Bloodbath before dawn: The last years of WWII were among the most brutal

Two books obsessed with human savagery.

Warsaw 1944: the Fateful Uprising
Alexandra Richie
William Collins, 400pp, £25

Year Zero: a History of 1945
Ian Buruma
Atlantic Books, 368pp, £25

Almost 70 years have passed since the destruction of Warsaw by Nazi forces following the suppression of a revolt led by the Polish Home Army. With the German army on the retreat and Soviet troops advancing, the directorate of the Home Army – the organised resistance movement linked to the government- in-exile in London – thought the moment was right for a rebellion against the occupying forces; this would demonstrate the anti-Nazi spirit of the Polish people, forestalling potential Soviet accusations of collaboration or inaction, and give the government- in-exile a presence on the ground with which to assert its legitimacy in the face of the threatened Soviet takeover.

On 1 August 1944, armed insurgents attacked the German occupiers across the city, gaining control of most areas within a few days. However, pockets of German resistance remained and gradually reinforcements began to push back against the rebels. Hard fighting continued for two months, until the Poles were forced finally to capitulate on 2 October. Enraged by their stubbornness, Hitler gave orders for the city to be razed to the ground.

A good deal of Warsaw had already been severely damaged – in the bombing that accompanied the German invasion in September 1939, in the course of the fighting in 1944 and in an earlier, equally unsuccessful armed uprising, staged by the Jewish inhabitants of the Warsaw ghetto in the spring of 1943. The Germans now demolished most of the rest of the city, including the National Library, the university, churches, public buildings and people’s homes.

Out of a million people living in the city at the start of the rebellion, as many as 200,000 had been killed or had died of disease and starvation in the course of the fighting. Himmler, the head of the SS, had ordered early in the conflict that the rest of the population should be killed. In the event, the surrender allowed many to survive, although they all had to abandon their homes and leave the city.

The story of the Warsaw Uprising has been told many times, notably by Norman Davies in Rising ’44 (2003), published shortly before the 60th anniversary of the event. Alexandra Richie’s important new book contributes fresh detail, based on the private archive of her Polish father-in-law, who took part in the fighting. Her account is in some respects more critical than earlier ones. The insurgents, she notes, were poorly equipped, few in number and misled by inadequate intelligence. They underestimated the Germans, whose morale they thought had been gravely damaged by the Soviet victories of “Operation Bagration”, which had begun in June. They also believed that the Nazi regime had been fatally weakened by the events of 20 July 1944, when a group of army officers had narrowly failed to blow Hitler up at his field headquarters in Rastenburg, East Prussia.

The uprising was launched just as a German counteroffensive began to repel the Red Army. Stalin, Richie points out, had originally intended to take the city. By the time the Red Army resumed its advance, the uprising was in full swing. Its leaders should have waited until the military situation had become clear. Moreover, the only result of the July bomb plot was that Hitler entrusted the suppression of the rebellion to the SS, which lacked even the modicum of restraint shown by the regular German army in dealing with insurgents.

Critical though it is, Richie’s account is marred by a simplistic Polish nationalism that leads to sweeping statements, such as her assertion that “collaboration was unthinkable” for Poles in 1939. “There was,” she writes confidently, “simply no thought of co-operation with the enemy.” Contemporaries reported an altogether different situation. The doctor Zygmunt Klukowski, writing in his diary in 1940, condemned the many Poles who denounced fellow citizens to the Nazis, looted Jewish property or volunteered for work in Germany. Polish police officers, he complained, were now working for the German occupying authorities. “I never expected the morale of the Polish population to sink so low,” he wrote, “with such a complete lack of national pride.” Klukowski later joined the resistance, which, as in most other parts of Europe, only gradually gained adherents. His lament gets no mention in Richie’s book.

Far from being the “freedom-loving and independent people” that Richie portrays, Poles had lived for years under an authoritarian military regime in a political culture that, after a century and a half of the suppression of their statehood, lacked a strong democratic basis. Nevertheless, the government-in-exile was clearly preparing for a postwar democracy of some kind. It was this that Stalin wanted to pre-empt; he ordered a pause in the Red Army’s advance until long after the Home Army had surrendered, entering Warsaw on 17 January 1945. While the Nazis sent thousands of military and civilian survivors to camps or into forced labour in Germany, the Soviet occupiers shot members of the Home Army, continuing the policy of massacre and repression they had begun in the eastern part of Poland when they occupied it in September 1939.

Richie’s narrative focuses on the atrocities committed by the Germans as they took back the city street by street. The rapes, murders, tortures, mutilations and cruelties of every description, committed especially by the Dirlewanger SS brigade (consisting largely of prisoners released from German military jails) and by the collaborationist “Russian national liberation army”, almost defy description. Richie narrates them in stomachchurning detail but neglects to describe the military action with enough precision to make the course of events comprehensible.

It is also a pity that she does not make use of the voluminous letters and diaries of Wilm Hosenfeld, the German officer who rescued and hid the Polish-Jewish pianist Władysław Szpilman, whose story was recounted in Roman Polanski’s 2002 film The Pianist, to give a more nuanced account of the German occupation, brutal though it was.

Atrocities are also at the centre of Ian Buruma’s Year Zero, a panoramic account of the events of 1945 in both Europe and Asia. In the past, Buruma has produced sensitive and informed reportage on culture in Germany and especially Japan, and his Wages of Guilt, a comparative study of contemporary memory of the Second World War in the two countries, has deservedly become a classic. However, this new book, an attempt at a purely historical study, does not match up to his earlier journalistic achievements. It begins with a long narrative of rape, sexuality and prostitution that verges on the prurient, the more so as this narrative resurfaces in other chapters. During the war, he writes, “Female collaboration with the enemy was mostly about sex.” But this isn’t true: women collaborated in a variety of ways – as secretaries, administrators, clerks, cooks, housekeepers and many other roles that he leaves undiscussed.

When it comes to Poland, Buruma focuses on postwar anti-Semitism, on the prejudice and discrimination, spilling over into violence and pogroms, which marred the restoration of civil society in 1945. The picture he paints is as one-sided as Richie’s determined downplaying of the anti-Semitism that was rife in some units of the Home Army.

He seems to think that the millions of “displaced persons” put in camps at the end of the war were mostly Jewish but they were not; the majority were non-Jewish slave labourers and prisoners of war from all over Europe. He quotes David Ben-Gurion’s claim that the inmates of the Nazi concentration camp at Belsen were all Jewish but this, too, is wrong. Buruma misunderstands the nature of the denazification process, which was intended not just to root out Nazism from German culture but also to extirpate more deep-rooted militarism and authoritarianism, represented by institutions such as student duelling corporations or, indeed, the state of Prussia.

What comes across most strongly from Year Zero is the depth and breadth of the hatreds that raged across Europe and Asia in the last months of the war and the first months of peace. Everywhere, with the approval or even under the direction of the Allied governments, people who had suffered for years under the rule of the Germans or the Japanese took matters into their own hands and exacted revenge.

In France, individuals identified as collaborators were humiliated, tortured, beaten, murdered. In Germany, marauding Red Army troops looted, raped and killed at will. Eleven million ethnic Germans were forcibly expelled from Poland, Czechoslovakia and other eastern European countries, while an unknown number perished en route to safety in Germany. Colonial subjects in Malaya, having seen their masters humiliated by the Japanese, dragged “traitors and running dogs” through the streets to summary execution; in Indonesia bands of young toughs attacked Eurasians and other minorities using machetes and guns taken from the Japanese.

Buruma’s last couple of chapters are devoted to the Allied effort to restore order amid all the mayhem. The rule of law was asserted in the courtrooms of the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg and its equivalent in the Far East. Vengeful former members of the resistance were gradually disarmed. The process of reconstruction began. Nazi and militarist propaganda was banned, its products destroyed. “Re-education” got under way, with some, especially the British, seeking to rescue the “good” Germany of Goethe and Beethoven from the “bad” of Bismarck and Hitler and others aiming to replace a fatally compromised German culture with the best democratic products of modern France or the United States.

A successful democracy had to be anchored in a successful economy, as the Third Reich’s ill-fated predecessor the Weimar Republic had not been; yet the widespread starvation and malnutrition of the last phase of the war, especially in the Far East, made it difficult to create the right conditions. In Germany, the punitive intentions of the Americans, who initially wanted to stop the Germans from experiencing any improvement in their standard of living, were only gradually displaced by a more positive policy, adopted mainly because of the fear that hunger and destitution would drive West Germans into the arms of the communists. With the beginning of the cold war gradually came an attitude of forgive and forget on the part of the western Allies, mindful of the need to bolster West German and Japanese morale in the face of the threat from the Soviet Union and communist China.

Buruma tells this story largely through anecdote and quotation and this often makes it difficult to pick out an overall argument from the detail. He gives too little attention to the broad outlines of policy and the framing conditions of the economy. There’s been a great deal of scholarly work in recent years on the troubled transition from war to peace in 1945 but you wouldn’t guess so from Year Zero.

Both of these books seem obsessed with human savagery. Focusing on people’s personal experiences in the last months of the war and the first months of peace makes for gripping accounts in the hands of these two skilled, literate and fluent writers. Yet both of them neglect the world of military strategy, high politics, diplomacy, international action and institutional processes to such an extent that neither book quite succeeds in painting a coherent or comprehensive picture of its chosen subject.

Richard J Evans is Regius Professor of History at Cambridge. His books include “The Third Reich at War” (Penguin, £12.99)

A view of Ulica Swietokrzyska (Holy Cross Street) in central Warsaw after the 1944 rebellion. Image: Roger-Viollet/Getty

This article first appeared in the 17 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Austerity Pope

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“Trump is a great opportunity for us writers": Zadie Smith on fighting back

The author of Swing Time on Michael Jackson, female friendships and how writers can bring down Donald Trump.

In a packed college lecture hall at the Cambridge Literary Festival on 22 November, Zadie Smith joined me on stage to talk about her fifth novel. Swing Time is the story of an unnamed narrator and her childhood friend – “two brown girls” – which begins at a church hall dance class and never quite lets them go, throughout their divergent lives. Despite being a little jet-lagged from her flight from New York – where she lives with her husband, the poet and novelist Nick Laird, and their two children – Smith spoke with the cool, lucid intelligence familiar from her essays and criticism as well as her fiction. “You’re so quiet compared to American audiences,” she said to the crowd. “American audiences say thing like, ‘Uh huh! Yeah!’ just randomly in the middle of things.” Met with reverential silence, she was free to navigate fluidly between racial identity, female friendship, Barack Obama’s legacy and her love of Mad Men.

New Statesman Swing Time is about many things, but it is dance that gives the story its rhythm and arc. What’s your own relationship with dance?

Zadie Smith For me, it’s a joy. I’m a 41-year-old woman; I don’t dance that much any more. My children don’t enjoy me dancing in any context, but I love to watch it, and I found out writing this book that I love to think about it.

 

NS As a child, the narrator is absorbed by classic musicals and through them she discovers a handful of black dancers – the Nicholas Brothers, the young Jeni LeGon – who take on huge significance for her. Did these figures have that kind of impact on you?

ZS No, Jeni LeGon is someone I only found out about writing this book, so I had to construct what it would have been like to know about her aged five or eight; it’s like a fake memoir. But I loved that kind of early dance, and I recognise the instinct a lot of black and Asian children of my generation might have: the sense of counting the brown faces wherever we saw them, in a slightly desperate way. I definitely did that, in my everyday life, switching on the BBC and hoping to see Daley Thompson, or whoever – this kind of search for a reflection.

 

NS There were major black stars in the 1980s: the narrator’s friend Tracey idolises Michael Jackson and Prince.

ZS Michael Jackson’s a really interesting example, because he’s such a traumatising figure for a whole generation of kids! You were offered him as this wonder – this incredible black dancer – who then you had to watch throughout your childhood become un-black. You had to have this magical thinking and believe that he had a mysterious skin disease that does not manifest in that way in any other human on Earth, and that all this surgery also had nothing to do with it. It required a great deal of denial, and I think it did something very odd to a generation of children. He certainly loomed large in my mind as a figure of such penetrating self-hatred and self-disgust. Perhaps I have a suspicion of role models exactly for that reason, that you’re offered something – a model of behaviour or thought – but it can only ever be narrow. And then, when it goes traumatically wrong, as it did in poor Michael’s case, you’re left slightly rudderless.

 

NS You wrote that the Nicholas Brothers remind you of a line that a mother tells her daughter, that she needs to be twice as good as the other kids. This sentiment crops up in NW and in Swing Time, too.

ZS When I meet black British kids of my generation, that’s what all their mothers said to them. But with the Nicholas Brothers, I was also thinking about talent, because the novel is about different relations of power: in friendships, in families, between countries.

One of the things power is based on is the feeling that someone has a natural right to a certain amount of things. If you’re born into a situation, what accrues to you because of that? If you’re born into an unfortunate situation, what do you deserve in replacement for that? Politics lies along those lines. But talent is interesting because people on both sides of the political divide tend to think of it as a natural bounty not to be interfered with. The Nicholas Brothers are so extraordinarily talented that it’s a kind of offence to our most democratic thoughts. Why do these boys dance like that? How is it possible to have those kinds of gifts in the world, and what should you get because of them?

 

NS Did the Nicholas Brothers get the recognition that their talent deserved?

ZS Well, it was complicated, because they would do these extraordinary routines, but the studio always ensured they weren’t integral to the plot, so that when the films went south of the Mason-Dixon line, you could just cut the offending scene. So that was their experience – a very painful one, I think. But they were extraordinary professionals and Astaire spoke so well of them.

When I was a kid, what preoccupied me even more than the movies themselves was the idea of what was going on behind the scenes, between these black actors and the directors, the producers, the other actors. Because even though someone like Fred Astaire was a supporter of these artists, he didn’t actually actively help them on set. There’s a moment in Easter Parade when a maid comes in with a pug in her arms, and that maid is Jeni LeGon. Astaire knew who she was and how talented a dancer she was and yet he allowed her to appear for 35 seconds in a movie, passing him a dog.

 

NS In Swing Time, the narrator goes on to work for a pop star who is busily incorporating African imagery and clothing into her routines. What’s your take on this idea of cultural appropriation?

ZS Aimee, the pop star, says something that I don’t disagree with, which is that art involves an act of love, and of imitation. I would maybe use the word “voyeurism”. I think of myself explicitly as a voyeur, somebody who wants to be inside other people’s lives. To write On Beauty, I wanted to know: what’s it like to be a middle-aged, white male academic? Or in The Autograph Man, what’s it like to be a young, Chinese-Jewish guy who collects autographs? I guess sometimes the reader thinks it’s not appropriation when I’m writing about an older, black American woman – but I’m not an older, black American woman. It’s all voy­eurism on my part. But the way it’s argued a lot of the time, on both sides, is so vulgar.

Also, I feel that the identity facts of your life are so profoundly contingent – where your parents happened to be on the day you were born – that I can only take identity ­seriously as an act of commitment and love. I don’t think it runs through your blood. It is a compulsion. You have chosen to become, for example, British, even if you were born British and your great-grandfather was British. Being British is a kind of engagement; you have to commit to the idea of a culture.

 

NS In terms of identity, the narrator defines herself by the light other people cast on her. She’s almost a negative space.

ZS I felt that I wanted an “I” who was like a void, partly from my own sensibility – I recognise myself as a person of some passivity – but also in response to the performance of a certain kind of persona, particularly among young people. My students have a very firm sense of their “I”, or say they do, and they take that “I” on to the various social platforms and into their lives. It’s a type of presentation. But the kind of person that I was thinking about is asking, “What did I do here, there and then? What does it mean?” She’s working out, “Who am I?” but it comes from action, not from a series of staged performances. I knew it would be a slightly unnerving experience, because we’ve got so used to opening a book or reading a blog or watching Instagram and being presented with this full technicolour person with all these qualities. I felt that maybe in my novel, I could try something else.

 

NS When asked about the target audience for their book, writers usually say that they don’t write for an audience, or they write for themselves. But you have said that Swing Time was written explicitly for black girls.

ZS That’s how I felt when I was writing it. I did have somebody I was trying to speak to, and that might be no different to writing the kind of book – as writers often say – that you might have hoped to read when you were young. I was aware of an explicit imagined reader. I can’t deny that was in my mind. These are not normal times, and I think even writers as domestic or comic as I generally am find themselves in a more political place than they would in peaceful times. Being in America the past few years, I felt I had a lot of things that I had to get on paper, to get off my chest.

 

NS One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the relationship between the two girls. Do you think there’s something particularly fraught and complex about female friendships?

ZS I feel that perhaps in the past – because so much was written by men, because the women were with the children – relations between women have been depicted with very simple concepts like envy, or the idea of the bitch fight. And now that women are writing so much more frequently and the men in their lives are helping with the children, I think you’re getting for the first time in a very long time a different depiction of intimate female relations.

One of the things that strike me is that the much-vaunted envy between women is also a kind of radical imagination, in that women are always in each other’s business; they can imagine each other’s lives with great intensity. When I was writing this book, I was with my daughter at a children’s party, parting from another girl who wanted to know every little thing about where we were going next. I compared that with my son, who, if he’s saying goodbye to a friend, is just like, “See ya!” and doesn’t even remember they exist until the next morning.

That ability of girls to project their imagination into somebody else’s life can have toxic elements, but also seems to me an extraordinary fictional instinct, and might explain the domination of women in the novel historically, when so many other art forms were practically blocked for them. The novel, to me, is a woman’s art. I don’t say men don’t have enormous achievements in it, of course, but it has a strong female element, exactly because of that projection, which can be called empathy, I suppose, but is also a deep curiosity and voyeurism.

 

NS We tend to associate male relationships with power struggles, but aren’t female friendships equally involved in exchanges of power and power games?

ZS Right. I think it can be sometimes invisible to men, because the form of the power game can be so inverted. There is a very funny Amy Schumer sketch of four women meeting in a park in New York and competitively downgrading themselves: “You look nice!” “No, I look like something pulled out of the trash.” On it goes until they explode. All women will recognise that, and it’s a compulsive English habit. I do it all the time. Someone says to me, “You look nice.” I say, “Oh, Topshop, 15 quid.” That habit maybe doesn’t look like power from the outside, but all women know exactly what they’re doing when they’re doing these things.

 

NS In your fiction, mother-daughter relationships seem equally fraught.

ZS Even though I know a lot of women have difficult relationships with their mothers, what’s amusing, and kind of moving, too, is the amnesia. When they have children, women cannot imagine the idea that maybe this lovely two-year-old will one day do ­anything to avoid calling you between Sunday and Sunday – they can’t conceive of it, even as they’re doing it to their own mothers. I guess I never had that illusion about motherhood. I always thought, “This is going to be terrible,” so anything that’s good is a kind of bonus. I was very surprised when my kids started saying the normal things that kids say, that they love you.

Then there are the sweet delusions of what you want and what the child wants. I can’t tell you how many times people in New York have said to me things like, “I’m going to go and get a massage, because if I’m happy, the child’s happy.” You want to believe that you want the same things at the same time, but exactly the opposite is true. The child wants everything, and it’s the mother’s decision how much she’s going to give. I find that battle kind of comic and sweet and interesting, and certainly having children has reanimated it in my fiction.

 

NS What was your involvement in the recent BBC television adaptation of NW?

ZS When they started, I was pregnant and I just couldn’t engage with it at all. So I just said, “Do whatever you like.” I saw it only two weeks ago on my laptop – very anxious, with my husband, Nick, late at night – and I was just so happy and amazed at that scriptwriter [Rachel Bennette] and all the things she cut so effectively. I’m not in the habit of being moved by my own material, but the power of it struck me, particularly the section with Felix. You see so many people stabbed, all the time, in movies and on TV, and you never really understand the weight of the life being lost – and the actor playing Felix managed to die.

I’m going to try to adapt Swing Time for TV, probably with Nick, because he’s much more of a plot guy. I’m excited. I love telly.
I don’t have original taste – I love all the usual suspects. I think Mad Men is stunning.
I felt like it was a dream life that I was in, and when it was gone I felt really depleted, like I couldn’t have that dream every night, with all those beautiful men and women in it.

 

NS You’ve long been associated with the idea of “multicultural London”, but what comes out strongly in your recent work is a sense of division. Do you feel more pessimistic about London as a mixed community?

ZS Particularly in America, I’ll be asked, “Are you a supporter of this thing multiculturalism, and now can you admit that it’s failed?” What’s being said is that the conditions of your childhood were a kind of experiment, and it turns out it hasn’t gone well, so we’re going to revoke that – it’s over now. I find it kind of unnerving, because millions of people around the world are still living with each other in mixed situations, and I also don’t accept the premise that a homogeneous society is by its nature more peaceful and more likely to succeed. The Romans, the Greeks, the Northern Irish, England for 400 years . . . There’s no reason to believe that. I never felt that a heterogeneous society was perfect. But I think there are promising things in my community, and I don’t accept the idea of an experiment shut down, finished: these are people’s lives.

But what certainly is the case, I feel, is that you cannot, on the left or on the right, assume that a historical situation will remain in perpetuity. If you value things in that ­society, you have to restate them, reimagine them, and the kind of housing crisis we have in London now makes various conditions I grew up in impossible. There will always be rich and poor but, as [Thomas] Piketty makes the case, the gap is so extraordinary now. To have allowed it to get to this almost feudal situation, I don’t see how it can’t create deep cracks within civilised life. The ­division in London is a financial one. It feels extreme and it has extreme consequences.

 

NS In 2008, you wrote an essay full of cautious hope that Obama’s mode of speaking might be the thing required to pull the country together. How do you feel looking back at that moment now?

ZS On the morning of this election, I heard a young black girl on the subway ­speaking very loudly about why she’d voted for Trump. One of her reasons – a kind of “Face­book fact” – was that Obama created fewer jobs than Bush, which I believe had been going round the right-wing sites. In some of the big car towns, Obama saved so many jobs – but it’s hard to sell the counterfactual idea that there would be 800,000 fewer jobs here had this not happened.

But I think another counterfactual will be in his favour soon, and that is all the ways in which Obama is calm. Recently in New York, we had a small terrorist attack in Chelsea. Try to imagine Donald’s response to that. And so I think that over the next four years, all the ways in which Obama has not done many things that would have led us into terrible situations will become very clear, very quickly. It’s a painful way to secure your legacy, but that’s the way I see it.

 

NS As a New Yorker, what has your experience been over the past few weeks?

ZS I left the morning after it happened, because I had to go to Europe. When we turned up at my son’s daycare, the teachers were crying. My friend told me that the pizza delivery guy came that evening and burst into tears at the door. It was traumatic.

My gut feeling is that the job of American journalists and writers is going to be to somehow defy the normalisation of what’s happening. I think there are positive signs. It blows my mind that a man who is meant to be preparing to be leader of the free world watched Saturday Night Live [in which Alec Baldwin played Trump] and tweeted three times about it. So, in one sense, it’s a great opportunity for all of us artists, comedians, writers, because he’s so easily wound up! It gives the press an opportunity to be a real fourth estate and do something significant. Which could perhaps lead to impeachment. It’s promising, from our point of view.

“Swing Time” by Zadie Smith is published by Hamish Hamilton

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage