Adolf Hitler, the notorious dictator, responsible for the deaths of millions of people, is seen in rare footage discovered in Germany, dining with friends and playing with children. Two rolls of 16mm silent film in rusty cans were found in the attic of the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, which had become a place of pilgrimage for the opera-obsessed Fuhrer during his 12 years as ruler of the Third Reich. The films, one of them 4 minutes long, the other, little less than 11 minutes, were shot in 1936 by a 16 year-old Wolfgang Wagner, a grandson of Richard Wagner. They show Hitler in a series of informal settings with the Wagner family.

The footage has excited researchers who say that it adds another dimension to Hitler, one that seems to humanise the monster, responsible for the Holocaust and perhaps the world’s most destructive war. Sylvia Krauss, director of the Bavarian State Archive and supervisor of the estate of Wolfgang Wagner, who died in 2010, discovered the films in December. ‘One views the scenes with a certain anxiety,’ she said. ‘You can see Hitler in completely unknown poses. Not the statesman Hitler we know but one where he comes across in a very friendly way.’

Hitler was obsessed with Wagner’s music and befriended the Wagner family early in his political career. The Wagner children would come to call him ‘Uncle Wolf’, Wolf being a nickname allowed only to the closest of the Nazi inner circle. The films were shot three years after Hitler assumed power. He was childless throughout his life and the Wagner children were surrogates for him. He can be seen playing and joking with them at the Villa Wahnfried, the family residence in Bayreuth, The footage also shows Hitler sketching Weiland Wagner, Wolfgang’s brother, who died in 1966.

‘That these children were surrogates, we have known for a long time but these films bring that to life,’ Miss Krauss said. ‘Winifried Wagner, Wolfgang’s mother is seen in conversation with Hitler. She holds Hitler’s hand, she is beaming. Other friends of the Wagner family featured includes the conductors Heinz Tiedjen and Wilhelm Furtwangler. Hitler’s favourite architect Albert Speer is captured with the clan enjoying a dinner after a festival performance.’

Katharina Wagner, Wolfgang’s daughter and director of the Bayreuth Festival, donated the family archive in 2013, but because Verena Wagner Lafferentz, 96, Wolfgang’s younger sister, is on the film, and still alive, it cannot be broadcast publicly to protect her rights under German law. Digital copies will be made to enable academic study. ‘The selection of people who will see them will be very strict,’ Miss Krause said.

It’s worthy of note that Furtwangler was the subject of a book published by Quartet. Yehudi Menuhin, who I interviewed, had this to say about Furtwangler:

He was a great conductor and an absolutely clean man no question of doubt. He stood up for Hindemith; he protected many Jews, helped many out of Germany and himself had to escape towards the end of the war. He happened to conduct the orchestra when some of the leaders were there but we can’t expect everyone to behave in the same way. Sometimes it takes more courage to remain in your country than to leave it. Those who stayed suffered a pretty bad fate and those who came out after all, escaped yet there was this feeling of superiority amongst those whom escaped thinking they showed great determination in leaving it behind. I would say Jew or gentile, you cannot blame those who stayed, and you can’t blame those who escaped. It’s just the way things went but Furtwangler himself was a man of integrity.’

Yehudi himself, who I got to know rather well, was a great humanitarian and one of the most interesting people I have ever encountered.
It’s also worth mentioning that Quartet published in 2010 an unusual and engrossing account of Hitler’s rise to power, written in novel form by one of Germany’s leading television directors: Young Hitler by Claus Hant. 150 pages of intriguing appendices substantiate the novel’s provenance amongst the ashes of a demoralised and bankrupt Germany, Young Hitler also provides a unique perspective, but unlike the film archive, is available from Quartet Book’s website directly.



More memories, extracted from my volume of autobiography, Fulfilment & Betrayal, describing a time long ago – the early 1980s.


Another recruit at this period was Caroline Mockett. Her mother, Ann Foxell, who was then head of the press office at Harpers & Queen, introduced her to the Namara Group. Eventually Caroline became a notable addition to the Quartet girls. In the following contribution, penned by herself in her own distinctive style, she reveals some aspects of the goings-on at Quartet that sadly had escaped my notice. I can well imagine the wicked glint in her eye as she set out to recall the somewhat nonconformist atmosphere in the Goodge Street offices at the time.

Learning the Ropes
by Caroline Mockett

‘Dalleeng. You’re pretty. You’ll do.’ With these words – welcome and verbal contract in five words – I began my tenuous career in publishing.

My introduction to Naim Attallah had been arranged by my mother, exasperated by her daughter’s consistent ‘failure to launch’. By the age of twenty, I had managed to fail a secretarial course, get chucked off a cooking course and then get sacked from my first five jobs.

I returned home one evening to find mother chatting up a Middle Eastern man. This might not have been anything unusual, except that I noticed that the topic of conversation kept returning to me: my mother’s laughter and energetic chat suddenly turning to sighs and sad tales of, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.’ It took about ten gin and tonics for the charismatic visitor, Anwar Bati, finally to crumble before the twin onslaught of flirtation and sorrow. He agreed to find me a job. ‘I know someone,’ he said mysteriously, before swaying slightly out of the house.

Wheels turned and I was summoned to Namara House for my brief interview with Naim. Having received the seal of approval, I was whisked away to another address – Wellington Court – where I was shown into a small but pleasant office and told to sit behind a desk. Across the room was an accountant – the accountant – a breed I had never before encountered in my years of deb parties and balls. He was nonplussed by me and I was mystified and unimpressed with him. And so it was for the next three months. I had nothing to do (the accountant seemed to have guessed that I was mostly useless) except occasionally answer the phone – and then pass the call over to the accountant, make coffee (the accountant only drank a cup a day) and read the paper. As Beckett might have said in my position (hard to imagine): ‘Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful!’

My dwindling will to live was given a boost by a change of duties. I was summoned to help with the launch of Bella Pollen’s new collection (I thought I had joined a publishing company). I spent a few giddy days helping to hang her fashionable floral skirts and jumpers (it was the 1980s).

For these first three months of working for Naim, I caught only occasional glimpses of him. He seemed to be locked away in his ivory tower at Namara House, only to appear at parties with a retinue of pretty young women about him, all vying for his attention and favour. Seemingly shut away far from his attention, I began to give up hope of ever escaping the accountant’s office and getting involved in the heart of the matter – the great endeavour of publishing. Then, just as I was beginning to work out the best way to get sacked without too many repercussions, I received a summons to Namara House.

‘Dalleeng! I need a secretary. Come, sit there.’ With that, I took up position at a desk in Naim’s office. From the frozen wastes of Wellington Court, I was suddenly bathing in the continual sunshine of Namara House and the launching of the Literary Review. My initial panic about actually having to do something and so being discovered to be entirely incapable of doing anything was soon allayed: there was even less to do than there had been at Wellington Court. I sat, looked pretty, chatted to Naim and tidied my desk. A lot. Which seemed to be exactly what my job description required.

After this period of close examination, Naim arranged for me to be given a proper job in Quartet. Not for me the giddy heights of editorial; I was bundled off to sales and marketing. And here my real education began. Naim had found me a slot as post girl and general supplier for David Elliott (who called me either ‘the postie’ or ‘the failed deb’) and Penny Grant. Within the friendly chaos of the sales and marketing office, I quickly learnt the essential skills needed for success in publishing. First and foremost was the golden rule: get your work done in the morning because you never know how long lunch is going to last.

I managed to make myself useful by taking David’s shaggy dog Tramp for walks and buying toasted bacon and tomato sandwiches for David and myself, a cure for a thumping hangover. And I actually did the post. The post scales I was in command of came in handy when I added to my list of job titles that of ‘supplier of soft drugs to the publishing industry’. Marijuana was carefully weighed out and priced alongside letters and stamps, before being delivered – with the mail – around the office.

Occasionally I was sent out on to the front line of publishing to flog books to retailers. This operation involved the donning of an indecently short skirt, plenty of make-up and an innocent smile before targeting Harrods, Smiths and – my favourite – Mole Jazz. I would pile books into the back of my Morris Minor and splutter off to spread the word of Quartet. I soon discovered I was good at the business of flirtation – reps were putty in my hands and I rarely returned with an unsold copy.

Of course it helped that I was selling one of the most controversial lists in British publishing at the time. A mini-skirt and a car-boot load of The Joy of Sex was enough to get even the most jaded rep excited. Back at the office, Quartet ran an impressive after-sales service – I would take calls from keen and interested readers who wanted to discuss details of the positions pictured in More Joy of Sex. I happily chatted away, describing various obscene acts to male strangers. Anything to sell a book, I thought, not realizing that I had started probably the first and only free sex-chat line in the world. In the lunch break I sold books to transvestites and other colourful Soho characters. Flexibilty and an open mind was an essential part of the sales technique.

The success of The Joy of Sex didn’t go down well with The Women’s Press, whose presence within Naim’s harem of publishing was probably due to a mutual misunderstanding of each other’s intentions. Naim must have thought, ‘How nice, more women.’ The Women’s Press probably thought, ‘He publishes Dennis Potter – how bad can it be?’ The Women’s Press had a fearsome reputation; enough to put the fear of woman into David Elliott– his dog Tramp and I would be called upon as escorts when David had to venture into their territory to obtain sales figures. Little was I aware that The Women’s Press was making publishing history by releasing classics such as Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, as well as pioneering texts such as the Lesbian Mother’s Handbook.

Looking back, I can now appreciate the innovative and risk-taking books Quartet published: Dennis Potter’s Pennies from Heaven, Jonathan Dimbleby and Don McCullin’s The Palestinians, Julian Barnes’s Metroland, as well as publications by Bob Carlos Clarke and Derek Jarman. My time at Quartet was an education in many ways, a formative experience that taught me the value of originality and of thinking in brave new directions. It all helped in my later career working with artists and other creative types. For all of this, and in particular to Naim, I am thankful.


Zara Holland is an English actress who now lives in London. She rose to prominence as Miss Great Britain in 2015. She has also appeared in Emmerdale and Coronation Street as well as taking part in the reality show Love Island on ITV2.


Following her antics on Love Island in June 2016 she was stripped of her Miss Great Britain title over the onscreen romp with scaffolder Alex Bowen, 24. She now acknowledges that her misbehaviour was the worst thing that has ever happened to her. But the model from Hull is on the up again and is now launching her own fashion venture with online style hub Miiaan. The 20-year-old model posed in red lingerie then went nude in racy snaps that gave credence to her hot sexuality and her
inclination to embrace temptation when it comes her way.


The poor girl must be forgiven for her lapse in self-control which hopefully will not be repeated. But with a body like hers who can blame her. We are certainly not complaining…




All the recent publicity surrounding Anna Pasternak’s latest book, Lara, which tells of the love affair that was the real inspiration for her great uncle’s epic novel Doctor Zhivago, reminds me of the time when she worked as publicity manager at Quartet Books. Coincidentally, I had the privilege then to recruit another Anna, who was reputed to cause ripples in the world of the Arts.

At the end of December 1989, I purchased Algy Cluff’s half-interest in Apollo magazine. This was to give me as sole owner, the opportunity to make every conceivable effort to bring it to a wider audience and promote it in every way I could. One feature, however, that was not going to change was the magazine’s most glamorous and charismatic editor, Anna Somers Cocks, whose editorial never failed to cause some trepidation among the buffs of the art world. She had established a reputation for forthright thinking and seemed to have become more formidable as the months went by. She told the New York Times a few weeks later, in January 1990, that the art world ‘is a microcosm of the world. It has economics, commercialism, politics, religion, gossip, scandal, all aspects.’ During her three years as editor, she transformed the once starchy publication, declared the newspaper, into a thoughtful but lively look at all art’s facets. Since she took over, the circulation had risen to nine thousand copies, a respectable figure for a glossy art magazine of that calibre. The choice of Anna as editor had been a most shrewd and enlightened appointment.

Anna Pasternak did a tremendous job publicizing our list. One of her best events was the launch of Elena: A life in Soho, written by Elena Salvoni, with the help of Sandy Fawkes. Elena only passed on this March, aged 95, but her memoirs started almost a century before when she was born in Clerkenwell to Italian parents, arriving as a waitress at the Café Bleu in wartime London and moving on to Bianchi’s where she stayed for over 30 years, before becoming the presiding génie at L’Escargot. She had memories of Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan drinking together; of Maria Callas refusing to be parted from her mink coat before being seated; of Donald Maclean dining ‘in all innocence’ two days before he defected to Russia. Her account was both personal and a slice of Soho’s history.


I’m glad to read in a Sunday newspaper that Latin passion is due to come to the Proms on Wednesday. Marin Alsop. the American conductor, shattered more than 100 years of inequality when she became the first woman to lead proceedings at the Last Night of the Proms in 2013. This week, she returns triumphantly to the Royal Albert Hall with the Sao Paulo Symphony Orchestra and fully intends to bust another stereotype – that Europeans are superior to everyone else when it comes to creating and performing classical music.

‘Last time we came to the Proms people were surprised by the world-class musicians of this orchestra,’ she smiles. ‘I think they’ll be even more amazed this year.’ Alsop has been music director of the orchestra since 2012 and like a benign and proud mother she refers to them in glowing terms about the unique qualities which they will bring on Wednesday night to one of the most important musical venues in the world. ‘They’re very devoted to the work, yet still maintain their identity in terms of bringing that Latin sense of passion and emotionality to the table.’

With a programme showcasing some of Brazil’s finest composers, from Villa–Lobos to the contemporary Marlos Nobre, their summer tour in Europe (the orchestra have just played at Edinburgh’s International Festival and travel to Lucerne after their Proms appearance) is ‘an enormous opportunity for us to connect with the broader world.’

Growing up in New York City, Alsop, 59, did not see any women on orchestral podiums. However, she remembers being taken by her musical parents to a young people’s concert conducted by Leonard Bernstein and becoming ‘obsessed’. She was nine years old. ‘It was a religious calling. I never even questioned it.’

In those days, female maestri were as rare as hen’s teeth, but Alsop says ‘I did not think about the gender issues. Bernstein was my idol and my hero and then he became my teacher and I had parents who were incredible role models, particularly my mother, who believed that you can do anything you want to in life.’

Her exceptional career does seem to be forged on such principles. When New York’s Juilliard School rejected her for their post-graduate conducting programme, she founded her own orchestra, Concordia, and honed her craft with them. When the musicians of the Baltimore Symphony rebelled at her historic appointment as their Music Director, she simply put her head down and got on with the job. Ten years on, Baltimore is considered one of the most impressive symphony orchestras in the world and has renewed Alsop’s contract not once, but twice, and she will be there until at least 2021.

When asked if she ever felt a victim of prejudice, she carefully replies: ‘I don’t think in terms like that. Everyone’s probably a victim of prejudice to one degree or another and there are certainly many people who are more mistreated for the wrong reasons than I am. So I feel mostly privileged.’

She’s excited about showing off the Sao Paula orchestra this week. ‘Brazil has a very rich musical heritage and their composers have a wonderful way of blending the popular idiom into their classical works. Some classical conductors would be horrified at the prospect of bringing anything “popular” to the classical concert hall. Well, I think when we let down those barriers there can be an incredible hybrid that can connect people to our art-form in a much deeper and more relevant way.’ She counters: ‘I like the idea of not so many barriers and boundaries between things.’

What a foresighted conductor she has proved to be! The fact that she was tutored by Bernstein, her hero and idol, speaks volumes about a lady who has become remarkable in her own way. Bernstein happens to be my hero also. Having met him on one occasion, at a launch party of Quartet’s book Hashish, in September 1984, we seemed to have clicked congenially and the memory of that encounter remains with me to this day.


Being a cinema buff, especially where French films are concerned, I admire most of all their simplicity and realism in their portrayal of daily life without recourse to the Hollywood formulae of incredulity to boost box-office returns.

In the latest hits of this summer, Retour Chez Ma Mère, Stephanie, played by Alexandra Lamy, is the main character. An elegant 40 year-old architect has to put up with living in a house where the furniture dates from the 1970s, the jar of instant coffee is almost as old and the garage is full of junk. The breakdown of a relationship and unemployment mean that she has to return to live with her mother. At a time of year when cinemas are usually empty, more than two million people have gone to see a comedy that has struck a chord in a society in crisis.


With an unemployment rate of almost 10 per cent and marital breakdown escalating, the plot of the film is all too familiar to the French. A recent study found that 7 per cent of those aged 30-49 had returned to live with their parents after having left home a decade or more earlier. About a third of this group go back after separating from their partners, and a quarter after losing their jobs. Serge Guèrin, a sociologist, hailed the trend as an indirect benefit of France’s economic crisis: ‘At the end of the day, the generations understand each other better,’ he said.

However, Eric Lavaine, the film’s director, described the emergence of a ‘boomerang generation’ – those who return to live with their parents – as a symptom of social disarray. He said that adults felt failures when they were forced to ‘squat mum and dad’s home’ and often ‘faced hostility from their brothers and sisters… We love our parents, but it would be a nightmare to live with them 24 hours a day,’ he said.

In his film, Stephanie can barely contain her exasperation as she tries to explain the Internet to her mother, played by Josiane Balasko, who thinks that Gmail is an illness and that .com is written ‘dotcomme’. The daughter is forced to listen to old variety songs, to state when she will be home at night, to sleep in a bed with her mother’s flea-ridden cat. Whenever she turns the heating down, her mother turns it up again. Her sister, played by Mathilde Seigner, is furious with her for returning to her mother’s house. ‘The film should have been called “Family, Family, I Hate You!” or “Family Crisis.”’ Mr Lavaine said.

Michel Billé, a sociologist, said that parents were often happy to take their adult children back. ‘It helps them construct a positive image of themselves.’ But he added, ‘You don’t have the same rhythm at 40 as you did at 60 or the same relationship to time, money or new technology. These differences can give rise to marvellous moments of exchange or violent conflict. If the brothers and sisters get involved and become jealous, the cohabitation can become hell.’

France is by no means the only European country that has experienced a rise in the number of people living with their parents since the economic crisis struck. In Spain and Italy, however, most never left home in the first place. In France many have established families of their own and have been obliged to return. One reason is a combination of long-tern unemployment and relationship instability, with about 250,000 cohabiting or married couples separating every year.

It all goes to prove that the world is going topsy-turvy in every sense of the word. We enjoy watching the comic side of things, but the reality of the situation is truly disturbing. Hallelujah!


Another problem for every publisher is when a book one really likes and thinks special is not appreciated by the literary establishment. Of course, disappointment is power for the course but one always remembers those books which didn’t quite make it. One such problematic book I published had its origin in a meeting that took place early in 1988 with a young author called Elisabeth Barillé, after I had been introduced to her by the French cosmetic journalist Elizabeth Arkus. Elisabeth Barillé’s novel Corps de jeune fille was just then the latest literary sensation in Paris. She was Parisian born in 1960 and had gained degrees in English and Russian before becoming a freelance journalist contributing to Paris-Match, Depêche Mode, Femme and Geo.

She was then literary editor of L’Eventail. I was entranced by her at our meeting. She had that kind of sexuality which disturbs the senses. I bought a copy of the book and started reading it on the plane back to London. It was a book I could not put down. Its appeal was more attuned to the avant-garde French reading public, but her use of language and the depth of insight into the human condition were impressive. I was determined that Quartet would publish an English version, even though certain expressions she used were going to be hard to translate into English without losing their nuances.

It told the story of twenty-three-year-old Elisa, audacious and sensual, who is accosted by a middle-aged writer in the Jardin du Luxembourg. She is intrigued and troubled by him after he seduces her and says he wants her to be the heroine of his next book. As he interrogates her on her childhood and aspects of her sexual awakening, the tone of the narrative darkens and they begin to play a game in which it is no longer clear who is preying on whom.

The French press had given the book some very positive reviews: ‘A revelation . . . unpretentious and direct . . . truly liberated,’ said Marie-Claire; ‘Gay, tender, biting, playful . . . written with enthusiasm and zest,’ said FranceSoir; ‘Vigorous, direct and lucid, sparing nothing and nobody,’ said Le Figaro Littéraire. The English literary establishment was more ambivalent in its reception of the translated version under the title Body of a Girl. It came as no surprise, however, for I had always been aware that its appeal here would be limited. It belonged to a genre that had that intrinsically cerebral quality more consonant with European culture. Clarence de Roch in Tatler chose to focus on the book’s erotic side. His opening paragraph set the mood of his piece: ‘There’s a brilliantly funny scene in Elisabeth Barillé’s first novel, in which Elisa, the heroine, brings her suitor’s amorous élan to an abrupt halt by staring at his exposed penis and describing it witheringly (literally so as it turns out) as looking “just like Cyrano’s nose!”’
Janet Barron, for the Literary Review, found a degree of merit in the book, though she confessed that the use of some words made her blush: ‘I wouldn’t recommend reading some of this in public; try convincing the chap who’s peering over your shoulder that ‘fanny’ is a symbol of women’s liberation…’ Typically of that newspaper, Rebecca O’Rourke’s reaction in the Guardian was especially damning: ‘… Britain often looks to France, impressed by the latter’s sexual freedoms and sophistication. Colette, Violette Leduc and Simone de Beauvoir made enormous contributions to women’s writing by pioneering sensual, erotic and sexual themes. On the evidence of Body of a Girl, this pre-eminence is now receding.’

In late 1990, Quartet published Elisabeth Barillé’s second novel, Marie Ensnared. This time the author’s obsession with prostitution manifested itself even more clearly. The story had the same resonance as Body of a Girl, but in this one the heroine began to lead a double life. To summarize the plot, Marie and her husband Luc, a charming and talented architect, apparently make the perfect bourgeois couple. While he provides her with a life of comfort and security, she is his perfect companion and hostess to the cosy, if complacent, dinner parties that are the cornerstone of his success. Then Luc accepts a commission to build a vast palace in the Moroccan desert for a rich megalomaniac Aloui, whose escort is Nalège, a malicious manipulative call-girl. Marie becomes fascinated by Nalège’s lifestyle, seeing it as an emancipation from the trap of comfort that is her life with Luc. She becomes her understudy, but when Nalège sends her the obese, alcoholic Aloui, the arrangement ends in a disastrous surfacing of guilt and self-loathing, with Marie now the victim of male cruelty and her own emotional confusion.

When I read Marie Ensnared I strongly suspected that the book had an autobiographical basis and that Barillé’s fictional account was a clever way of expressing her own dark secrets. Barillé’s own explanation for her theme was that, ‘Eroticism interests me more than sex. It’s the staging of our sexual impulses.’ But in the view of Jane O’Grady in the Observer, ‘chic, pretty Marie’ was both ‘directing and starring in the film of her life, and Barillé’s slim novelette resembles a soft-porn movie minus eroticism’. Neither Body of a Girl nor Marie Ensnared made the impact I personally had anticipated.

Somehow they failed to catch the mood of the literary public in Britain. La différance was once again manifesting itself.