"I would be lying if I said that this book does not fill me with fear," writes Jacek Żakowski at the beginning of his essay Every Neighbor Has a Name [Gazeta Wyborcza, November 18/19, 2000]. The subject of Żakowski's essay, and of his interview with the historian Tomasz Szarota that precedes the essay in the same issue of the newspaper, is Jan Tomasz Gross's book Neighbors. Gross's book is about the murder of 1,600 Jewish citizens by the Polish residents of the town of Jedwabne in July 1941, shortly after the arrival of the German army in a part of eastern Poland that was previously occupied by the Soviets.
"This fear has three sources," Żakowski continues. "First, there are the facts" described by Gross, which unequivocally document the full horror of a massacre that lasted for several days and was perpetrated by the "neighbors" of the title, before the eyes of everyone. "Whatever it was that impelled them to that crime may still lie somewhere deep within them (within us? within me?)", writes Żakowski. Without a hint of equivocation or leniency, he analyzes the terrifying consequences of that reflection. The third reason for his fear is that "all of us share the responsibility for whether or not such things ever happen again"-and there is no guarantee that the future will not be equally murderous. "After Bosnia and Rwanda," writes Żakowski, "it is hard for us to be shocked by human cruelty." Reflecting on the individual evil that may well lurk within each of us, or reminding us that this evil may again reveal itself in all its murderous might in the future, Żakowski shows himself to be fully conscious of the challenge that the Jedwabne crime poses to our good feelings about ourselves.
However, the most important thread in the essay consists of Żakowski's reflections
upon the second of the fears aroused in him by the reading of Gross's book. Here, the
source of the fear is neither the events presented in the book nor the ever-present threat
that they could recur in the future. Żakowski's second fear stems from the fact that
"in appealing to the language of ethnic quantifiers, Gross runs the risk of causing
or contributing to further misfortunes"-to new crimes like the one in Jedwabne. It
is, in fact, not clear who could murder whom after reading Neighbors, but we all
know that language can indeed lead to crimes. This is what makes it so important to use
language in a responsible way.
The thesis that Gross "clearly pushes us in the direction of such language"
appears repeatedly in the essay. What sort of language is this? Żakowski answers this
question without ambivalence. "This is the language of ethnic war, of genocide."
Żakowski cautions us that "In Europe, we were reminded of the danger of such
[nationalistic - D.W.] quantifiers when we saw what happened in Bosnia." Żakowski
concludes: "I am all the more astonished at Jan Gross - who himself once heard that
language in Poland [Gross emigrated after March 1968 - D.W.], for now being ready to call it
forth again and to run the risk of nourishing ghosts that are on their way to
extinction."
If we were to take Żakowski's rhetoric seriously, we would have to place Neighbors
on the same bookshelf as the collected speeches of General Moczar and Radovan Karadzic. However, there is no
question of treating Gross's book that way, because Żakowski's charges are just as empty
as they are serious. Nevertheless, they cannot be passed over indifferently. Żakowski is
a respected journalist, and his text is the first important voice raised in Gazeta
Wyborcza on the subject of Neighbors.
It is not my intention to write about the Jedwabne crime here. Gross has written almost
everything about the facts themselves in his book, and the rest is up to the historians.
On the other hand, it is too early for a debate on the meaning of Jedwabne, since instead
of debate there has rather been silence broken only by the excellent articles in Rzeczpospolita
several months ago, and the easily predictable attacks from the Catholic-nationalist
press. Clearly, it is not the details of the Jedwabne crime-the worst known Polish crime
against the Jews-that are most important to Żakowski, either. Nor the first revelation of
this crime to the public. Nor an analysis of the circumstances that led to it, or of those
that led to its being covered in silence. Nor the failure to pose questions about the
consequences of this silence in terms of the accuracy of the image of the German
occupation that still functions in the minds of the Polish public. Nor even certain
factual shortcomings in Gross's book, as properly pointed out by both interlocutors in
Żakowski's interview with Szarota.
Żakowski builds his whole accusation on three quotations from Gross' s book. Someone might say that three quotations are too little to serve as the basis for a charge of "pushing in the direction of the language of genocide." Nevertheless, it is also the case that a few words can suffice to doom even a work of many volumes. Let us therefore examine Żakowski's evidence. Here are the incriminating passages:
"'[T]he 1,600 Jedwabne Jews were killed neither by the Nazis, nor by the NKVD , nor by the UB , but by society...' Might there not lie concealed here an important part of the answer to a question that haunts Polish public opinion: Why do the Jews have such an ingrained resentment towards the Poles, seemingly even more deeply rooted than their resentment towards the Germans themselves who, after all, were the inventors, initiators, and principal perpetrators of the Holocaust? And if, in collective Jewish memory, their Polish neighbors in numerous localities murdered them of their own free will-not on orders or as part of an organized, uniformed formation (and therefore, at least on the level of appearances, acting under compulsion)-then are the Poles not somehow, in the perceptions of the victims, particularly responsible for those acts? After all, a man in uniform who kills us is at least to a degree a state functionary; a civilian in that role is nothing more than a murderer... [In thinking] about the national pride and sense of identity rooted in the historical experience of many generations, we are not equally responsible for the shameful deeds of our forebears and countrymen?"
Żakowski deals briefly and decisively with these theses of Gross. In his opinion, the
assertion that the Jedwabne Jews were killed by "society" [the term used in the
Polish edition, rather than the "neighbors" of the American edition -
trans.]-the Polish society of the town of Jedwabne-is "a lie." He does not,
indeed, justify this assessment in his essay, but, in the accompanying interview with
Szarota, Żakowski asks, "So who is guilty in your opinion: the Germans, the dregs of
local society, members of the anti-Soviet underground out for revenge [for alleged Jewish
collaboration with the Soviets - D.W.], or the anti-Semitic society of Jedwabne? I have
the impression that Gross accepts too easily the view that the crime was the work of the
whole town." Szarota replies that indeed "the account . . . would rather
indicate that a relatively small group supported by the Germans terrorized the rest of the
inhabitants and committed the massacre that later covered all of Jedwabne with shame...
But just think how much courage would have been needed under such circumstances to stand
up to them."
In other words, Szarota does not agree with Gross's interpretation of the sources, as far
as the universality of the involvement of the Jedwabne Poles in the massacre is concerned.
This admissible difference in the evaluation of historical material suffices (even though
Szarota does not provide any justification for his position) for Żakowski to pronounce
judgment in categorical terms: since the involvement of all the Polish inhabitants of
Jedwabne in the massacre has not been proved beyond all doubt, then the thesis that
"society killed" the Jedwabne Jews is a lie [once again, this is the wording of
the Polish edition - trans.].
What about the responsibility of those who did not oppose the massacre? Szarota correctly
points out that doing so required great courage. However, while this may at best explain
passivity in the face of the crime, it cannot justify such passivity. Nevertheless,
Żakowski forges ahead: he points out that not only Poles, but also Jews failed to
protest. This is not a slip of the tongue. The emphasis on the lack of Jewish protest
returns three times in his questions to Szarota. In a word, if passivity is to burden the
consciences of the Poles, then it should burden the consciences of the Jews in the same
way, for they, too, failed to protest. This formulation is even more astounding than the
previous one.
Yet this is not all. In order to confront Gross's second thesis that the experience of
murder at Polish hands may have caused Jews to feel a resentment towards the Poles
"seemingly even more deeply rooted than their resentment towards the Germans,"
Żakowski simply replaces it with another. "Previously, the thesis that 'Jews blame
the Poles more than the Germans for the Holocaust' was something that I came across mainly
in anti-Semitic hate literature," notes Żakowski, and says: "I reject the
language in which such views can be expressed." Yet the view that Żakowski so
categorically rejects is one that Gross never even expressed. It is true that such
formulations occur, very rarely, in statements by some Jewish authors. Such statements are
just as representative of Jewish opinion as a view sometimes expressed in the pages of
silly hate literature - that wealthy Jews from the West made use of Hitler to kill off the
poor Jews from the East-is representative of Polish opinion. Jewish authors, after all,
have no doubt that the Germans, in Gross's words as quoted by Żakowski himself,
"were the inventors, initiators, and principal perpetrators of the Holocaust."
There is, however, a certain difference between "blaming more" and "having
a more deeply rooted resentment" (and note that Gross qualifies this with the word
"seemingly"). It is puzzling that Żakowski seems not to notice the difference.
Would such resentment not be understandable, furthermore, if it happened often enough
during the war that Polish neighbors took upon themselves the role of helpers in the
German work of the Holocaust, and then kept silent about it for half a century? And if,
when the truth finally began to come out, those who revealed it were accused of
"pushing us in the direction of the language of genocide"?
The Jedwabne affair has made it impossible for us to go on rejecting the possibility that
Poles may have committed the mass murder of Jews in some other places, as well. At
present, we know about such a massacre only in nearby Radziłów. This is too little to
categorically assert the memory by Jews of Polish complicity, which is why Gross himself
puts it in the grammatical conditional. But what we already know is enough for us to pose
such a qualified thesis. What is more, posing such a thesis is, in the light of the facts,
both a scholarly and a moral imperative.
Żakowski's polemic completely evades precisely this aspect. First, Żakowski groundlessly
imputes to Gross a thesis about the supposed attribution by the Jews of greater
responsibility for the Holocaust to the Poles than to the Germans, then he rejects this
thesis in outrage, and finally denies the possibility of attributing responsibility for
anything to anyone except the direct perpetrators. Here, his polemic with the second
thesis passes over noiselessly into a polemic with the third. "There is no
responsibility for grandfathers and great-grandfathers," he writes, "because
those not yet born had no way of restraining them . . . Jan Tomasz Gross is responsible
for himself, and I am responsible for myself. Neither of us has the right to complain to
the other about his countrymen or forebears."
Żakowski is right. We are not free to keep reproaching others about their countrymen
or forebears. Like him, everyone can demand that the deeds of others not be charged to
their account. "I am irritated by the language of large-scale quantifiers," he
writes, "which attempts to implicate me in culpability for a crime committed half a
century ago only because I am a Pole." Żakowski has the right to demand that he not
be implicated in anything else having to do with Poles, blameworthy or praiseworthy, only
because he is a Pole. We all make up our personal identity at will, the things that shame
us as well as the things we are proud of, from among the elements of the collective
identity. Żakowski is aware of this. "I am ready to surrender even my pride in Tischner or Copernicus, and in Plato as well, for
the sake of such an understanding [of the question of implication in culpability -
D.W.]," he writes. Aside from the somewhat problematical Polishness of Plato, such a
standpoint is clear.
However, it should be equally clear to Żakowski that his individual opting out of the
community of the implicated does not cancel out the existence of that community. To the
same degree that I identify with some collective, I bear consciously and by choice a
responsibility for the things it has done, good and evil, now and in the past. As opposed
to the furnishing of the individual identity according to one's choice, responsibility is
a package deal. No one can opt out of Polish responsibility for the crime of Jedwabne, let
us say, while at the same time remaining entitled to forgive anyone in the name of the
Poles for crimes committed against Poles, no matter who committed them.
Żakowski's recipe has already been applied in practice, although this may be the first
time it has been formulated in print. In Russia, as in Poland, there is no sense of
collective responsibility for crimes committed by Russians. One of the reasons for this is
that the Russians-again, like the Poles-have more often been victims than perpetrators. In
such a situation it is hard to be surprised by a disinclination to look into the darker
pages of their own history. But it is also hard not to notice the results of such an
attitude, not only in connection with the relations between today's Russians and the
descendants of the victims of Russian crimes, but also in reference to their own fate. A
society that tolerates silence about its own crimes does not know how to unequivocally
condemn the crimes committed against it. If the fact that some Poles were murdered in Katyn is nothing to worry about, then there is no
way to feel outrage at the fact that some Russians (not to mention Poles, as well) were
murdered in Kolyma.* In such a society, the party of the builders of the Gulag can go on
being a leading political force.
The Germans did otherwise. They did not apply Żakowski's recipe-for they did not have the
option. The crimes committed against Germans in the final phase of the war can hardly be
compared with the limitless evil that the Germans did in Europe. The acceptance of
collective responsibility for those crimes and its transfer to the following generations
not only made it possible for the Germans to find reconciliation with the descendants of
their victims. It also turned Germany into a state that is profoundly democratic, ruled
according to law, and sensitive to wrongdoing. Clearly, Jedwabne is not Katyn or
Treblinka. Nor is there any responsibility on the part of the Polish state for crimes
committed when Poland was under occupation. Nevertheless, it is worth comparing the
experience of those who applied Żakowski's recipe in practice, and those who rejected it.
Żakowski does not want to assume responsibility for crimes that he did not commit
himself. He is within his rights in this, and need in no way justify his decision. He did
so nevertheless, and the justification deserves separate treatment. In his opinion,
"tribal" language - which he says Gross resorts to in speaking of the
responsibility of the Jedwabne society for the murder of Jews or the resentment of Jews
against Poles-is "the language of misfortune." "It is the language, we must
remember, of ethnic war, of genocide." This is why Żakowski is so firmly opposed to
Gross's use of "large-scale quantifiers," such as speaking about "all"
Poles or Jews.
Never mind that Gross never even comes close to resorting to large-scale quantifiers. In
the flood of totally groundless accusations that Żakowski unleashes on him, this
additional one makes little difference. The thing is, however, that Żakowski is obviously
right in his criticism of "the language of large-scale quantifiers," especially
when applied to guilt for crimes committed in the past. He is right-with one important
exception.
Without the use of this language of "large-scale quantifiers" it is, as
Żakowski correctly notes, impossible to incite hatred-but it is also impossible to lay it
to rest. Crime is impossible, but so is reconciliation. Genocide, but also brotherhood.
German-Jewish (but also German-Polish) reconciliation would have been impossible without
Willy Brandt's gesture at the Warsaw monument to the Heroes of the Ghetto. When he knelt
there, the German chancellor acknowledged past crimes in the name of all Germans-and asked
that those crimes be forgiven. He was credible when he did so because, as chancellor, he
had the right to represent all Germans.
Willy Brandt could have said that he did not wish to be "implicated in the crimes of
a quarter of a century before," and his biography would have given him a particular
right to say so. Yet he did not do so. Although he was innocent of it, he took upon
himself the burden of the past. By doing so, he overcame it. If he had repudiated that
burden, he could not have done so. Mutatis mutandis, Lech Wałęsa did something
similar in the Knesset when he asked forgiveness for the wrong done to Jews by Poles. Only
by speaking in a credible way and in the name of their collectives could Brandt and
Wałęsa overcome the past.
The point here is not only bringing closure to the past, but also taking responsibility
for the future, and this is the reason for the third of Żakowski's fears. Throughout the
existence of socialist Yugoslavia, no one ever appeared in the name of the Croatian nation
to ask the Serbs for forgiveness of the crime of genocide committed against them during
the Second World War. No such person appeared because Tito and his successors, out of
concern for the endurance of their regime, took pains to prevent anyone from acquiring a
mandate to speak in the name of the Croatians. It was therefore impossible for a Croatian
Willy Brandt to appear-which was nevertheless proof to the Serbs that the Croatians did
not feel guilty for their crimes, and could therefore repeat them, and that this needed
therefore to be prevented. We know the bloody sequel.
Books like Neighbors, the pioneering studies of the postwar fate of the Germans in
the north and west [of Poland], and the studies of the violence-soaked history of
Polish-Ukrainian relations are vitally necessary in Poland. They are no less necessary
than works documenting the crimes to which Poles fell victim, so that we might know where
we wronged others, and where we were wronged. And also so that, having asked forgiveness
in the former cases and having forgiven in the latter, we can all finally arrive at the
sort of moral order in which it will no longer be possible for anyone "to be
implicated in culpability for a crime" from half a century ago only because he is a
Pole (or a Russian, or a German, or a Ukrainian, or...).