Every Man for Himself and God Against All: A Memoir

by Werner Herzog

said that, in fact, I wasn’t a creature of the film industry at all but just someone who at the end of the war had learned how to milk cows. Even all these years later, I start to shake when I think of the odds, but I went on to tell them that in the course of my work with actors and faces I could often sense some of the things that lay beneath. I was, for instance, usually able to recognize people who could milk cows. I turned to McCulley and said: “For instance, you, sir, I am willing to bet you know how to milk a cow.” He yelped, banged his thighs, and started miming milking. Yes, indeed, McCulley had grown up on a farm in Tennessee. I don’t even want to think about the bottomless embarrassment I would have found myself in had I been wrong.

I have experienced comparable transformations in the realm of communications, beginning with ancient times. I remember the man working for the mayor’s office in Wüstenrot in Swabia, a few hours from Munich and Sachrang, where my brother and I later lived for a year with our father. He was the town crier. There’s an archaic German word for it. I heard him make his way through the village up to the Raitelberg, ringing his bell to get people’s attention. Every three or four houses, he would stop and call out his “Hear ye, hear ye!” and announce official decrees and deadlines. From my early childhood, I knew what radio and newspapers were even though we didn’t always have electricity, but I never saw a film. I had no notion of cinema. I didn’t know such a thing existed until one day a man with a mobile projector came to us in our one-room village school in Sachrang and showed us

a couple of films, which utterly failed to impress me. There was no telephone in the village; I made my first telephone call when I was seventeen. There were televisions only from the 1960s; it was in Munich that we first watched the news or a soccer game in the janitor’s flat a floor above ours.

With the point of a knife, our mother scratched a mark in it for each day, Monday to Sunday, allowing about a slice of bread for each of us. When hunger got to be very bad, we were each given a piece from the next day’s ration because my mother hoped something might turn up in the meantime, but generally the bread was finished by Friday, and Saturdays and Sundays were particularly bad. My deepest memory of my mother, burned into my brain, is a moment when my brother and I were clutching at her skirts, whimpering with hunger. With a sudden jolt, she freed herself, spun round, and she had a face full of an anger and despair that I have never seen before or since. She said, perfectly calmly: “Listen, boys, if I could cut it out of my ribs, I would cut it out of my ribs, but I can’t. All right?” At that moment, we learned not to wail. The so-called culture of complaint disgusts me.

And yet, in my childhood, there was nothing to indicate anything exceptional except possibly in the negative. I was quiet, reserved, inclined to sudden outbursts of temper; in general, I was a danger to those around me. I was capable of silent brooding, for instance, because I wanted to understand why six times five came to the same thing as five times six. It even seemed to be a general principle, so eleven by fourteen was the same as fourteen by eleven. Why? There was a law hidden in the numbers that I could not wrap my head around until I pictured a rectangle with rows of six pieces by five spread out in front of me, and if you turned the shape by ninety degrees, then the principle became visible.

A few years ago, we had a family reunion on the coast of Spain, where my brother was living at the time. At his invitation and expense, we had a wonderful evening at a fish restaurant. My brother, sitting beside me, put his arm around me as I studied the menu. Something began to smoke; I felt a light prick at my back, and suddenly I realized that with his cigarette lighter he had set my shirt on fire. I tore it off, and everyone was aghast, but the pair of us laughed loudly at the joke that didn’t seem funny to anyone else. Someone lent me a T-shirt for the rest of the evening, and the little sore patch of skin on my back was cooled with a splash of prosecco.

My heroes have a lot in common. Fabius Maximus, who is mocked to this day as a cunctator, or delayer, but who saved Rome from Hannibal’s Carthaginian army; Hercules Seghers, a painter of the early Rembrandt era who was barely noticed but is considered the father of modernity and made paintings of a kind that would not be seen for several centuries. Or Carlo Gesualdo, the Prince of Venosa, who composed music fully three hundred years ahead of its time—I’m thinking here principally of his sixth book of madrigals—not until Stravinsky, who went on pilgrimages to Gesualdo’s castle, did we hear such sounds again. Also included is Pharaoh Akhenaton, who introduced an early form of monotheism half a millennium before Moses.

But his most exciting action was something we witnessed ourselves. At issue were some five tons of contraband coffee, as we were informed much later. At any rate, word had got out, and one night the police were on their way to arrest Siegel Hans. He was able to escape out of a window. All he had on him was his trumpet, and the next morning when it got light, he blew down on his trumpet from the Spitzstein. The police gave chase, but by the time they got to the summit, he was blowing from the cloven top of the Mühlhorn or the peak of the Geigelstein on the other side of the valley. The police, humiliated, called up more and more reinforcements, but Hans continued tooting at them from peak to peak. We heard him. We saw troops of police running through the valley and up the slopes, but neither they nor the officials stationed at the pass got a glimpse of him. He was like a phantom. We children knew why they couldn’t catch him. As far as we were concerned, he had run from the Spitzstein all along the border heading into the sunset until he had run right around the whole of Germany to the Geigelstein on its east-facing side. It was the only way he could avoid having to go down into the valley. Twelve days later, he surrendered to the police, but by then, he had a mythic status among his admirers.

But walking became more important and more explicit in connection with my grandfather Rudolf, my father’s father; I had the sense of walking in his landscapes. I was closer to him than to my actual father. I think it all had to do with the way the turn-of-the-century generation had deeper historical roots than the generation of my parents, who quit the continuum of European culture when they opted for National Socialism. They descended into a vague Germano-mystical archaism and went under with it. Perhaps I am being too subjectively concentrated on my own family here. Families are strange creatures, and mine is no exception. In addition, there is the circumstance that I knew my grandfather only when he was already insane.