Nazis, Judgment, and Picky Details

The Netflix documentary, What Our Fathers Did: The Nazi Legacy, follows EU administrator Philippe Sands on a strange odyssey as he persuades Niklas Frank and Horst von Wachter–both sons of high-ranking Nazi officers–to join him in revisiting the past.   Frank eagerly embraces a wholesale condemnation of his father as a vicious animal.  The son indeed seems to have much axe-grinding to do against his father for deserting the family and chasing sycophantically after Hitler’s will and whimsy.  It’s not a great leap to suppose that at least some of Niklas’s righteous indignation at his father’s active participation in the Holocaust is a Freudian resentment.  He admits to a tinge of sympathy when sitting in the cell from which his father was led to be hanged after the Nuremberg Trials; yet even here, he inclines more to believe that Hans (a.k.a. “The Butcher of Poland”) was staging a religious conversion in his final reported words rather than preparing to meet his maker.  That’s a pretty hard verdict to pass on any man, but especially for a son to dish out upon his father.

Sands is the agent provocateur of guilt and resentment throughout the doc, rather like a tormenting angel of vengeance who demands that facts be recognized in their bare truth.  Perhaps he has a right to that role, up to a point: his family was virtually exterminated in the Warsaw ghetto.  He and Franks grow progressively peeved with Horst for seeking to whitewash the memory of his father Otto.  I find these sequences of the film particularly difficult to watch at times.  I want to shout at the screen, “Okay, so Horst wants to believe the best about his father!  Otto von Wachter really did regret much of what he was doing, in all probability, yet really did tell himself that he should continue doing it rather than be replaced by a more ruthless executioner.  And you two are right that such equivocation really is a pretty weak moral defense for the man.  In a way, it’s an additional indictment; for having recognized the evil of rounding up Jews for slaughter, von Wachter is even more guilty than some of his psychopathic comrades.  But why do you insist that the man’s son join you now in spitting on a long-gone father’s grave?  What exactly is the son to gain from that–and what do you gain from it?”

Otto von Wachter, as a historical figure, raises some fascinating moral issues.  He reminds me of Amphinomos, the one suitor of Penelope’s many in the Odyssey who seems to be a genuinely decent human being.  Yet as his name (“split-minded”) suggests, Amphinomos can never quite motivate himself to leave the bad company he’s in, even though Odysseus himself–disguised as a beggar–pleads with him to do so shortly before taking a deadly vengeance.  There’s a point in most of our lives when we have to stop trying to make lemonade out of lemons, and concede that the fruit is not only bitter but–in the case at hand–rotten.  Even if von Wachter had supposed himself to be facing execution should he refuse to obey orders (and very few Nazi officers ever suffered consequences for such resistance, as Hannah Arendt has observed), he should nevertheless have accepted execution.  He should have, that is, if he were a moral hero, or anything other than a moral coward.  Passive surrender to unjust punishment can give very eloquent and influential testimony.

Sands and Frank didn’t appear to be much interested in introducing the younger von Wachter to this perspective, however.  He needed to say the magic words, “My father is burning in Hell…” and he never did.  I’m not sure on what authority the other two are trying to force him into the judgment seat.

And Horst does have a ghost of a point when he says that the circumstances were complex–that you had to be there.  It remains a quibble in this case; but what about the surprising celebration he receives from Western Ukrainians near the film’s end when they find that he is von Wachter’s son?  Decked out in Nazi uniforms themselves for a commemorative event, these men see the swastika as a symbol of their struggle against Stalinist domination.  Today, right now, we’re supposed to be embracing their struggle against Putin’s efforts to revive the evil Soviet empire… and yet, the same voices in the pro-Ukrainian EU denounce anyone who criticizes their open-door immigration policy as a Nazi!

It doesn’t hurt to know some of the picky little details… or rather, it hurts a lot–but it’s good for the soul.  Horst von Wachter needs to face facts about his father; but those who would deplore his “father fantasy” might consider plucking the beam from their own eye on occasion.

Odds ‘n Ends

First of all, I only yesterday discovered that the origin of the phrase, “the whole nine yards,” dates back to World War II.  Seems that the P-51 Mustang had nine yards of fifty-caliber bullets servicing each of its machine-guns… so when you let loose on a target until nothing more was coming out of the cannon, you’d shot “the whole nine yards”.  Wow.  I had no idea that the phrase was older than I am.  Odd that I never heard it until about the eighties or the nineties.  Could it possibly have been resurrected and popularized by some movie about fighter-pilots during the war?

I’ve also wanted to respond to an incredibly long and thoughtful commentary on one of my posts concerning Islam and Christianity… but I can do little more for now than just acknowledge the “want”.  The subject of the Trinity would require a book-length treatise from me, as it has indeed elicited many a book from theologians infinitely better educated in the matter than I.  And then, once I’d finished, the best-educated of the well-educated would be calling me an apostate, I’m pretty sure.  The thing is, I don’t have much confidence in education on such subjects.  It tends to immerse one in “bibliolatry”–abject attention to what appears in revered or honored texts–rather than to put one in touch with an inner voice that speaks a logic of humane goodness.  I have no firmer conviction on the subject of religion than that God judges us by our susceptibility to this voice, and not by our conformity to the circumstantially conditioned and institutionally processed arguments of “scholars”.  Is it not in that sense that one must become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven?

At any rate, the Trinity to me says that, though God is inscrutable and unimaginable to such as I in His full glory,  I can nevertheless be certain of His will in specific terrestrial cases through the action of a “spirit”–of inspiration–that reaches me, often in spite of my selfish or short-sighted objectives, often also in spite of the values projected by my social circle or culture.  I know that it’s wrong to kill children: I KNOW it’s wrong.  That’s why I don’t have to sift through arguments that equivocate the murder of children as fully predictable collateral damage during drone strikes.  I also have the example of God as He choose to squeeze Himself into a mortal body and a mortal lifetime–a position which, paradoxically, rendered Him incapable of completely grasping Himself at times (cf. Christ in the garden of Gethsemane).  I have no doubt that I’ve just typed a load of heresy in the eyes of some!  But Christ himself says that they alone are not forgiven who fail to recognize, not him, but the Holy Spirit.

Some people are okay with God’s ordering a vast slaughter of the Israelites after the Golden Calf incident.  That’s not a god I recognize–I’m not “hearing it”.  “Oh, so you get to pick and choose any attribute of God that pleases you, do you?”  No… but I am obligated to reject those attributes, at least as projected by certain literally interpreted scriptures, which I know conform to the cultural conditioning prevalent during a document’s composition rather than to the immutable law of goodness.  You don’t kill children.  Period.  Not in the service of God.  Never in the service of God.

Finally, if my high school friend is reading… I wish we had been much better friends in high school.  That was my fault.  But I really do find it horrible and suffocating to be reduced to what I look like, how I measure, the income of my parents.  An average kid, average height and weight, brown coloring, a voice no one could hear, a family that registered “nothing” in the community…. that’s what my classmates saw in high school.  I graduated a year early just to escape the phone-booth claustrophobia of it all.  I would no sooner revisit the scene of that misery, even half a century later, than I would return to a concentration camp and ask bystanders to pick up where the SS or the KGB left off.  I’ve spent most of my life blotting those years from my memory.  Why would I revive them now?

To think that there are people who actually want to be known first and foremost by the color of their skin, or their sexual preference, or their obesity, or… why wouldn’t you spend you life trying to break free of the “prison of circumstance” rather than adding bars and bricks to it?

Farewell, Content: Another Holiday Ruined Before It Was Quite Gone

As a teacher, one enjoys a slightly longer holiday than most people–though”enjoy” may be used somewhat rhetorically, considering that our entire break is often divided between seeing our families and racing to prepare for classes saddled upon us with little warning.

The family reunions, at least, should be pleasant… shouldn’t they?  Not always.  But do they have to end like this?

Your last evening with the person you raised from the cradle, and whom you may not see again for half a year… and he and Auntie fight over what movie to watch.  Auntie gets up and announces that she’s returning to the hotel.  Well, you can’t have that… so you try to make peace, to introduce compromise.  You think you’ve pulled it off.  Yet you can see that College Lad is still smarting from the treatment.  He wants to remain civil, but… but this eventually requires his departing to say his goodbyes to a high school friend.  Doesn’t know when he’ll be back.  You wait up, fighting to keep your lids open and listening to Auntie ramble on about you know not what.  Finally you surrender, send Auntie away with apologies, and pass a very uneven night which only partially relieves your exhaustion.

Why do these things happen?  Did they always happen so, or was there once a Silver Age when family members were all politeness and consideration?  I find myself asking more and more if life was once better as I get older.  Many times, a little reflection strongly recommends the answer, “Yes!”

In this instance, though, I’m skeptical.  After all, I’ve had my own run-ins with “the family”.  I spent one Thanksgiving evening about ten years ago walking around the neighborhood in the rain because of a tantrum thrown by someone over having to forsake the Dallas Cowboys game for the dinner table.  And in this instance, I think my boy’s response was similar, and similarly guiltless.  He had been rudely issued an ultimatum and identified his mounting annoyance soon enough that he vacated the premises before more words leaked out.  That was the better choice.

But why do these things ever happen at all?  They’re not supposed to happen, are they?  Something in me wants to believe that it’s just our family–that we somehow got a raw deal; but I’ve heard too many stories from others to think that peace reigned supreme behind all of those warmly glowing windows drifting past me on a rainy Thanksgiving evening.

If a wagon has a wheel that’s out of kilter, the wagon still rolls.  But it grows ever more wobbly the farther it goes… until, eventually, the wheel breaks free in a great crash.  So it is with people and their oddities.  The older they get, the better they learn to protect and indulge their strange tendencies, and the more out-of-whack these grow.  We’re supposed to acquire wisdom with age, but it doesn’t always happen; and, indeed, I’m afraid it rather rarely happens.  Especially if we fall into the habit of giving into ourselves and making adaptations instead of corrections, we become more like spoiled-brat children just when we were supposed to have become wise elders.

I hope I never learn to protect my little lunacies that well.  I’d rather die early than live to be a cranky old fool.

Auld Lang Syne… Just Move On

During my long car ride to the eastern seaboard a few days ago, I was able to wile away many hours by scribbling.  Among other things, I ground out a poem answering an invitation to attend my high school class’s forty-fifth reunion.  I’ve posted the whole poem under a pseudonym on another site.  None of my quondam classmates will read it there… and none will read the final fragment here.  (When I notified the whole group of a book I’d published through Smashwords two summers ago, four said that they had bought or would buy a copy, not knowing that I’m automatically informed of sales.  There was one purchase.)  The poem’s first part represents the invitation, full of “school spirit” and almost clad in a letter-jacket.  This brief portion is my answer:

Appreciate the thought

(If no more deep it went

Than matching roster spots

With invitations sent).


Someone of your name once

Knew someone who had mine.

Their boyhood, by a chance,

Shared common place and time.


They went their separate ways…

Or one stayed, one left town.

With him, he took my name—

But ditched his cap and gown.


And how he sought his god,

And what truth found him bare

And dressed him for the road—

That’s nothing I will share.


The boy I was is dead—

The one you thought you knew.

Your kindly card was read

To something in a tomb.


Me, I remain alive—

But not where beads are pearls.

Appreciate your time.

Right name, but not right world.