up enough of a fight.”
“There was the Warsaw Ghetto, Treblinka, Sobibor ...”
“Yes, but the incidences were few and far between.” The old man pondered for a few moments. He then stared at Danielle with a steely gaze that made her feel slightly uncomfortable for the first time.
“My dear,” he said, the eyes narrowing, “do you know what happens to an animal, say a wildebeest, when it is attacked by a pride of lions? As soon as it is caught, it goes into mind-numbing shock. When the lion applies the coup de grâce, the poor wildebeest doesn’t feel a thing. From the moment the Nazis dehumanized us, we were in that state of shock.”
For a moment the whirr of the cassette recorder seemed to take over the room. Danielle felt that she, too, was in a state of shock. Everything the man had said made complete sense. She glanced at her tape. It was nearing the end. She still had a couple of questions left.
“Henry, in a way I asked this earlier, but do you believe it’s right to continue to prosecute war criminals?”
“Yes. There are still Nazi criminals around, and the only thing they regret is not winning. They are my generation and their presence among us casts a shadow, even now.”
“What about revisionist historians like David Irving?”
“Those who try to rewrite history by saying the Holocaust never happened are the worst type of evil. I hate them.”
She skipped back through her notes. “But before you said you had hated too long.”
“Correct. Hate clouds the mind. But you see, and this is off the record, I cannot stop hating. I hate myself for being German. To be sure, I never deny being Jewish, but I have never come to terms with the fact that I am a German myself, that part of me is German, part of me is Jewish. You see, my dear, I hate to some extent both the Germans and the Jews. And I am both. I find the mixture unbearable and I am part of that mixture. You have the cringing, arrogant Jew and you have the superior, arrogant and insensitive German and all that is part of me as well. And in any case, if I had not been a Jew I might have made a very good Nazi. I am an absolute perfectionist, you know.”
For a few moments Danielle was dumbstruck. Henry Sonntag’s words were extraordinarily candid. This was a man who was hurting badly, a man whose patent honesty allowed him to admit that, had he not been a Jew, he might have been one of the very monsters who had tormented him. He would no doubt suffer this torment until his dying day.
She cleared her throat, but the words still came out hoarsely. “Henry, can you ever bring yourself to forgive?”
“Forgive?” The old man laughed, relieving the gloom once again. “Ah, now that is an interesting question.” He raised his thin yellowy-white eyebrows. “If I may, I’d like to tell you a story. It’s long, so bear with me. Many years ago there was a rabbi from Brisk, a scholar of extraordinary renown, revered also for his gentleness of character. One day he boarded a train in Warsaw to return to his home town. The rabbi, a man of slight stature and not particularly distinguished, found a seat in the compartment. There he was surrounded by travelling salesmen. As soon as the train began to move, they started to play cards. Now, as the game progressed, the excitement increased.
The rabbi remained aloof and was absorbed in meditation. Such aloofness was annoying to the rest of the people and one of them suggested to the rabbi that he join in the game. The rabbi answered that he never played cards. As time passed, the rabbi’s aloofness became even more annoying and one of those present said to him, ‘Either you join us, or you leave the compartment.’
Shortly afterwards, he took the rabbi by his collar and pushed him out of the compartment. For several hours the rabbi had to stand until he reached his destination, the city of Brisk.”
“Where’s that?” Danielle cut in, fascinated.
“Poland somewhere. It doesn’t matter.
“There was the Warsaw Ghetto, Treblinka, Sobibor ...”
“Yes, but the incidences were few and far between.” The old man pondered for a few moments. He then stared at Danielle with a steely gaze that made her feel slightly uncomfortable for the first time.
“My dear,” he said, the eyes narrowing, “do you know what happens to an animal, say a wildebeest, when it is attacked by a pride of lions? As soon as it is caught, it goes into mind-numbing shock. When the lion applies the coup de grâce, the poor wildebeest doesn’t feel a thing. From the moment the Nazis dehumanized us, we were in that state of shock.”
For a moment the whirr of the cassette recorder seemed to take over the room. Danielle felt that she, too, was in a state of shock. Everything the man had said made complete sense. She glanced at her tape. It was nearing the end. She still had a couple of questions left.
“Henry, in a way I asked this earlier, but do you believe it’s right to continue to prosecute war criminals?”
“Yes. There are still Nazi criminals around, and the only thing they regret is not winning. They are my generation and their presence among us casts a shadow, even now.”
“What about revisionist historians like David Irving?”
“Those who try to rewrite history by saying the Holocaust never happened are the worst type of evil. I hate them.”
She skipped back through her notes. “But before you said you had hated too long.”
“Correct. Hate clouds the mind. But you see, and this is off the record, I cannot stop hating. I hate myself for being German. To be sure, I never deny being Jewish, but I have never come to terms with the fact that I am a German myself, that part of me is German, part of me is Jewish. You see, my dear, I hate to some extent both the Germans and the Jews. And I am both. I find the mixture unbearable and I am part of that mixture. You have the cringing, arrogant Jew and you have the superior, arrogant and insensitive German and all that is part of me as well. And in any case, if I had not been a Jew I might have made a very good Nazi. I am an absolute perfectionist, you know.”
For a few moments Danielle was dumbstruck. Henry Sonntag’s words were extraordinarily candid. This was a man who was hurting badly, a man whose patent honesty allowed him to admit that, had he not been a Jew, he might have been one of the very monsters who had tormented him. He would no doubt suffer this torment until his dying day.
She cleared her throat, but the words still came out hoarsely. “Henry, can you ever bring yourself to forgive?”
“Forgive?” The old man laughed, relieving the gloom once again. “Ah, now that is an interesting question.” He raised his thin yellowy-white eyebrows. “If I may, I’d like to tell you a story. It’s long, so bear with me. Many years ago there was a rabbi from Brisk, a scholar of extraordinary renown, revered also for his gentleness of character. One day he boarded a train in Warsaw to return to his home town. The rabbi, a man of slight stature and not particularly distinguished, found a seat in the compartment. There he was surrounded by travelling salesmen. As soon as the train began to move, they started to play cards. Now, as the game progressed, the excitement increased.
The rabbi remained aloof and was absorbed in meditation. Such aloofness was annoying to the rest of the people and one of them suggested to the rabbi that he join in the game. The rabbi answered that he never played cards. As time passed, the rabbi’s aloofness became even more annoying and one of those present said to him, ‘Either you join us, or you leave the compartment.’
Shortly afterwards, he took the rabbi by his collar and pushed him out of the compartment. For several hours the rabbi had to stand until he reached his destination, the city of Brisk.”
“Where’s that?” Danielle cut in, fascinated.
“Poland somewhere. It doesn’t matter.
Similar Books
