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Many of the people who chose to stay in Berlin sought relief from the pressures of steady bombardment by attending cultural events, which remained surprisingly plentiful despite the growing destruction of concert halls, theaters, and cinemas, and the loss of performers to the Wehrmacht or to bombs. It was a testament to the strength of Berlin’s cultural heritage—but also to the Nazis’ continuing determination to exploit culture for their own political ends—that the city’s offerings stayed so rich.

The State Opera, which had been wrecked in an air raid in early 1941, was hastily rebuilt on Hitler’s orders as a matter of public urgency. Wilhelm Furtwängler conducted Wagner’s Meistersinger at the gala reopening on December 12, 1941. To his credit, however, the maestro refused to participate in a Goebbels-sponsored propaganda film about the Berlin Philharmonic entitled Sinfonie und Liebe (Symphony and Love). The film claimed that the Nazis alone had made the Philharmonic great, predictably failing to mention any of the Jewish musicians and conductors who in reality had helped to make the orchestra the dominant institution it was.

Furtwängler’s bitter rival, Herbert von Karajan, who was kept from the draft on orders from Goebbels, conducted free concerts for wounded soldiers and arms workers with the State Opera orchestra during the 1942/43 season. Over Furtwängler’s objections, these performances took place at the Philharmonie on Potsdamer Platz. Although the building was severely damaged by bombs in late 1943, the Philharmonic continued to perform there until January 1945, when further raids destroyed it entirely. Shortly after the Philharmonie was reduced to rubble, the State Opera was wrecked for the second time. Karajan was forced to move to the Beethovensaal, giving his last performance there on February 18, 1945. At that moment he had a visa for Milan in his pocket, which he used to escape the Nazi capital during its final weeks of agony.

In the interest of maintaining morale, the Nazis allowed a number of nightclubs to stay open that featured that officially despised music—jazz. However, only the most dedicated enthusiasts braved the frequent blackouts and bad liquor that were an inevitable part of the wartime jazz scene in the German capital. On the positive side, increasing losses of native musicians to conscription mandated the importation of superior foreign players from the conquered countries and fascist Italy. The Italian tenor sax player Tulio Mobiglia led a hot sextet at the Patria and Posita bars. Berliners could also hear jazz over foreign radio, which they listened to despite an official prohibition. (Cleverly, the British mixed jazz segments with their news broadcasts to Germany.) As he had in the mid-1930s, Goebbels encouraged German stations to play “rhythmic dance music” on the air to combat the influence of the foreign programs. He explained his tolerance for this music by saying that “at war, we need a people that has managed to preserve its good humor.” In an effort to provide reliable artistic content for these broadcasts, the regime authorized a new German-style swing orchestra on the model of the defunct Golden Seven. Inaugurated in early 1942, the German Dance and Entertainment Orchestra (Das Deutsche 348 Tanz-und Unterhaltungsorchester, DTU) recruited its players from the best remaining jazz musicians in Germany. The band was based at Berlin’s Delphi-Palast, where it gave occasional concerts, but mainly it provided musical fodder for radio broadcasts. Like the Golden Seven, the DTU was forced to wear an artistic straitjacket, all the tighter now because of the war. Improvising was out, as were all American tunes.