write this piece having just returned from a fascinating lecture by Bernard Wasserstein, a prominent history professor emeritus here at the University of Chicago. The lecture roughly corresponded to a recent book of Wasserstein’s, “The Ambiguity of Virtue: Gertrude van Tijn and the Fate of the Dutch Jews.” Unsurprisingly, Wasserstein discussed the story of Gertrude van Tijn, a German-born Jewish woman, who lived in Amsterdam throughout the war and worked substantially with the Dutch Jewish Council where she attempted, by any means she could, to save as many Jewish lives as possible. She even turned-down several opportunities to emigrate from the Nazi-occupied Netherlands, feeling, it would seem, that she had the greatest opportunity to do the most good, and save the most lives if she remained, as it were, in the shadow of her enemies. Ultimately, this led her to Bergen-Belsen, (which she survived. She lived the rest of her life, until 1974, in the U.S.). Wasserstein mentioned at the end of the lecture that thinking about van Tijn is an exercise in considering what people do when pushed to extreme moral situations.
Sitting and listening to this lecture reminded me of an internal conversation I’ve been having since the beginning of this grading quarter, or, since I started taking a class about Israeli Holocaust Literature, which causes me to think about the Holocaust on a regular basis. For a long time, in an attempt to try to understand the Holocaust, even as I traveled to various Holocaust sites with the non-profit organization Classrooms Without Borders, I’ve tried to put myself in the shoes of the victims, to see what it would feel like (even though I ultimately believe that fully doing so is impossible).
I think it has been easier for me to consider things from the vantage point of a Jewish victim of the Holocaust than from any other stance for several reasons. One is that I, as a Jew, feel an emotional tie with the Jewish victims, feeling on some level that we are kin, whether we actually are not. Further, with some exceptions—like the various Jewish councils, Judenrats, and even van Tijn herself—I think it’s easier for me to put myself in the shoes of the victims because there’s seemingly less moral ambiguity in that role. Considering it now, I realize this is untrue—the more I learn about the Holocaust the more I realize that the everyday acts necessary for survival in the camps or ghettos were also morally ambiguous. Admittedly, this makes it harder to put myself in this position, reinforcing my assertion that this is ultimately an impossible task. Any of the moral ambiguities of a victim, however, still seem to me to pale in comparison to those of a bystander or even a German solider. Recently, I’ve been trying to picture myself in those positions too, trying to see the catastrophe from a different angle.
I’d like to think that if I were in the position of a bystander I’d try to help the victims in whatever way I could. I’d like to think that I would attempt to hide those persecuted or marked for death in my basement, or to help people in a ghetto to get food or medicine. I’d like to think that I’d do that, and I know that that is how my ethical values, at least theoretically, instruct me to act. I know that that’s how my parents raised me to act. I’d like to think, too, that if I somehow ended up a part of the Nazi military machine, by conscription or otherwise, I’d do everything I could to take it down. Or that I’d be like the character Captain Wilm Hosenfeld in the biographical film The Pianist, who helps the Jewish character Wladek Szpilman hide in a building his unit is using as headquarters, despite his military loyalties.
I’d like to think I’d act like this, but I just don’t know if I would. I examine my reactions to various social justice causes, and admit that, while there are a lot that I do get involved with, there are so many that I don’t, out of limited resources and inconveniences. Furthermore, I know that there have been times when I’ve faced small-scale moral ambiguities, such as a friend putting down another classmate. Several times when this happened in high school, I did stand up to my peers, and I remember one time in particular this practice caused me to have a falling out with one of my closest friends. As a shy and insecure high schooler without many people I trusted, this caused a wave of depression to crash over me, one from which I felt I would never recover. But I did. Though my friend and I eventually reconciled, this situation has still made me think twice before immediately rushing to someone’s defense, lest I lose an important friend.
Most of the time, I’m able to overcome this fear and act according to my values, but it still lurks every time I have to make that decision. Sometimes it sways me in the wrong direction. I have to wonder: were my fear much greater, were it not just one relationship at stake, but my life, the lives of my family, or the lives of my friends, would I have the strength to stand up for my moral principles in order to save one life that does not deserve to die? I hope that I would. But I don’t think it’s possible to know for sure without being in that situation. Just as I cannot know what being a survivor would feel like, I cannot know how I would act were I in the position of a bystander or perpetrator. I suppose all I can do is try to find strength to overcome my fears and follow my values for the small-scale moral ambiguities I occasionally face, in the hopes that, if I ever were to face an extreme one, I’d be able to make the right decision. But I do not and cannot know whether my character is strong enough for that scenario. All I can do is try to be strong enough now. And to thank God that I have not had to face my own moral ambiguities in that way.
Dani Plung is a student at the University of Chicago.
