Donald Trump is not the first authoritarian to come into possession of a Nobel medal that wasn’t intended for him. In 1943, Norwegian novelist Knut Hamsun sent his Nobel Prize for Literature to Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels, a gesture meant to secure a private audience with Adolf Hitler.

Although Hamsun was infamous during World War II and its aftermath, most Americans likely know little about the author. It has taken Trump’s lust for the Nobel Peace Prize — something like Gollum’s slobbering obsession with the “precious” gold ring — to cast fresh light on the Norwegian novelist.

Hamsun occupies a place in history similar to Hitler’s filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl: a genuine artistic innovator who fell under the spell of der Führer and paid for it later in life.

Born to a poor rural family in 1859, Hamsun began writing in his teens. Over his long career he produced more than two dozen novels, along with poetry, short stories and nonfiction. His influence was enormous — Isaac Bashevis Singer once called him the father of modern literature, and his psychological style has often been compared to Franz Kafka’s.

Hamsun vaulted to fame at age 30 with the 1890 publication of the semiautobiographical novel Hunger. He won the 1920 Nobel Prize in Literature for Growth of the Soil, which the Nobel Committee said “aroused the liveliest interest in many countries and has found favorable reception with the most diverse groups of readers.” Those readers included fascists.

Hamsun was a passionate admirer of Germany and of the Nazis’ ideas about Teutonic purity. The admiration was mutual. German critics praised Growth of the Soil for its portrayal of a mystical connection between people and the land — a theme the Nazis eagerly embraced.

During Germany’s 1940–45 occupation of Norway, Hamsun supported the Nazi-installed government of Vidkun Quisling. His devotion to Hitler was so great that he parted with his 18-carat gold Nobel medal, sending it to Goebbels in hopes that it would earn him a personal meeting with the Führer.

It did. But the audience did not unfold as Hamsun hoped. Although he supported the occupation, he objected to some of its harsher measures, including executions. He hoped to persuade Hitler to soften the regime’s policies. The meeting — retold in a 2005 New Yorker article titled “In From the Cold” — took place June 26, 1943, at Hitler’s retreat in the Bavarian Alps. According to the article, as the two men took tea in Hitler’s study, the conversation turned tense when Hamsun urged Hitler to fire Josef Terboven, the Reich Commissioner for Norway. Hitler rebuffed him, saying, “The Reich Commissioner is a warrior; he’s only there for war-related duties.”

Hitler did not bother to say goodbye when Hamsun left and later snapped at his aides: “I don’t want to see that sort of person here anymore.”

The unpleasant encounter did little to dampen Hamsun’s admiration for the Nazi leader. On May 7, 1945, a collaborationist newspaper published Hamsun’s obituary for Hitler, in which he wrote: “He was a warrior, a warrior for mankind, and a prophet of the gospel of justice for all nations.”

After the war, thousands of Norwegian collaborators were arrested and put on trial — including Hamsun. By then he was 86, and his age, along with his stature as Norway’s most celebrated novelist, worked in his favor. While 40 collaborators were executed, including Quisling, Hamsun received a fine of 325,000 kroner, reduced from 575,000.

Hamsun died on Feb. 19, 1952, at age 92.

As for the Nobel medal he sent to Goebbels — it vanished. No one knows what became of it.

Which brings us to Donald Trump and his pre-owned Nobel.

Hitler had no shame in accepting lavish gifts from industrialists, world leaders, and others who arrived in Berlin seeking favor. But Hitler might well be impressed with Donald Trump’s collection during his second term — a glittering haul accumulated on trips to the Middle East and during visits to the White House by foreign dignitaries and sycophantic American business executives.

Size-wise, nothing comes close to the 747 provided by Qatar. And knowing the way to Trump’s heart, Benjamin Netanyahu personally presented him with a letter that the Israeli leader had sent nominating him for the Nobel Peace Prize. FIFA, the world soccer federation, went so far as to create its own peace prize for the American president.

Trump kept pressing his case that he deserved the Nobel prize, sometimes aided by foreign allies who publicly insisted that he, more than anyone else, merited the honor. But the Nobel Committee never budged.

A workaround presented itself in the person of María Corina Machado, the Venezuelan opposition leader who had been awarded the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize for her role in resisting Nicolás Maduro’s dictatorship. Machado, desperate for Trump’s backing as Venezuela enters a volatile transition, made a calculation as stark as Hamsun’s in 1943. She handed Trump her Nobel medal in the hope that the gesture would secure her political survival.

Still smoldering over being snubbed by the Nobel Committee for a Peace Prize of his own, Trump lashed out in familiar ways — threatening to use military force to take control of Greenland and to slap heavy new tariffs on European allies. Those threats eventually fizzled after Europe dug in its heels, but the resentment never did.

It’s unlikely America’s Gollum will abandon the quest for his own golden “precious,” one with his name engraved on it. With the inauguration of Trump’s new “Board of Peace,” he may have convinced himself he’s found a fresh path to Oslo. The board — made up of foreign governments invited by Trump — is billed as a vehicle for resolving global conflicts.  Permanent membership is offered to those that contribute more than $1 billion. As chairman, Trump would be in a position to steer the board however he wishes.

If the “Board of Peace” doesn’t help him finally secure a gold Nobel medallion, it may still serve another purpose: expanding his already considerable wealth.

Luxury condos on the Gaza waterfront, anyone?

 

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