The
dispute between Poles and Jews about the Nazi period can
move in unsettling directions, ones that make an unhealed
wound hurt even worse. Perceived insults, like President
Barack Obama’s recent reference to “Polish concentration
camps,” are seen by right-wing Poles as part of a plot to
blacken their country’s name in the West. Some on the Polish
right are also quick to argue that Poles who assisted the
Nazis in anti-Jewish actions, or who slaughtered Jews on
their own initiative (such pogroms occurred both during and
just after the war), acted from understandable motives: After
all, Jewish “treachery” had handed their country to the Bolsheviks.
But the treachery is a fiction. Polish Jews were overwhelmingly
anti-Communist, and the Soviets deported many of them.
The Polish role in the Holocaust had other roots, darker ones: traditional anti-Semitism
and the greedy desire for Jewish property. When the historian
Jan Gross in his books Neighbors and Fear (and, most recently,
Golden Harvest, written with Irena Grudzinska Gross) charged
his fellow Poles with aiding the Nazi genocide and profiting
from the death of the Jews in their midst, he wanted them
to mourn the vanished Jewish lives they had known so well,
to come to terms with their guilt, since many of them had
been indifferent or complicit or satisfied in the face of
the Shoah. Instead, Lech Walesa, the hero of Solidarity and
former president of Poland, called Gross “a mediocre writer
… a Jew who tries to make money.” (Gross’ father was Jewish.)
When Gross, who teaches at Princeton, returns to his native
Poland, he has to contend with public prosecutors who, a
few years ago, threatened to take him to court for “slandering
the Polish nation.” His fellow historian Jan Grabowski says
that Gross demolished the myth of Polish innocence by focusing on the reaction of Poles to the murder of 3 million
of their fellow citizens, a reaction that was often craven,
money-hungry, and cruel. “He was the one who brought this
stinking mess into the open, single-handedly,” Grabowski
remarks.
Enter Timothy Snyder.
The Yale historian’s Bloodlands: Europe
Between Hitler and Stalin—hailed by Antony Beevor when it
appeared in 2010 as “the most important work of history for
years”—is grim and magisterial; it puts together the tragedy
of the Holocaust with earlier mass murders in the regions
that Snyder christens the “bloodlands” (Lithuania, Latvia,
Byelorussia, Poland, and Ukraine). Snyder begins with the
terrible famine that Stalin inflicted on Ukraine (more than
3 million dead); he goes on to the Great Terror, in which
700,000 died, including many Poles; and he writes movingly
of the 3 million Soviet prisoners of war whom the Nazis starved
to death, many of them in Byelorussian camps that were little
more than barbed wire strung around masses of helpless, doomed
POWs.
Like Gross, Snyder seeks to explain
the actions of the non-Jews of Eastern Europe, the nearest
bystanders to the Holocaust. But unlike Gross, he demands
no conscience-searching from Eastern Europeans. Snyder points
out that the Soviets and the Germans had ravaged the countries
of the bloodlands, whose loss of sovereignty led to social
chaos, hunger, threats of death, and deportation. Suddenly,
Poles, Ukrainians, and others realized there was a starkly
unavoidable presence in their midst, the German desire to
kill Jews. It should not be a surprise, Snyder argues, that,
by and large, they had little empathy for the Jews. Neither
did we Americans, and we were thousands of miles away from
Hitler and Stalin. The great debate between Snyder and Gross
is a key juncture in the politics of memory in Eastern Europe
and a test case for our efforts to understand what the Nazi
extermination of the Jews meant to the part of the world
where it happened.
***
I recently met Snyder for coffee in
New Haven’s Blue State Café. Excited and nervous, he was
anticipating the birth of his second child, due within days
of our meeting. When he saw me he quickly folded his newspaper,
and we launched, without throat-clearing, into our inescapable
theme: mass murder. Snyder has the look of a hard-worked
scholar on the brink of middle age—not unfriendly, but with
a certain wariness about being misread; he seemed tired but
in conversation was alert and careful. This fall, he said,
he is preparing to teach a course solely about the destruction
of the Jews and is writing a book on the causes of the Holocaust. Although Bloodlands describes an array of Nazi and Soviet mass murders, its secret,
as every reader discovers, is that it turns out to be a
book about the Holocaust. Why the Shoah is the inevitable
end point of the story that Bloodlands tells is a question
that Snyder elicits without fully answering: The Holocaust
stands out because it is the most developed instance of
genocide. Every single Jew was marked down for murder,
with the goal of making the Jewish nation vanish forever
from the earth, and the German state devoted its best resources
to this end. The disappearance of the Jews became an absolute
priority; this was not true of the Roma and Sinti, or the
Soviet POWs, or the Ukrainians under Stalin, who suffered
just as the Jews did, but whose fate did not carry the
same symbolic weight.
The utopian, absurd idea that getting rid of Jews means liberating non-Jewish
humanity points to the central, though hidden, role that
Jews played in the Nazi imagination. Jews, the people of
the Ten Commandments, were the incarnations of conscience;
their presence on the earth reminded humanity of the difference
between good and evil, right and wrong. No other genocide
took on such a task: the redemption of the world from the
disease of conscience. The victims of Stalin and Mao died
just like Hitler’s, but their deaths weren’t intended to
have the world-altering significance that the annihilation
of the Jews had for the Nazis.
Unusually for a historian in his
field, Snyder—who is from small-town southwestern Ohio,
where his family has lived for two centuries—has no Jewish
and no Eastern-European ancestry. “I grew up as an American
kid with no connection to any of these places,” he told
me. In college in the late 1980s, he said, “I thought I
was going to grow up and become a diplomat and negotiate
nuclear arms,” but with the fall of the Soviet Union, he
veered toward Eastern European studies, where he discovered
high-voltage connections between intellectual life, politics,
and national identity and learned to speak Polish and Ukrainian.
While Snyder never planned to
become a Holocaust historian, it appears that he may now
be turning into one. In 2008, he wrote a masterful essay
on the Shoah in Volhynia, integrating survivor testimony
with a measured account of the roles that Germans and Ukrainians
played in the killing of Jews. In Volhynia, Snyder wrote,
Jews were in greater danger from Ukrainian nationalists
than they were from Germans. “Many gentiles came to see
the murder of Jews as corresponding to their personal economic
interests,” he explained. He ended his essay with a haunting
passage that he later incorporated into Bloodlands, in
which he recounted the inscriptions scrawled on the walls
of the synagogue in Kovel. Here, where 12,000 Jews awaited
certain death, they wrote their parting messages, nearly
unbearable for the reader (“My beloved mama! There was
no escape. They brought us here from outside the ghetto,
and now we must die a terrible death. … We kiss you over
and over.”). tabletmag.com
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