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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The Wallets

A short story by Colin Barrett.

Doon was doing nothing, just killing time, while he waited for his mam to finish at meeting. Once she went down the steps into the basement he got out of there. The hour was too long to wait and he did not like seeing the others. There was always one freshly dire specimen hanging around outside, wrung-eyed and jitter-limbed and making a pitiable hames of trying to light up a cigarette. Sometimes he recognised the parent of some kid out of his class. He didn’t want to see the parents and he didn’t want them to see him. The meetings were another world. His mam went down there and an hour later she came back out.

He did laps of the town with his hoodie up. The drawstrings of his hoodie had little laminate tubes at the end that flailed as he walked. It was autumn, blond and ochre and umber leaves matted together and turning to slick mush underfoot. He was wearing dark olive combat boots laced tight, the ends of his combat trousers crimped into the tops of the boots. Passing an apartment block he saw something on the blue wooden slats of a bench seat. It was a wallet. He commended himself for noticing it and kept right on walking. As he walked he clenched his stomach muscles, an isometric exercise to promote definition and also a means of keeping warm.

He browsed a Men’s Fitness magazine in a newsagents, reread three times an article detailing the correct techniques for executing power cleans and deadlifts off the rack, and bought a large raspberry slushie. He’d loved slushies as a kid. Every six months or so, usually in one of the small newsagents still scattered around the town, he’d notice the plastic rotors mesmerically churning the blue- and blood-coloured ice in their transparent bins, and would buy one. Only after tasting it would he remember how nauseating they were. Three strawfuls in and there was already the sickly sensation of the syrup turning in his stomach and a bout of brainfreeze running through his head like static.

He went a few doors down, into the lobby of the Western Range Hotel. Still stubbornly sucking on the slushie, he strolled into the hotel bar. The bar was a spacious rectangle of smoked glass, carved teak and piped muzak, and went back a long way. Four men in suits were stalled by the counter, luggage cases on wheels poised beside them like immaculately behaved pets. A pair of them bid goodbye to the others, and headed towards the lobby. Doon watched the automated doors, the way they seemed to flinch before smoothly and decisively giving way. To escape the chatter of the remaining men he went and stood at the far end of the room. A recessed bank of floor-to-ceiling windows yielded a direct view on to the town’s main street, already streaming with Saturday morning shoppers. He watched the flow of bodies, the pockets of arrest within the flow. Directly across the street was the gated rear entrance to the county district court. The gating was innocuous, black bars without identifying signage, and if you did not know it led into the court, you would not have been able to tell. The gate was ajar, a concrete step leading down into the narrow mouth of an alley. In the alley a tall redheaded woman in a suit jacket was urgently conferring with a rough unit on one crutch. The man’s smashed-and-resmashed-looking face, the colour of baked clay, was tilted towards the sky. It was impossible to tell his age. He was leaning on his crutch and staring into the blazing nullity of the sky as the woman attempted to direct his attention to something in the heavy-looking black ledger she was holding tucked against her diaphragm. A page lifted up, levitated free of the ledger and fluttered down the street. The woman cursed, slammed closed the ledger, and stooped after the page as it curlicued along at shin level. The man turned his face from the sky and stared with bovine dispassion at her scooting, bobbing rump.

“You can’t eat that in here.”

Doon turned. The barman was behind him, a kid not much older than Doon with awry lugs glowing either side of his head, his black barman’s shirt squeezed over a snub-nosed paunch.

“I’m not eating anything.”

“That.” The barman pointed at the slushie. “Can’t eat that in here.”

“Don’t make me correct you again, I’m not eating anything,” Doon said, and took an emphatic suck of the slushie. From the depth of the plastic cup came a clotted suctioning noise that reminded him of being at the dentist: Snnnrgggkkk.

“C’mon man,” the barman said, his fussy little face turning the same colour as his lugs. “Just go finish it outside.”

“You get at all your potential customers like this?”

“You’re not a customer.”

“Could’ve been a case I was about to be.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“Even if you want something, you’ve to finish that outside first.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“So no one’s allowed just stand here for five minutes, make their mind up on giving you their custom.”

“Not no one,” the barman said, “but you’re you. You’ve to take that outside.”

“Nah.”

“C’mon.”

“This is profiling, lad,” Doon said.

The two men remaining at the bar were watching this exchange. The older, a tall lean man with grey hair, laughed, then cut the air with his hand, like enough.

“Lad’s got a point,” the grey-haired man said to the barman, indicating Doon with a nod of his head.

“We have a policy,” the barman croaked.

“What’s that?” The man went on, “Harass the kid with the skint head and hoodie? So he’s eating a slushie, so what? I worked in a bar myself when I was a young buck. Just let the shift see itself out if it’s going quiet, lad and don’t give patrons grief that aren’t giving you grief.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“See, listen to the oul fella,” Doon said and grinned at the man.

The man grinned back.

“Let’s resolve this simply,” the man said, taking out his wallet. “I’ll get him something, so then he counts as a customer, and we can all let him finish his drink in peace. Do you want a Coke or a coffee, lad?”

“Pint of Guinness, fella,” Doon said.

“Ha, now, lad. What age are you? I’ll buy you a coffee but I’m not buying a minor a pint on a Saturday morning.”

Doon took an extended, convulsive suck of the slushie’s remnants as the barman beetled in behind the counter. When it was empty, Doon placed the cup on the bartop.

“You’re alright so then. Coffee’s worse for you than drink,” Doon said. He considered the two men again, and grinned. “You boys are in a savagely dapper condition for this town, even of a Saturday afternoon. Is there a wedding in or something?”

The men smiled at each other. The younger one, who had a V-shaped hairline with a bald patch spreading out from his crown, like Zinedine Zidane, shook his head. “We were in for a convention. Sales conference for the NorthWest Connaught Regional Estate Agents Association.”

“Christ, I lost interest halfway through that sentence,” Doon said.

The grey-haired man grinned again.

“So,” the barman interjected, but talking to the man, not Doon. “Did you want a coffee then, or?”

“You heard me decline the fella, didn’t you?” Doon sneered. Now he turned his back on the men, to focus his ire squarely upon the barman. “Congratulations, son, three souls in your dying-on-it’s-hole bar and you’re successfully chasing a third of them off. Profiling is what you were doing.”

Doon began walking backwards towards the lobby, his face bright with contempt.

“Your mam’ll be well proud. Speaking of which, tell her I said hello,” Doon said, and stuck his raspberry-coated tongue all the way out.

He heard the two men behind him chuckle again and his leading heel struck something. “Watch,” he heard the grey-haired man say as he swung his other heel into place alongside the first. He turned, knocking over the carry cases. “Jesus,” Doon said, stepping across the two men at the exact moment they stepped forward to right their luggage. “Sorry,” he said, feinting to step one way, then another, but somehow ending up still between them and the cases. He faced the grey-haired man and grabbed hold of his forearms, as if balancing or restraining him. The man stepped back and Doon stepped with him, like a dance partner.

“Sorry, lads, sorry,” he said to the man. He was close to the man’s face. The man’s face was indrawn and baffled. Then Doon stepped off him. He turned, picked up and righted the man’s case.

“I’m all of a daze with the harassment,” he said, gripping the case’s handle and yanking it twice to extend it out, before offering the handle to the man. The man looked at it, looked at Doon, and took it. Doon was already walking straight towards the automated doors.

He went through the lobby and out on to the street. He looked left and right, because that’s what people do. He checked the wallet, took the nice big fifty, left the two tens and a fiver. He went back in, said, “Found that outside, doll,” to the best-looking receptionist, dropped the wallet on the counter and went straight back out again.

 

***

 

His mother, as usual, was one of the first ones out. She came straight up the steps with her head facing forward and did not look back. She handed him the car keys and they walked towards the car park. They passed the apartment block. The wallet was still there, on the bench, and the instant Doon knew his mother would see it, she did. She stopped. “Look at that wallet some eejit’s after leaving there.”

“Come on,” Doon said.

“Check it to see if it says whose it is,” she said, nudging him.

Doon stayed in place. “Leave it. It’s not our concern.”

His mam looked at Doon and smiled. “‘Not our concern,’” she repeated. “Christ lad, where you get your talk from sometimes. You sound like a policeman.”

“A policeman’d be over there rooting through it with his big snout.”

“I don’t mean the sentiment,” his mam said, “I mean the tone.”

“Feck off,” Doon said.

“Now, now, don’t be regressing to sewer-mouthery just cos I’ve hit a nerve.”

“You’ve NOT touched a nerve,” Doon snapped.

She placed her hand on his neck.

“I mean you’ve got this authority to you,” she said. “It’s just your way. My lad. Soul of a policeman.”

Colin Barrett’s debut short story collection, “Young Skins” (Vintage), won the Guardian First Book Award and the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge