fascism. He tried playwriting, but could not get his play produced. He considered founding a new journal, but could not arouse interest nor raise any financial support. He proposed various film ideas, but could not get any studio contracts; even his proposal to write a film version of his father’s novel The Magic Mountain with George Tabori met with failure, because, as Tabori said, “Hollywood was not interested in making a film about “sick people.” He wrote drafts of novels that found no resonance. He tried to get his former German novels translated and published in the States and in Italy. He managed to get a reworked version of his 1935 novel Symphonie Pathétique [Pathetic Symphony] published in America in 1948. The novel dealt with Tchaikovsky’s final years, but garnished less than stellar reviews.
Klaus’s life continued to unravel. Although he had been drug-free during his service years and kept his homosexuality in check, he now returned to both with a vengeance. And, once again, he became suicidal. In July 1948 he made a serious attempt on his life that was reported throughout the country, much to the chagrin of himself and his family. Still, he tried to retain a sense of humor about it all, as he noticed how The Los Angeles Times said in its headline “Thomas Mann’s Son Foiled in Suicide Effort” (July 12}. Klaus had always maintained that the line over his obituary would read “Son of Thomas Mann Dies”; in this headline, his assertion seemed to be confirmed.
In the spring Klaus went to France, to Cannes, where he had happy memories of earlier productive writing. He also was trying to find German publishers to release the works of his that had appeared in German previously only with an emigrant press. He had rewritten his English-language autobiography in a longer, German version; in it he brought readers up to date on his actions during the war. But, by the spring of 1949, it looked like it would not see the light of day. He very much wanted to see his novel Der Vulkan appear in Germany, since both he and his father considered the novel “without question my main work from the years of exile.” Klaus had also been eager to have his novel Mephisto published in Germany, since he believed that it offered a cogent analysis of those apparently “good” Germans who conspired with the Nazis. While there was still a faint hope that a German publisher would print Der Vulkan, the publisher who had agreed to publish Mephisto reneged on the contract, saying that it was “not a good time” to release the book, “because Herr Gründgens already plays a very substantial role here.” Klaus felt increasingly that he was a victim of America’s post-war policies in its pursuit of the cold war. Americans were actively tracking down and punishing those they considered “communists,” and the German refugees were all suspect as “premature anti-fascists.” And America had put the program of de-Nazifying Germany on its back burner.
Klaus was now attempting to write a novel that he believed might be, after Der Vulkan, his best work. He called it The Last Day, and, in preparation to writing it, he did intensive preparation by studying works of philosophy, politics, mysticism, psychiatry, religion, literature, and contemporary culture. He also made a deep study of suicide, by looking at its root causes in the writings of Freud, Kafka, Baudelaire, Schopenhauer, and Kierkegaard. On one sheet of paper he wrote “And if there were a sudden reconciliation between U.S. and S.U—would I want to go on living?—Yes, I suppose I would…”
In the outline for the novel Klaus traced the lives of two German anti-fascists. One, named Julian Butler, had emigrated to America, become a US citizen, and served in the American army. The other, Albert Fuchs, was a communist, had fought in the Spanish Civil War, moved to Moscow, and, after the war, beccome president of the East German Kulturbund or state cultural association. Klaus protrayed both men as idealists crushed by the postwar politics of the United States and the Soviet Union. At the book’s close, both men decide to take action: Albert attempts to flee to the West, is captured, tries to escape, and is killed. Julian commits suicide.
Before his suicide, Julian writes:
I want to die because we dropped that accursed Bomb on a small town in Japan. I say “we,” even though I personally had nothing to do with it. But it’s my people who did it, my country is responsible for the outrage, yes we are guilty—all of us! […]
I want to die because we killed those Jews—how many of them? Five million, or six?—in the gas chambers… It is true, I left Germany long before the Germans committed those ghastly crimes… But I used to be one of them. […] I can’t bear it.
Certainly, one reason for Klaus’s despair was that he no longer felt at home either in America or in Germany. It was four years since Germany’s defeat, and he had not had a single work published in post-war Germany. In addition, he was feeling cut off from his beloved sister, since Erika had taken over the task of serving as their father’s agent and protector and had little time left over for him. He had made several efforts to wean himself from drugs, and they had all been futile. On the night of May 20th, 1949, Klaus took a heavy dose of sleeping pills; he was found the next morning, and died later that day.
Klaus in Cannes, 1949
After Klaus’s death, Erika took on the role of agent for Klaus as well as continuing to serve their father. The first thing she did was put out a book with tributes paid to her dead brother. Thomas wrote the foreword, declaring that his son “certainly died by his own hand, and not in order to pose as a victim of the times. But that is what he was to a high degree.” He praised Klaus’s bravery and how he had not allowed his father’s fame to darken his own literary aspirations. Finally, Thomas declared, Klaus was “among the most talented men of his generation, was, perhaps, the most talented of them all.”
But Erika had a difficult time getting Klaus’s books published in Germany. This would have to wait until the 1960s, when a new generation of Germans came of age and began calling their parents to task for their actions and complicity during the war. Klaus’s texts now found a deep resonance among them. Der Vulkan was published in 1968, and Mephisto was finally released in 1981. Thanks to his sister’s unflagging efforts, Klaus finally was welcomed as a strong representative of the German literary canon.
- Beverley Driver Eddy
October 2022
1.) “The Leisure Arts: Speaking of Books—The Movies,” The Outlook, 26 Nov. 1930, 506.
2.) Letter from Thomas to Klaus Mann, 22 July, 1939. The original is in the Klaus Mann Archive (KMA) in the Monacensia, in Munich, Germany.
3.) Klaus Mann zum Gedächtnis. (Amsterdam: Querido Verlag, 1950), 8.
4.) Klaus Mann, The Turning Point. [New York, L. B. Fischer, 1942], Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1984, 362.
5.) Klaus Mann, “Notes from a Basic Training.” Typescript, 3. KMA.
6.) Klaus Mann, Der Wendepunkt: Ein Lebensbericht. Edition Spangenberg im Ellermann Verlag, 1981, 512.
7.) William E Daugherty, “Martin F. Herz,” A Psychological Warfare Casebook. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins [1958] 1960, 252.
8.) Klaus Mann, “The Conquerors,” heavily edited typescript, 10. KMA.
9.) “Solemnly Moved,” The Stature of Thomas Mann. Ed. Charles Neider (New York: New Directions, 1947, 92.
10.) Letter to Lt. Col. E. M. Culligan, CO, PWB, Italian Theater. Undated. KMA.
11.) Letter of 22 Dec. KMA.
12.) Letter of 11 Mar. 1945 to Lotte Walter. KMA.
13.) “You Can’t Go Home Again.,” The Sunday Stars and Stripes Magazine [Mediterranean edition], 20 May 1945.
14.) 16 May, 1945. In Klaus Mann, Briefe und Antworten 1922-1949, ed. Martin Gregor Dellin. Munich: edition spangenberg, Ellermann Verlag, 1987, 539.
15.) Quotations and most of the information regarding this project are taken from Tag Gallagher, The Adventures of Roberto Rosselini (New York: Da Capo) and from Thomas Meder’s Vom Sichtbarmachen der Geschichte: Der italienishe “Neorealismus,” Rosselinis PAISÀ and Klaus Mann (Munich: Trickster, 1993).
16.) Anat Feinberg, Embodied Memory: The Theatre of George Tabori (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1999), 22.
17.) Letter to Gunter Groll, 10 May 1949. KMA.
18.) Cited in a letter from Klaus to his mother and sister, 20 May 1949. KMA.
19.) Text and Notes for The Last Day. KMA.
20.) Klaus Mann zum Gedächtnis. (Amsterdam: Querido Verlag, 1950), 10, 11.