Denial [Movie Tie-in]

by Deborah E. Lipstadt

  As the afternoon drew to a close, Rampton returned to Irving’s claim that Himmler’s diary constituted “incontrovertible evidence” that as early as November 1941, Hitler had ordered that there was to be “‘no liquidation’ of the Jews.” Rampton pointed out that the diary concerned only one trainload of Berlin Jews. Irving explained that when he copied the quote he had made a “silly misreading” of the diary. He had mistakenly put an “e” on “transport,” changing it from the singular—one trainload of Jews—into the plural—“trainloads of Jews.” In any case, Irving observed, almost dismissively, close to thirty years had passed since he first encountered this diary entry. It was, he suggested, wrong to expect him to remember the precise circumstances of this transcription.9 Scholars often make transcription mistakes, particularly when working in an archive. I doubted, however, that Irving would have made such a mistake with a document he considered so significant.

  When the session ended, I quietly packed up my paraphernalia. Though I had sat silently all day, doing virtually nothing but listening, I was utterly spent and happy to be heading home, as I had already come to think of my London apartment. I was relieved not to see any paparazzi, which made the next morning’s newspaper, with a photograph of me exiting the Law Courts, utterly surprising.

  The next day’s session began with Irving asking permission to introduce some documents he believed would be useful to the discussion of the Himmler telephone log. He began with a 1974 letter he had written to a German historian. It contained a transcription of the log. Irving seemed to be about to explain to Judge Gray that the letter demonstrated just how many years had passed since he first translated the entry, when Judge Gray interrupted him: “You . . . transcribe Judentransport, J-U-D-E-N-T-R-A-N-S-P-O-R-T, in the singular, and that is in 1974.” I quickly took another look at the document. Sure enough, in this letter Irving had correctly transcribed “transport” in the singular. This proved that his claim that he had committed a “silly misreading” was false. When he published Hitler’s War, three years later in 1977, he knew that Himmler’s phone call to Heydrich concerned just one trainload of Jews. Therefore, his assertion in the book that he had incontrovertible evidence that Hitler tried to stop the deportation of the Jews—as opposed to one trainload of Jews—was false and he knew it.

  Irving seemed momentarily taken aback by the judge’s observation. He stopped, reread the letter, and then, with a slight bow of thanks to Judge Gray, acknowledged, “You are absolutely right, my Lord. You are absolutely right.” Despite having been caught by the judge in his own fiction, Irving showed no embarrassment. Without missing a beat, he came up with an alternative explanation. He had not misread the text. He had interpreted the word “Judentransport” as transportation of all the Jews. He then thanked the judge: “I am indebted to your Lordship for having . . . took [sic] me back into the mind set of 26 years ago.”10 While Judge Gray kept his counsel about what he thought of Irving’s volte-face about transportation, Rampton did not: “When you come into the witness box to answer questions on oath, you simply pluck an explanation out of the air, do you not?”11

  Rampton asked Irving to produce the evidence upon which he based his claim that Himmler was “summoned” to the bunker. Without pausing, Irving responded, “My very great expertise on this matter.” Rampton, who had been glancing down at his papers, looked up with surprise: “What?” Irving repeated his answer: “My very great expertise on this matter. Do you wish me to elaborate?” Judge Gray, looking somewhat perplexed at Irving’s response, suggested he had better elaborate since he was not quite sure he understood the answer. Irving explained that no Reich official could show up on Hitler’s doorstep without permission. Himmler, therefore, must have been “summoned.” Rampton asked if Himmler wasn’t of sufficiently high standing for him to be able to place a call to Hitler and ask if he could come in to tell him something. Irving agreed that he was. In that case, Rampton wondered, why had he used the word “summoned”? “Because then Hitler would have said all right, come and see me.”12 Once again, I marveled at the hutzpah of Irving’s explanation. Hitler’s putative response of “come and see me” justified the word “summoned.”

  Rampton next asked about Irving’s claim that, after having been “summoned,” Himmler was “obliged” to call Heydrich to order the cessation of the killings. The call to Heydrich was placed, according to Himmler’s diary, at 1:30 P.M., one hour before he met with Hitler. There was no documentary evidence to prove that Himmler saw Hitler before making the call. Rampton wondered who “obliged, that is to say, compelled Himmler to make this call?” Irving’s answer was unequivocal. “His own inner conscience. That was why I used the word ‘obliged.’ Otherwise I would have said ‘ordered.’” Rampton rather laconically observed that Irving’s answers hardly constituted the “incontrovertible evidence” he had promised his readers. Moreover, Rampton admonished Irving, “when we say ‘evidence’ we mean ‘evidence’ not ‘inference.’”13

  Rampton next challenged Irving about his claim that he had “misread” the word “haben” as “Juden,” transforming Himmler’s December 1 diary entry from the “administrative leaders of the SS are to remain where they are” to “Jews are to stay where they are.” His explanation was fundamentally flawed because it left “Verwaltungsführer der SS” (administrative leaders of the SS) hanging in midair meaning nothing. Irving had submitted to the court the page on which he had taken notes about the December 1 diary entry. The notes showed that he had whited out “Juden,” and replaced it with the word “haben.” The correction had been made, he said, with a typewriter that he disposed of some ten or fifteen years earlier. “That is how early I realized my error,” Irving told Rampton.14 Irving’s explanation, however, created another conundrum for him. He had just introduced evidence with a correction that he made on a typewriter he had disposed of ten to fifteen years earlier. In other words, Irving had discovered his mistake and corrected it on his notes, well before the publication of the 1991 edition of Hitler’s War. His failure to correct the “mistake” in the book, Rampton charged, was deliberate. “You wanted to keep this picture of benign, magnanimous Adolf Hitler holding up his arm to save the Jews before the public,” Rampton said. Irving denied that it was deliberate and dismissed it as “a pretty meaningless sentence.” Rampton shook his head back and forth as Irving made his case. He looked decidedly unconvinced.15

  SELECTED QUOTATIONS AND PERVERTED MEANINGS

  Rampton, continuing his assault on Irving’s “chain of documents” that purportedly demonstrated Hitler’s magnanimous behavior toward Jews, returned to the Bruns report that Irving had cited in his opening speech. In April 1945, the British had recorded German general Walter Bruns describing for his fellow POW German officers a mass shooting of five thousand German Jews in Riga. Irving had argued on the first day of the trial that if he were a denier he would not have repeatedly quoted this document.16

  Rampton acknowledged that Irving was right. He had cited the Bruns report on a number of different occasions. However, Rampton continued, he had cited it in a way that completely skewed its meaning. According to the document, Bruns had told his fellow German prisoners that, after witnessing the shooting he protested to the SS officer at the site, Altemeyer, telling him that the victims represented “valuable manpower,” which should not be wasted. Altemeyer transmitted Bruns’s complaint to Berlin. Altemeyer subsequently reported to Bruns that Hitler had issued new orders: “The mass shootings of this kind must no longer take place in the future. . . . They are to be carried out more discreetly.” According to the Bruns report, Hitler knew and essentially approved of the killings.

  But Irving had propagated, Rampton charged, a very different and dishonest interpretation of the Bruns report in 1992 in a speech he gave at the California-based Institute for Historical Review. Knowing that Rampton was considered a meticulous professional, who never entered court without being exquisitely prepared, I was surprised when he momentarily could not recall the
name of the institute. He hesitated until Heather quickly reminded him. At that meeting, Rampton continued, Irving had also told his audience that Bruns had protested the killings and then an “order comes back from Hitler, ‘these mass shootings have to stop at once,’ so Hitler intervened to stop it.”17 In an article in the Journal of Historical Review, Irving had repeated this misinterpretation when he wrote that Hitler ordered that such mass murders were to stop forthwith.18 What Irving had done was include the first half of Hitler’s order—the mass shootings must stop—but omit the second half of Hitler’s orders—that they are to be carried out more discreetly. When Rampton asked him why he had only told his audience about half of Hitler’s order, Irving replied that he did not write books about the Holocaust. He wrote about Adolf Hitler and such a report would probably have “bore[d] the pant[s] off” his readers. Furthermore, Irving continued, he had discounted the reference to Hitler’s order because “evidence shows” that he issued no such order. Rampton challenged Irving’s claim. There was no evidence that Hitler had not issued the order. There was, at best, only “an absence of evidence.” Irving glared at Rampton.

  IRVING: I hate to remind you of the basic principle of English law that a man is innocent until proven guilty; am I right?

  RAMPTON: Hitler is not on trial, alas.

  IRVING: Is Hitler somehow excluded from this general rule of fair play?19

  I almost fell out of my chair. For a moment, everyone in the courtroom—Judge Gray included—seemed stunned. Rampton pressed on, demanding that Irving admit that his rendition of Hitler’s order—including only the first half and leaving out the second—was “completely dishonest.” Irving insisted he had done nothing wrong and had provided his listeners and readers with the essential part of the information. Judge Gray turned toward Irving and offered him some advice: “Read it through to yourself again . . . And consider that answer, Mr Irving.” Irving stood his ground. He could “see no objection” to his summary of Bruns’s report. Judge Gray, sounding a bit frustrated, intervened again. “Can I put it to you straight, as it were, because this is the suggestion? . . . That what you have said . . . namely the renewed orders that such mass murders were to stop forthwith, totally perverts the sense of Bruns’ conversation in captivity because Bruns makes clear that Altemeyer said that the killings were to continue?”20 Irving stood his ground. For a moment, Judge Gray looked like he was considering saying something. After a moment’s consideration, he sat back and did not press the point.

  At lunch I sat next to Rampton and asked him about his courtroom “tactics.” Were there certain stylistic things he did that I, as a novice, might not notice. He told me that he makes a point of not looking at witnesses when cross-examining them. “You’ll see that I look away from Irving even as I am asking him direct questions.” He had two reasons for doing so. “If you look at someone directly for long periods of time you tend to develop a relationship with him. And that’s the last thing I want with Irving.” There was another reason. “I want to telegraph a message of how little I think of him and his enterprise.” Rampton then reminded me of how he had stumbled over the name of the Institute for Historical Review. “Did it scare you when I could not remember its name?” I admitted it had bothered me, particularly since the IHR figures so prominently into Irving’s denial activities. Smiling, Rampton explained that he had not forgotten the IHR’s name. “This was my way of showing how insignificant an organization I think it is.”

  After lunch, Rampton continued to cross-examine Irving about evidence that, we argued, stood in sharp contradiction to his claims about Hitler. On December 12, 1941, right after Germany declared war on the United States, Hitler spoke to the Nazi Party’s highest political and administrative leaders. He reiterated his “prophecy” of January 1939—if Jews precipitated a world war they would experience their own annihilation. He had repeated this threat on previous occasions. This time, however, he added an addendum. “The world war is here, the annihilation of Jewry must be the necessary consequence” (emphasis added).21 It seemed quite clear that Hitler was saying: “War has come. The annihilation of the Jews is about to be a reality.” This was yet another indication of Hitler’s culpability. Rampton noted that Irving, in his book Goebbels, had quoted other portions of this speech, but had conveniently omitted this critical element.

  When the questioning for the week ended, I felt completely drained. Just then a reporter approached me. I politely reminded him that I was not talking to the press. “Oh, I know that,” he said, “I want to tell you something.” Irving had just been approached by a woman who told him that her parents had been gassed at Auschwitz. Irving told her, in earshot of a number of reporters, “Madam, you may be pleased to know that they almost certainly died of typhus, as did Anne Frank.”22 I winced. The reporter continued, “Why would anyone be ‘pleased’ to hear their parents died of typhus while imprisoned in a concentration camp?” I shook my head. Even if I had been able to freely speak to him, there really was nothing to say.

  I was anxious to return to my apartment, cook dinner, and collapse with a good book, preferably one having nothing to do with the Holocaust. As I was leaving, Ninette Perahia, a friend of the Blumenthals and wife of the concert pianist, Murray Perahia, approached to invite me to join her family that night for an informal supper. “Pasta in the kitchen” was how she described it. I demurred. Once again, Ursula insisted: “Come. You look like you could use a night off.” And once again, against my better judgment, I agreed to go. A few hours later I met the Blumenthals at the Green Park tube station on Piccadilly. We traveled to the outskirts of London and, as we approached the Perahia home, two exuberant young boys came running out to greet us.

  As we walked up the path and entered the house, we were enveloped by the sounds of Bach: The Goldberg Variations. It took me a moment to realize this was not a CD: this was the real thing. Grammy award–winning concert pianist Murray Perahia, whose own family had been scarred by the Holocaust, was in the next room, practicing for his forthcoming concert at New York’s Lincoln Center. Not wanting to disturb him, we stood in the vestibule enjoying our own private world-class concert. As the rich sound of the music being played by one of the greatest Bach interpreters of our time washed over me, my exhaustion dissipated. Slowly the memory of Sussman’s tears, the old lady with the number on her forearm, and Irving’s response to the woman whose parents had died in Auschwitz began to recede from my memory, if only for the moment.

  EIGHT

  THE HOLOCAUST: RANDOM KILLINGS OR SYSTEMATIC GENOCIDE?

  In order to accommodate the many spectators who wanted to attend the hearing, Judge Gray managed to move the trial to Courtroom 73, the largest courtroom in the building. With its white walls, blond tables, and standard-issue office chairs, it looked like a small university lecture hall circa 1960. Given its rather nondescript character, I reflected that if Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution had been filmed in this room it never would have become a classic, Tyrone Power and Marlene Dietrich notwithstanding. On the front wall, behind the judge’s bench was a large gold royal coat of arms, lending the room its only official character. The multitiered public gallery in the back could accommodate about sixty people.

  Janet Purdue, the courtroom usher, was a gregarious, dark-haired, heavy-set woman of about forty, with a muted Cockney accent. Precisely at 10:25 A.M., she opened the doors. Directing people to their seats and checking press credentials, she deftly managed the hubbub. When the seats were filled, she closed the doors, leaving some people protesting in the hall. When Janet strode by my table, her black court gown flowing behind her, I suggested she let the people in the hall stand. She sternly admonished me: “No one stands in my court.” I quickly resolved not to tangle with her. Judge Gray presided over the case. Janet clearly presided over the courtroom.

  Irving began by telling the judge that when he presented his case during the previous week, he had not adequately expanded upon his reputation as a historian. Judge Gra
y reassured Irving that he had “produced enough” particularly since this was “an action on Professor Lipstadt’s book,” not on his reputation. Irving insisted that his reputation was relevant because “the sources on which that book draws have been part and parcel of this campaign to destroy my legitimacy.” Judge Gray conceded that his reputation was relevant up to a point. “If Professor Lipstadt has jumped on board a sort of bandwagon of critics of yours . . .” As soon as Judge Gray said “bandwagon,” Irving’s eyes opened wide. Pumping his fists in affirmation, he loudly interjected, “Use that phrase!” Irving may have been pleased by Judge Gray’s word choice. I was not. I feared it might suggest an unconscious contempt for Irving’s critics. Judge Gray ruled that if Irving could prove I was part and parcel of a conspiracy that supplied me with information, the defense would have to justify my reliance on that material.1

  Irving next complained—yet again—that I was not going to submit myself to cross-examination. I knew my testimony would not advance our case, but I was increasingly worried about remaining silent. I rarely shied away from a fight, even when logic dictated I should. I passed Rampton a note: “Remember: I’m ready to testify.” He crumpled up the paper and shook his head as if to indicate that I was telling him something he already knew.

  Irving, announcing that he had information that would challenge Robert Jan van Pelt’s credibility, asked whether he was obliged to disclose it to the defense. Judge Gray explained that, if it related to issues being analyzed, it had to be disclosed. Irving begrudgingly said he would comply, even though it was like “playing poker with the other person having a mirror over your head.” This brought Rampton to his feet. Litigation, he protested, was not poker. “All the cards have to be on the table.” Irving, sounding a bit wounded, insisted that he deserved praise, not criticism. “I do not think . . . any party in an action has ever made a fuller discovery than I have, including the disclosure of my entire diaries.” Judge Gray nodded in agreement: “I think that is fair . . . I think that is right.”2 Behind me I heard Anthony quietly fume, “His diaries? He fought their release tooth and nail.” I was surprised—and somewhat annoyed—that Judge Gray seemed unaware of this.