Our Free Will

 The Australian 

Monday, January 27, 2020 

THINKING FOR OURSELVES — PRECIOUS AND THREATENED

HENRY ERGAS

Auschwitz worked because so many had been coerced to fall in with mass opinion

Seventy-five years ago, as the war raged with unrelenting ferocity, Australia’s daily papers reported, typically in a snippet at the bottom of page 4, that on what is now Australia Day a “terrible concentration camp” had been captured at Oswiecim, in southwestern Poland.

According to Reuters, “tens of thousands of people were tortured” in the camp, while “thousands more were shot”.

In reality, 1.1 million people were killed at Auschwitz, of whom 960,000 were Jews. But the scale of the horror only began to become apparent months later, as other camps were liberated and the first newsreels were released, including a film, showing piled corpses and gaunt survivors, projected throughout Australia in May of that year.

Worldwide, the shock was enormous, including to those who had no illusions about the Nazi regime.

“We expected anything from that bunch,” Hannah Arendt, who had narrowly escaped deportation to the death camps, told Gunter Grass in an interview on German television in 1964. “But this was different. It really was as if an abyss had opened.”

Suddenly it became evident “that things which for thousands of years the human imagination had banished to a realm beyond human competence can be manufactured right here on Earth, that Hell and Purgatory, and even a shadow of their perpetual duration, can be established by the most modern methods of destruction”.

“We had the idea that amends could somehow be made for just about everything. But not for this. Something happened there to which we cannot reconcile ourselves. None of us ever can.”

At first, in trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, Arendt thought that perhaps Kant was right; perhaps there lurks, within the human mind, a capacity for “radical evil”, which acts with a diabolic force that can neither be explained nor understood by the conventional “evil motives of selfinterest, greed, covetousness, resentment, lust for power, and cowardice”.

But as she reflected on the sheer scale of what had been done, Arendt found Kant’s account unsatisfactory. There were, for sure, plenty of monsters among the murderers; but vicious hatred was far less evident than might have been expected among the tens of thousands of people implicated in the killing machine. “At every level, the Nazis produced more evil, with less malice, than civilisation had previously known.”

That “banality of evil”, she argued, was only possible because so many Germans had suspended their sense of judgment: the capacity, when the accepted norms have evaporated and the guidance of tradition has broken down, to think critically for oneself.

The faculty of judgment “will not find out, once and for all, what ‘the good’ is” but “when the worst have lost their fear and the best have lost their hope, and everybody is swept away unthinkingly by what everybody else does and believes in”, the criterion it imposes — “whether I shall be able to live with myself in peace when the time has come to reflect on my deeds and words” — is all that stands between humanity and catastrophe.

And it was the courage to act on that criterion, and the conviction that their actions, however modest they might be, would form part of “the enduring chronicle of mankind”, that prompted ordinary people, such as Wehrmacht sergeant Anton Schmid, to risk their own lives to save those of others.

A devout Roman Catholic, Schmid hid Jews in his apartment, obtained work permits to save Jews from massacres, transferred Jews to safer locations, and aided the underground. It is estimated that he saved as many as 300 Jews before he was arrested, tortured and executed.

“The moral of such stories,” wrote Arendt, “is simple and within everybody’s grasp: it is that under conditions of terror most people will comply but some people will not. Humanly speaking, no more is required, and no more can reasonably be asked, for this planet to remain a place fit for human habitation.”

Whether, if tested, we would live up to that standard, we cannot know, and hopefully will never need to learn. Nor can we know what new and dreadful evils mankind, in its infinite inventiveness, reserves for the future.

What we do know is that the moral strength to think for ourselves remains as precious and as threatened as ever.

To say that is not to suggest that the dangers we face are in any way comparable to those braved by Schmid and the other “Righteous Among the Nations”. However, it is undeniable that the pressures to bow to mass opinion grow stronger every day, as does the hysteria that assails those who dare question the self-images of the age.

Those pressures do not come from the fear of disappearing into the “Nacht und Nebel” (night and fog) the Nazis promised their opponents. But as Alexis de Tocqueville warned nearly two centuries ago, it is rarely the thug who says “you will think as I do or die” who poses the greatest threat to liberal democracy.

Rather, it is the voice that proclaims: “You are free not to think as I do; but from this day forth you shall be a stranger among us. When you approach your fellow creatures, they will shun you as one who is impure. And even those who believe in your innocence will abandon you, lest they too, be shunned in turn.”

No doubt, our democracy will find a way of coping with those pressures, as it has with so many others. Whatever their defects, Australians retain a down-toearth practicality that has always inoculated them both to promises of a Second Coming and to claims of an impending apocalypse. And they still have that sardonic sense of humour that has made them notoriously unreceptive to humourless, conceited ratbags and tinhorn demagogues.

But each people must win their liberty every day afresh — a liberty to which nothing is more inimical than the godlike certainty that muzzles the voice of others, stops all discussion and reduces social relationships to an ant heap.

Seventy-five years after its liberation, Auschwitz’s last survivors are passing away; each anniversary, the commemorations become more of a diplomatic formality, in which ritual replaces memory.

Inexorably, the morning hangings, the specially designed benches on which inmates were whipped until every bone was broken, the cages in which prisoners were starved to death, the operating theatres where children were deliberately infected with disease, the gas chambers and crematoriums, are fading into history. For the sake of our common humanity, the lessons must not.