The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness

by Simon Wiesenthal

  Not saying these words, Simon performed an act of charity toward Karl. And he showed solidarity with himself by not giving away more than what he had to give away. He did not treat the man as a monster who had committed monstrous deeds. Rather, he honored the humanity of a man who had lost his humaneness.

  Can we, indeed, advocate forgiveness toward those who have committed crimes against humanity? Should we not warn those who contemplate evil acts that there will be no mercy even on their deathbeds should they give in to the seduction of killing? The consequences of participating in genocidal acts must include dying with a guilty conscience.

  Such a warning could be meaningful to those teetering between good and evil and to those who insinuate that survivors be nobler than they can afford to be. We must stop dictating moral postures to the survivors. The opposite of not forgiving is neither cruelty, nor wallowing. It is a way of healing and honoring our pain and grief.

  Simon Wiesenthal should not be troubled by those who are unable to forgive him for having acted out of a choiceless choice. It is all too easy to invoke Judeo-Christian ethics on behalf of forgiveness from the distance of mundane everyday life. Reading such moral verdicts makes me wonder how some could advocate that Simon forgive the dying Nazi in the same breath as they were judging Simon. Simon himself seemed to believe that forgiveness was an option. Is it out of his desperate effort to stay clean in a morally soiled world? Does he have to be better than human?

  I am familiar with Simon's predicament. In my book Broken Silence: Dialogues from the Edge, I chronicled how a Nazi detective bartered the sanctity of my aunt Sari's womb in exchange for our lives. When Sari realized that she was carrying his child, she told him: “You either save our lives or I'll take your unborn child to its death.” Reluctantly, he hid us. Why don't I have an ounce of spiritual largesse toward this ravisher of innocence who bartered human lives for his own pleasure? His acts evoke only rage whenever I think of the price he exacted from my aunt in order to save the lives of four children and two mothers. Many upon reading this tragic instance of heroism and self-sacrifice, raised their voices against my aunt: “She had no right to buy your survival at that price.” Like so many, my aunt's “judges” stayed riveted on the moral stance of the victim.

  I do not know what I would have done in Simon's place. His decision to remain silent makes sense to me as a moral victory achieved by the “subhuman” victim. After all the dehumanization, he still had an operating moral stance from which he was able to exercise an option: he refused to play in this macabre game.

  I am not at peace with Simon's decision to let Karl's mother believe in her son's immaculate goodness. Simon had a responsibility toward past and future victims to tell her the truth. And Karl's mother had the responsibility of rising above her personal pain and telling the world what her son had done. She could have warned parents about the need to convince their children to opt against evil. By remaining silent and scared, she must take some of the burden of a guilty collective conscience. We must not forget that millions were murdered by a nation of good sons. Every woman who doggedly holds on to a pristine moral image of her son is a collaborator in his crime.

  We must, therefore, let go of emotionally based conventional morality concerning the age of perpetrators and their parents. To invoke Karl's youth and his mother's advanced age is morally sloppy. The magnitude of the crime and the broad popular participation in it allows no consideration other than the welfare of the survivors, the sacredness of the victims’ memory, and the prevention of future genocides. The voice of an honestly repentant mother of a dead SS murderer would have great credibility. Karl's parents are not guilt-free in his joining the SS. And by keeping the truth under cover, Simon enabled Karl's mother to live a nasty lie. As a child survivor of the Holocaust who lost sixty-two relatives to “nice boys who wouldn't hurt a fly,” I feel indignant about this version of the conspiracy of silence.

  NECHAMA TEC

  Right after I read The Sunflower I felt that were I in Wiesenthal's place I would not have absolved the dying SS man of his heinous crimes. I knew, almost intuitively, that for me forgiveness was not an option.

  My private, emotional reaction was followed by a flood of arguments. Competing for my attention, collectively and singly, they advocated varied possibilities, different explanations, and diverse justifications. This avalanche of ideas led to the realization that I ought to move beyond my initial refusal to forgive. I recognized the complexity of the situation. I also knew that my final answer would be influenced both by my own past and present social settings. Could I, a Holocaust survivor, who during the Nazi occupation spent several years in a ghetto and who for about three years was passing for a Catholic, put myself in Wiesenthal's position? To what extent can I anticipate how I would have acted in his place? Without experiencing the concentration camp's horrors, can I truly imagine myself in a concentration camp where life and death were so precariously intertwined?

  I have been exposed to the issue of forgiveness. When lecturing about the Holocaust I am sometimes asked how I feel about the Germans. Occasionally, among these queries, a question slips in about forgiveness. Some of my listeners, particularly the younger ones, ask if I have forgiven those who had committed the crimes against Jews.

  Recently a BBC reporter, who had interviewed me for a radio and television program, wanted to know if I thought that Jews in general and the British courts in particular should give up prosecuting those who have committed crimes against the Jewish people. After all, he argued, these crimes had happened so long ago. Besides, now those who had committed these crimes are old and in poor health. Shouldn't the authorities stop bothering these fragile, old people and forgive them their past transgressions? The reporter raised these questions with a specific man in mind. The man, now eighty-four, lives in Great Britain. During World War II, as a Belorussian chief of police, he willingly participated in the mass murder of Jews. Only recently did he come to the attention of the English authorities, who decided to try him in court. The BBC man wanted to know if I would support the release of the man; after all, the man was old and weak and had only a few years to live.

  My clear-cut no was followed by an explanation. First, as human beings we ought to anticipate the consequences of our actions and take personal responsibility for them. Second, and more importantly, I have no right to forgive crimes committed against others. Only those who were harmed, in this case the murdered Jews, have a right to forgive, not I.

  In line with this reasoning, I would not have forgiven the dying SS man for his crimes. I would not have forgiven because I have no right to forgive.

  By no means original, my sentiments are echoed by several concentration camp inmates whom Wiesenthal consulted at the time. One of them, Josek, said: “…what he [the SS man] has done to other people you are in no position to forgive” (p. 65). Another friend, Arthur, elaborates on the theme: “A superman has asked a subhuman to do something which is superhuman. If you had forgiven him, you would never have forgiven yourself all your life” (p. 66). Another friend, a Catholic Pole, independently came to the same conclusion when he says: “you can only forgive a wrong that has been done to yourself” (p. 81). Finally, despite his many doubts, Wiesenthal thinks that “forgiveness is an act of volition, and only the sufferer is qualified to make the decision” (p. 98). And yet, after Wiesenthal had made this statement, he again seems to question his decision when he asks the reader to reconsider the situation and come up with his or her own decision.

  Having repeated what I think I would have done, I am reluctant to let the issue rest. I am eager to know more and understand better the context of Wiesenthal's reactions, reactions which go beyond the act of not forgiving. How did this strange encounter proceed? How should we now from a distance of time, place, and experience evaluate Wiesenthal's reaction?

  The request for forgiveness was delivered by a man who was guilty of horrible crimes. On his deathbed, the man was suffering both physically and emotional
ly and thought that his suffering would be alleviated by forgiveness. There is no evidence that, after the man had committed the crimes which bothered his conscience, he had stopped committing other crimes or would have done so in the future. Wiesenthal seems to suggest that the SS man's guilt feelings were brought on only by his approaching death. The guilt that he had experienced about the murder of a Jewish family does not seem to include the Jews in general. Nor does he show any compassion for the Jewish prisoner who stands before him. In itself the fact that the SS man wanted a Jew to absolve him from his past crimes shows an insensitivity to the Jewish plight. The dying man burdens the Jew with a request that he knows is unreasonable.

  Selfish, self-centered, the dying Nazi dwells on his own personal suffering. Feeling utterly sorry for himself, he says: “…those Jews died quickly, they did not suffer as I do—though they were not as guilty as I am” (p. 52). He does not even see that the Jews he murdered were innocent victims, guilty of no transgression at all. Even on his deathbed he seems to be denying to the Jews their humanity. And it is the man's self-indulgence which propels him to impose an additional burden on a concentration camp inmate who is sentenced to death. The Nazi knows that his request causes pain to his helpless listener. He says: “I know that what I am asking is almost too much for you but without your answer I cannot die in peace” (p. 54).

  Wiesenthal knows that the dying man feels sorry for himself and that he was filled with self-pity. He remarks: “He sought my pity, but had he any right to pity? Did a man of his kind deserve anybody's pity? Did he think he would find pity if he pitied himself…” (p. 52).

  The SS man's self-pity might have blinded him to the needs of others. He fails to consider the needs of the Jew who is in front of him and with whom he wants to share his most intimate longings. Indeed, he does not even want to know who the Jew is. The Nazi is well aware of this fact, when he says: “I do not know who you are, I only know that you are a Jew and that is enough” (p. 54). But why should only Simon's Jewishness matter? Because the SS man does not see his listener as an individual, as a person. He only sees him as a Jew, a representative of all the Jews, of a mass, of a race, but not as a human being. Perhaps for this Nazi all Jews are the same, their individuality is of no consequence. This attitude fits the Nazi ideology which defines all Jews as inferior beings, as nonhumans.

  Wiesenthal was reluctant to remain with this dying man. He wanted to get away soon after he had come. But he stayed on. He explains: “All my instincts were against continuing to listen to this deathbed disavowal. I wanted to get away. The dying man must have felt this…for he groped for my arm. The movement was so pathetically helpless that all of a sudden I felt sorry for him. I would stay, although I wanted to go” (p. 35).

  Although the dying man knew that the prisoner wanted to leave he insisted that he stay. But not once did the German apologize for this imposition. Insensitive to the needs of others, the Nazi was engrossed in his own wants. Perhaps were the SS man not as dominated by self-pity, he might have considered other options. He might have truly repented by trying to do something for others. If he were less self-centered he might have considered calling to his bedside a high-ranking SS officer. To this superior he might have pointed out how reprehensible the murder of the Jews was. He might have pleaded with other Germans, who were healthy and active, to desist from slaughtering innocent people. In short, instead of burdening the Jewish prisoner with tales about his cruel crimes he might have used the time for making an effort to prevent some future crimes. But he did none of this. Instead, he seemed to be competing with Jewish suffering when he insisted that they suffered less while dying than he did.

  The fact that the suffering of the Jews was inflicted by him and people like him the Nazi chose to ignore. He ignored the plight of the Jews because he was trained to treat them a certain way. Even on his deathbed he did not give up the racial ideologies which became a part of his very being. To the exclusion of everything else, the SS man was concerned with his own suffering, with his soul, with his peace of mind, and with his possible salvation. But what of his possible salvation? Would his confession to an anonymous Jew, divorced from the context of his crime, be more effective than true heartfelt remorse expressed to his own God?

  And how did the Jewish prisoner behave? Although Wiesenthal wanted to leave, he stayed. I am amazed at his moral strength, which he seemed to retain even though he was surrounded by physical and moral deterioration. It is to Wiesenthal's credit that he was able to consider forgiveness as an option.

  Forgiveness is not a simple, discrete act. Forgiveness is a variable with many gradations. It may be attached to different degrees of approval. Just as forgiveness, non-forgiveness may come in a variety of shadings. In Wiesenthal's case his refusal to forgive came with silence.

  Wiesenthal thinks that silence may mean different things. I agree. I also agree that silence can be more eloquent than words. Having commented on the different attributes of silence Wiesenthal asks: “Was my silence at the bedside of the dying Nazi right or wrong?” (p. 97). But Wiesenthal does not say what a right or wrong silence means. We are told only indirectly that Wiesenthal's silence at the bed of the dying SS man conveyed a lack of forgiveness. This is a negative definition. What other message might his silence have carried? What besides lack of forgiveness did Wiesenthal want to convey? Did his silence contain a measure of compassion? Perhaps, for the injured SS man had the opportunity to be heard.

  Yet, by refusing to forgive, he thought that he failed to give comfort to a dying man. And because Wiesenthal seems to interpret his silence this way this was his subjective reality. As far as he was concerned this is what had happened.

  I believe that under the circumstances, Wiesenthal's reaction was charitable. He continued to stay and listen to the dying man even though he found it repugnant. He felt sorry for the SS man though he was confronted by this man's hideous crimes. It is to Wiesenthal's credit and to the credit of his friends who, in the devastating surroundings of the concentration camp, were able to consider the moral implications of forgiveness. Instead of ridiculing Wiesenthal's concerns they listened to him patiently.

  Wiesenthal was bothered that without a word he left the dying man. Personally I see his quiet exit and his prolonged stay with the SS man as benevolent acts. Wiesenthal does not seem to realize that by staying and listening he gave comfort to the dying man. Moreover, the fact that Wiesenthal was ambivalent about his actions and continues to doubt their appropriateness only underlines his decency, pointing equally to his moral superiority. In sharp contrast, the dying German was indifferent to issues that did not bear directly on him.

  JOSEPH TELUSHKIN

  Was this young Nazi's repentance sincere? It certainly seems so. Then again, he was dying. Had a doctor entered the room with a miracle drug that would have restored this young man to full vigor, would he have remained weighed down with guilt? And had the German army then offered him whatever was the Nazi equivalent of the Purple Heart for bravery in battle, would he have scorned the award? I wonder.

  True, this young murderer speaks with regret, but mixed in with regret is self-pity, the unembarrassed complaint that he, who has murdered others, is himself too young to die, and the statement that “…those Jews [whom he helped burn] died quickly, they did not suffer as I do” (p. 52). Then, remembering that he is speaking to a Jew, that the purpose of this confession is to elicit this Jew's forgiveness, the young Nazi adds on: “though they were not as guilty as I am.”

  “They were not as guilty as I am.” A stunning sentence! Is not the clear, indeed the only, implication of these words that the murdered Jews were guilty, and that he, one of their murderers, was also guilty, only their guilt was not as great as his. Suddenly, a confession that seemed so sincere, seems to be acquiring a decidedly slippery quality. A more honest, more righteous man—indeed, the sort of person who likely would never have committed such murders—would have said: “But, then again, don't I deserve to suffer for what
I have done, while those Jews didn't deserve such sufferings; they were innocent victims of my comrades and myself.”

  Moses Maimonides teaches that we can only know the full truth of a person's repentance if the penitent encounters the same situation in which he first sinned, and then refrains from sinning. But, of course, no such opportunity could be granted this young man. We know that he voiced regret over his murderous deeds; unfortunately, that is all we know.

  What do I think, therefore, of Wiesenthal's silent response to the Nazi's request for forgiveness? I agree with him. How could Wiesenthal forgive crimes committed against others? Perhaps, perhaps, if this young man had been taught from the earliest of ages that irrevocable acts such as murder cannot be undone by words, he would have been less prone to murder innocent people. (Indeed, what damns this Nazi even more is the knowledge we now have that, in general, German soldiers who refrained from participating in such actions were not punished.) Of course, the large majority of evil committed by people should be forgiven, provided that the evildoer's repentance is sincere and that he or she makes a real effort to undo the evil. But the difference between forgiving 97 percent of evil acts that are atoned for, versus forgiving them all, is significant. The killing and torture of innocent people is an ultimate evil, and the only ones who can grant forgiveness are, by virtue of their deaths, incapable of doing so. This Nazi wanted to die with a clean, or at least a cleaner, conscience. But what had he done to entitle himself to so distinct a privilege?

  If a human being should not forgive this Nazi, will God? As a medieval Jewish philosopher taught, “If I knew God, I'd be God.” Nonetheless, some Jewish teachings suggest that God would not forgive such a man; a well-known talmudic text teaches that Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, atones only for sins committed against God; as regards offenses committed against one's fellow human beings, atonement can be achieved only through pacifying the injured party. On the other hand, there are Jewish teachings that hold that if a murderer accepts his punishment and is truly penitent, that his death may win him some measure of atonement in the next world.