Nazis tried to train dogs to talk, read and spell to win WW2

The Nazis tried to train dogs to talk, read and spell to help them win World War II, it has been revealed.

The Germans viewed canines as being almost as intelligent as humans and attempted to build an army of fearsome 'speaking' dogs, extraordinary new research shows. Hitler hoped the clever creatures would learn to communicate with their SS masters - and he even had a special dog school set up to teach them to talk. 

The incredible findings show Nazi officials recruited so-called educated dogs from all over Germany and trained them to speak and tap out signals using their paws.

One mutt was said to have uttered the words 'Mein Fuhrer' when asked who Adolf Hitler was. Another 'spoke' by tapping letters of the alphabet with his paws and was said to have speculated about religion and learnt poetry. The Germans hoped to use the animals for the war effort, such as getting them to work alongside the SS and guard concentration camps to free up officers.

The bizarre 'Wooffan SS' experiment has come to light after years of painstaking research by academic Dr Jan Bondeson into unique and amazing dogs in history. Dr Bonderson, from Cardiff University, visited Berlin to scour obscure periodicals to build up a bizarre - but true - account of Nazi ideas.

Hitler was a well-known dog lover and had two German Shepherds, called Blondi and Bella. He famously killed Blondi moments before committing suicide in his bunker in 1945. The evil dictator was said to have been keen to use dogs for the war effort and supported the dog school which was called the Tier-Sprechschule ASRA. The school, based in Leutenburg near Hannover and led by headmistress Margarethe Schmitt, was set up in the 1930s and continued throughout the war years. It was reported to have had some success, with dogs tapping out words with their paws. Some of them were able to imitate the human voice and one, when asked who Adolf Hitler was, is said to have replied 'Mein Fuhrer'. 

The forerunner of them all was Rolf, an Airedale terrier who 'spoke' through tapping his paw against a board, each letter of the alphabet being represented by a certain number of taps. He was said to have speculated about religion, learnt foreign languages, wrote poetry and asked a visiting noblewoman 'could you wag your tail?' The patriotic German dog even expressed a wish to join the army, because he disliked the French. Another dog, a Dachschund named Kurwenal, even received a visit from a troop of 28 uniformed youths from the Nazi animalprotection organisation on his birthday. He was said to speak using a different number of barks for each letter, and told his biographer he would be voting for Hindenburg. Another dog, a German pointer named Don, went one step further - imitating a human voice to bark "Hungry! Give me cakes", in German.

The incredible story of Germany's educated dogs has now been revealed in full by Dr Bondeson, a senior lecturer at Cardiff University in his book "Amazing Dogs: A Cabinet of Canine Curiosities." He said: "It is absolutely extraordinary stuff.

"In the 1920s, Germany had numerous 'new animal psychologists' who believed dogs were nearly as intelligent as humans, and capable of abstract thinking and communication.

"When the Nazi party took over, one might have thought they would be building concentration camps to lock these fanatics up, but instead they were actually very interested in their ideas.

"Part of the Nazi philosophy was that there was a strong bond between humans and nature - they believed a good Nazi should be an animal friend.

"Indeed, when they started interning Jews, the newspapers were flooded with outraged letters from Germans wondering what had happened to the pets they left behind.

"Hitler himself was praised for his attitude to animals and Goering was a forerunner of animal protection. They seemed to think nothing of human rights, but lots about animal rights.

"There were some very strange experiments going on in wartime Germany, with regard to dog-human communication.

"Nazi animal psychologists worked with the educated dogs, and there was even a school to teach animals to communicate, with dogs supplied by the office of the Reichsführer-SS.

"My guess would be that they were intended to work with the SS or be used as guard dogs in concentration camps.

"Hitler was himself interested in the prospect of using educated dogs in the war effort, and he advised representatives of the German army to study their usefulness in the field.

"Still, it appears to have been very early days - there is no evidence it ever actually came to fruition and that the SS were walking around with talking dogs. 

"It is really remarkable and fascinating insight into a hitherto unknown facet of Nazi Germany."

Dr Bondeson's book, Amazing Dogs: A Cabinet of Canine Curiosities, also includes chapters on acting dogs, travelling dogs, turnspit dogs, holy dogs and exceptionally faithful dogs. It has been published by Amberley Publishing in Britain and the Cornell University Press in the US and costs 20 pounds. 

The Telegraph

Psicodrama en Cannes: "Yo entiendo a Hitler"

El certamen se plantea expulsar a Von Trier por sus palabras durante la presentación de 'Melancholia'

La gran tortilla del festival de cine más colosal del planeta dio la vuelta y acabó como las malas tortillas, requemada y dejando detrás un temible olor a chamusquina. A chamusquina huelen casi todas las comparecencias públicas de Lars von Trier (Copenhague, 1956), alguien de -por lo menos- tanta diarrea lenguaraz como estatura artística. Es decir que, además de un cineasta repleto de talento y dueño de un universo estético personal e intransferible (no hay más que contemplar su última maravilla, Melancholia), es un mimo, un bufón, vamos a atrevernos a decir que un payaso. Cannes lo sabe bien y siempre se ha reído mucho con las ocurrencias del personaje. Hasta ayer. Porque ayer, en Cannes, Lars von Trier soltó la gracia suprema: "La verdad es que entiendo a Hitler".

Transcurría la rueda de prensa -ante cerca de 300 periodistas y las cámaras de televisión de todo el mundo- entre ese estudiado aroma a esperpento que el director de Bailar en la oscuridad (Palma de Oro en Cannes en 2000), y uno de los niños mimados del certamen, imprime a sus performances. Como cuando, hace dos años y al defender su película Anticristo, que había puesto patas arriba Cannes por sus escenas de extrema dureza sexual y física, se autodeclaró "el mejor director del mundo".

Pero ayer, de pronto, los periodistas, el moderador de la mesa y sobre todo la actriz Kirsten Dunst, una de las dos protagonistas de Melancholia junto a Charlotte Gainsbourg, se quedaron petrificados. Una periodista acababa de preguntar al director por sus orígenes alemanes y por sus recientes declaraciones a una revista danesa en las que admitía que le gustaba la estética nazi. Hasta ahí, ningún problema: los abrigos y las botas de los chacales nazis eran, para qué negarlo, arrebatadoramente bonitos. Pero de repente, poniendo su eterna cara de tipo incrustado en otra dimensión, la soltó. La frase del día. "Entiendo a Hitler". Y se animó. Soltó otra perla: "No puede decirse que fuera un tipo estupendo... pero me cae simpático". Y, embalado, otra: "Bueno, no estoy a favor de la II Guerra Mundial y estoy a favor de los judíos... aunque no demasiado, porque Israel es un grano en el culo…". Los periodistas tomaban notas y grababan, Kirsten Dunst miraba -por detrás de Von Trier- a su compañera de reparto Charlotte Gainsbourg y en sus labios podía leerse como un mantra: "Oh, my God, oh my God" ("oh, Dios mío, oh Dios mío"). También hubo en la sala risas forzadas y algún grito de recriminación.

El salfumán vomitado por el inventor del movimiento experimental Dogma recorrió no solo las terrazas y restaurantes de La Croisette y los pasillos y salones del Palacio de Festivales, sino los teletipos y las webs de todo el mundo. Las televisiones francesas se pasaron toda la tarde repitiendo las palabras de Von Trier y haciendo todo tipo de valoraciones.

De repente, era como si de verdad se hubiera producido ese anunciado choque de planetas que sirve de telón de fondo a la película Melancholia.

Ya por la tarde se supo que los responsables del Festival de Cannes, con su delegado general Thierry Frémaux a la cabeza, habían mostrado su rechazo a las palabras de Lars von Trier y le habían pedido que se disculpara. Cosa que hizo en forma de un comunicado en estos términos: "Si he podido herir a alguien con las palabras que he pronunciado esta mañana, pido sinceramente disculpas por ello; no soy ni antisemita, ni racista, ni nazi". Pero la dirección no se contentó con ello. Ayer subrayaba que "de ninguna forma el Festival de Cannes puede ser el escenario de semejantes declaraciones" y hoy estudiará si adopta una decisión más radical, como sería expulsar al director danés de la sección oficial, informa Gregorio Belinchón.

Hay que recordar que, en Francia, existe desde 1982 (y modificado por las leyes de 2000 y 2004) un delito tipificado como "incitación al odio racial", y que puede resultar castigado con 45.000 euros de multa y hasta cinco años de cárcel. Uno de los párrafos de ese texto legal se refiere a quien, en un lugar público, "haga apología de crímenes de guerra o de crímenes contra la humanidad". Otro párrafo alude a "quienes provoquen la discriminación, el odio o la violencia en relación a una persona o grupo de personas en razón de su origen o su pertenencia o no pertenencia a una etnia, una nación, una raza o una religión determinada". También hay que recordar que fue en virtud de esa misma figura legal que el exdiseñador estrella de la casa Christian Dior, John Galliano, tiene por delante un juicio por declaraciones racistas, proferidas en un bar de París el pasado mes de febrero. Si ayer a un juez de guardia de Cannes le hubiera dado por actuar con la misma firmeza, Lars von Trier podría haber dormido esta pasada noche entre rejas. Quizá por eso -al margen de otras consideraciones- el delegado general del festival se apresuró a arrancar del director el correspondiente mea culpa y parar así el espinoso affaire que muy bien podría titularse ¡Heil, Trier!

ELPAIS.COM