The German writer Thomas Mann, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1929, was forced to leave Germany after the Nazi’s came to power, first living in southern France and then in Küsnacht, Switzerland. During his career, he visited Hungary numerous times; his last visit to Hungary took place in January 1937. Organized by the literary journal Szép Szó [Beautiful Word], he gave a reading at the Hungarian Theater, where he read a chapter from Lotte in Weimar, the novel he was currently working on. As the editor of the Szép Szó, poet Attila József greeted the exiled author, who—along with several other intellectuals—at this time had already been deprived of his German citizenship.

However, Attila József was not allowed to publicly read out the poem he had written for this occasion, Thomas Mann üdvözlése [Welcome to Thomas Mann], due to a police ban. As the newspapers reported: “The Hungarian state police found that the ode was political in nature and not suitable for reading at a non-political meeting, and therefore did not allow its presentation.” The poet only learned about the police decision from the press on the day of Mann’s reading. As the daily Magyarország [Hungary] reported: “We spoke to Attila József, who said, ‘I learnt about the ban on my poem from you. It is very painful for me, because I would have been very happy to read my poem in the presence of Thomas Mann. I think it was the last line of my poem that caused the misunderstanding that led the police to ban it.’” József was therefore only able to present the work privately to Mann, in which he greeted the exiled author as “a European mid people barbarous, white.” Thomas Mann, for his part, saw a “valuable friend” in the like-minded Hungarian poet who stood on the same platform as him. It was Mann’s sixth and final visit to Hungary.

Welcome to Thomas Mann

Just as the child, by sleep already possessed,
Drops in his quiet bed, eager to rest,
But begs you: “Don’t go yet; tell me a story,”
For night this way will come less suddenly,
And his heart throbs with little anxious beats
Nor wholly understands what he entreats,
The story’s sake or that yourself be near,
So we ask you: Sit down with us; make clear
What you are used to saying; the known relate,
That you are here among us, and our state
Is yours, and that we all are here with you,
All whose concerns are worthy of man's due.
You know this well: the poet never lies,
The real is not enough; through its disguise
Tell us the truth which fills the mind with light
Because, without each other, all is night.
Through Madame Chauchat’s body Hans Castorp sees,
So train us to be our own witnesses.
Gentle your voice, no discord in that tongue;
Then tell us what is noble, what is wrong,
Lifting our hearts from mourning to desire,
We have buried Kosztolányi; cureless, dire,
The cancer on his mouth grew bitterly,
But growths more monstrous gnaw humanity.
Appalled we ask: More than what went before,
What horror has the future yet in store?
What ravening thoughts will seize us for their prey?
What poison, brewing now, eat us away?
And, if your lecture can put off that doom,
How long may you still count upon a room?
O, do not speak, and we can take heart then.
Being men by birthright, we must remain men,
And women, women, cherished for that reason.
All of us human, though such numbers lessen.
Sit down, please. Let your stirring tale be said.
We are listening to you, glad, like one in bed,
To see to-day, before that sudden night,
A European mid people barbarous, white.

January 1937

Translated by Vernon Watkins