Friends in Nazi Places

Passages from Klemperer


Viktor Klemperer was Jewish, and married to a woman not categorized as Jewish by the Nazi laws. He kept a diary during the Nazi era, and wrote a book called The Language of the Third Reich. It’s an interesting book especially in light of Arendt’s Eichmann in Jerusalem. Arendt’s argument is often misrepresented (it’s one of those books more referred to than read). One of the most interesting aspects of her observations is that Eichmann didn’t think about what he was doing—ever. She wasn’t defending him by making that observation, nor by pointing out that his level of antisemitism was pretty much the norm. She was pointing out that a common understanding of evil—a person who intends to do what they themselves believe to be evil, and who does so out of pathological hatred for others—isn’t useful for a world where evil actions might be the result of careerism, a desire to fit in, and, most important, thoughtlessness. That is, just not really being open to thinking about one’s actions from the perspective of others.

The distinction is between evil as an issue of intent and an issue of actions. She never defended Eichmann, nor argued that what he did was not evil. But, people committed to restricting evil to intention (not just intending to do something, but intending to do something one believes to be evil) get very, very angry at the idea that we might do evil without intending to do so. (My crank theory is that it has to do with notions about sin.)

[As an aside, I’ll mention that this is the same line of argument that many people have about racism, especially systemic, cultural, unconscious, or implicit racism. They see racism as a sin, and sin as something for which a person will be held accountable. And they believe that one should only be held accountable for deliberate decisions. So, they insist that there can’t be any such thing as racism coming from thoughtlessness.]

But back to Eichmann. Important to Arendt’s observation is that Eichmann’s use of language helped him not to think. Fifteen years later he was still using the euphemisms Nazis employed to obscure what they were doing, to enable people not to think about it. And that’s one of the points that Klemperer makes about Nazi language (it’s a great book, and I highly recommend it).

It wasn’t just the language of course, but also the propaganda that also reinforced the general message: have faith in Hitler, and dismiss any information that might be disloyal to him. Don’t even think about it. What this meant, as Klemperer says, is that people with whom he’d been friends for years were committed to not thinking about what Hitler’s policies meant to people like Klemperer. Klemperer describes trying to talk to a longtime friend who is so thrilled with the new Germany that she cannot think about what his policies really involve, with what is actually happening. When Klemperer brings up concerns, she says that Klemperer is overreacting:

You are allowing yourself to get upset at this moment, and allowing yourself to be distracted from what really matters by minor embarrassments and blemishes which can scarcely be avoided during periods of such radical change. In no time at all you will judge things quite differently. (98)

A few months later, she has completely converted to unshakeable faith in Hitler, and to not holding him accountable, or even constrained. And she has come to talk like a Nazi. (Ryan Skinnell has a great discussion of this interaction in his forthcoming book.) Something similar happens with a friend that Klemperer calls “T.” Klemperer realizes that T. has become a Hitler faithful when T. uses the term Strafexpedition, which Klemperer recognizes as a term from the genocidal war against the Herero and Nama (for more on this, see The Kaiser’s Holocaust).

These stories of Klemperer stick with me because it’s a powerful and troubling description of watching people choosing, moment by moment, word by word, and act by act, to stop thinking about what they’re doing from any perspective other than fanatical faith in a leader who cannot be constrained, held accountable, or held to the same standards as others. It’s like a horror movie when you want to scream, “Don’t go in the basement!”

Thoughtlessness, as Arendt insists over and over, has nothing to do with intelligence, and thinking isn’t the same as believing, justifying, defending, or explaining. Nor is it either empathy or sympathy. It is trying to look at one’s own thoughts from outside of them (Hartouni has a great description, especially 74-77). It is thinking about one’s thinking.

Arendt was a very smart and very well-read woman, and I fully believe that she was able to think about her thinking (as is shown by her often changing her stance on things), but it’s hard for most of us without some kind of direct contact with other points of view. That’s what Klemperer did. That’s what a lot of people can’t do. It’s what neither T. nor Paula could do.

And I’ve yet to meet a Trump supporters who can.

Like Paula, they rely on what their ingroup media tells them Other people think, desire, advocate, and do. And they refuse to look at any information that might complicated their faith. Like Paula, they dismiss incidents and actions as “minor” or “exaggerated” or “distractions.”

That’s what really worries me about them. And it’s why I often suggest sharing media with sources cited that can be checked if you have Trump supporters in your world. It may be seeds over a wall, but it also might be a chip in the wall itself.

Necessary Beliefs

Photos from and early 20th century book on health, showing a man and a woman you should not marry.

For fun, I like to read Golden Age mysteries, and so recently picked up The Wrong Murder Mystery (Charles Barry) which was published in 1933. The book begins with a public controversy caused by a judge advocating legalized euthanasia for the incurably ill “surrounded with a number of safeguards” such as “consent of the person concerned, given before a magistrate” and he goes on to say:

I can even imagine cases where I should legalise euthanasis for persons not actually suffering from disease. I am aware that the religious bodies on this country will probably not agree with this opinion and that they will in all probability take exception to it, but—ahem!—we are not governed in this country by the ecclesiastical authorities—yet. (12)

The first sentence of this last quote shows the judge to be the kind of person who would escalate from what amounts to assisted suicide to Nazi-style eugenics.

A character who is appalled by the judge’s comments explain to another why the judge believes what he does:

A good many very honourable and estimable people have been brought up not on Christian principles at all but on pagan, materialistic lines, and to them the idea of human suffering from illness or any other cause is more abhorrent than the idea of ending that suffering by legalized painless death. Mind you, even we—you and I—would put a bullet in the head of a horse with a broken back, and when you have been brought up to look on man as merely an animal whose brain has been developed a bit more than that of the horse, you can’t be said to be a moral or mental pervert if you show signs of wanting to apply the same medicine to human beings. (37-38)

In other words, the judge’s stance on euthanasia and eugenics is framed as the necessary consequence of his believing in Darwinism. It’s also worth noting that various characters in the book assume that there is a necessary connection between beliefs and group identity. For instance, “ecclesiastical authorities” are the ones preventing euthanasia. And, when one character abandons his support for euthanasia, it’s causally associated with his converting to Catholicism and coming to believe in an immortal soul.

I’ve written a fair amount about demagoguery as a strategy to prevent or shut down deliberation on an issue, and pointed out that it isn’t necessarily deliberate. People engaged in demagoguery often do so because they sincerely believe there is no need for deliberation—the correct course of action is obvious to good people. One of the factors that can contribute to lack of faith in the benefit of deliberation is the assumption that beliefs have necessary consequences, an assumption that invites us to believe that conflicts are between people who good premises and people who have bad ones—that is, all policy conflicts are really group identity conflicts. And, of course, why would one deliberate with people who have been raised to have bad premises?

My point is: beliefs have consequences, but they aren’t necessary consequences.

To explain that point, I have to explain a bit about euthanasia and eugenics. (If you’re already familiar with the history of eugenics and euthanasia in the US, you can skip this next paragraph—it’s just making the oft-made observation that being religious didn’t necessarily guarantee opposition to eugenics, and believing in Darwinian evolution didn’t necessarily guarantee support.)

By 1933, eugenics was mainstream in science education. It ranged from what we would consider genetics to ways of thinking about genetics that implied eliminationist policies. The latter form assumed that antisocial behaviors were the consequence of genetics, and was often associated with a sense that the cream of the genetic crop had been eradicated by the bloodbath of WWI (in Europe) or was being diluted and displaced by lower races/ethnicities (in the US). Therefore, the argument ran, people should be encouraged to marry people with good genes and discouraged from marrying people genetically destined to have inferior offspring (the so-called “positive eugenics”). “Negative eugenics” involved forced sterilization. Both negative and positive eugenics advocated the criminalization of “mixed race” marriages.

While the official stance of the Catholic church was in opposition to sterilization (or birth control more generally) and euthanasia, there was no formal objection to Nazi Germany’s policies of sterilization and extermination of various groups, and minimal protest to euthanasia. In the United States, forced sterilization and segregation were defended on both “scientific” and “religious” grounds. One of the most famous advocates of eugenics, Francis Galton, continued to practice religion, and some eugenicists insisted that their policies were compatible with Christianity (citing passages such as the one about thorns not being allowed to grow in desirable crops). And not all people who believed in evolution were supporters of eugenics, such as Franz Boas. Germany was a very religious country when the Nazis came into power. Being religious didn’t necessarily prevent one from supporting Nazis, or becoming someone who would engage in mass murder (see, for instance, Ordinary Men or Theologians under Hitler).

Were I Queen of the Universe, something emphasized in K-12 schooling would be understanding the distinction between “B was caused by A” and “A necessarily causes B” (or “B necessarily follows from A”). The first is a narrative about a specific or perhaps even common set of events, and the second is the declaration of a determined cause-effect relationship. The glass I was holding fell to the ground because of gravity, but that doesn’t mean that gravity will cause every glass I hold to fall to the ground—there are other factors. It gets even more tenuous when we introduce identity. I am a resident of Texas, and I often spill my coffee, but my being Texan doesn’t cause me to spill coffee, and my spilling coffee doesn’t cause me to live in Texas.

So, why do people so often assume necessary connections between beliefs and between beliefs and group identity?

I’d suggest that we like believing that our membership in a group is necessarily connected to good beliefs and good policies. Believing that the connection is necessary gives us a sense of security about ourselves, and about whether we might be capable of engaging in unethical actions or supporting unethical policies. If we believe that actions and policies necessarily follow from beliefs, and necessarily imply group identity, then we have the option of telling ourselves that, of course, we would never advocate bad policies because we are good. Our beliefs necessarily imply other and only good beliefs and good policies. That sense of certainty about the necessary relationship of group identity, beliefs, and policies means we don’t feel that we need to do the hard work of deliberating—of listening to arguments that we might be wrong, or they might be right, or that the world is more complicated than we think.

Does believing that our group is good necessarily mean that we will support unethical practices or beliefs? Not necessarily. We still have to deliberate.