7 Overlooked Memorials to the Heroes Who Fought Nazis

These women and men faced terrible danger and deserve to be remembered.

MANY OF THE WORLD’S BEST statues and memorials honor those who accomplished extraordinary things despite a steep personal cost. Europe is dotted with statues that memorialize the attempts made by desperate people who opposed the Nazis. They did what they could with what they had, and often paid unimaginable prices for their efforts. Their likenesses implore us to remember their actions and consider our own, so that we don’t take the past for granted, idly watch the present, or let the future repeat such atrocities.

Tatyana Markus Memorial

Kyiv, Ukraine

In 1941, when the German Army entered the city of Kyiv, young Tatyana Markus was there to greet them, congratulatory flowers in hand. But instead of graciously handing the flowers over to the triumphant soldiers, she threw them—and the grenades hidden underneath them—at the approaching contingent, killing four Nazi soldiers. Her father threw a second grenade, to prevent them from retaliating. She was able to get away, but he was killed in the ensuing fight.

Later, Markus assumed a fake identity and went undercover. A young operative, she won the confidence of several German army officials and gathered information that helped the Ukrainian rebels resist them. She also worked in a German officers’ mess hall and lured soldiers into isolated areas where she killed them herself.

After the mysterious deaths of so many soldiers, the Gestapo launched an operation to find their killer. Markus was caught in August of 1942 and tortured for information for more than five months, a process which intensified when her Jewish heritage was discovered. But she refused to provide them with any information about her comrades. She was killed in January of 1943 and, according to some accounts, thrown into the notorious Babi Yar ravine, where thousands were massacred by the Nazis.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, a statue of the courageous young woman who gave her life in the fight against the Nazis was unveiled in Babi Yar in 2009, just a few years after she was honored as a “Heroine of Ukraine.”

Denkzeichen Georg Elser

Berlin, Germany

Georg Elser was a carpenter and a member of the leftist Federation of Woodworkers Union. As early as 1933 he opposed the Nazis and refused to perform the Hitler salute; Elser felt the Nazi Party’s potential rule would be a detriment to workers’ rights and a catalyst for war.

 In 1938 he traveled to see Hitler’s annual speech at the Bürgerbräukeller beer hall, cased the joint, and came home with a plan to assassinate Hitler. Elser took a job at an armament factory and systematically stole explosives. He eventually amassed 105 blasting cartridges and 125 detonators. He built and tested timed explosives using clock parts and turn signals from cars in a secluded orchard owned by his parents.

At the end of 1939 he moved to a place near the Bürgerbräukeller and spent his nights hiding in the hall, carving out the pillar next to the speaker’s rostrum. He installed a homemade time bomb in the emptied column and left town for Sweden on the morning of November 8. That night, eight high-ranking Nazi officers were killed and 63 were injured when the bomb exploded right on time at 9:20 p.m., exactly 13 minutes after Hitler left the event. His flight had been canceled due to fog, so the event started a half hour early.

Officers found Elser on the Swiss border with wire cutters, notes, sketches, firing pins, and a blank postcard of the interior of the Bürgerbräukeller. He spent his last days a prisoner, and in 1945, shortly before the end of the war, he was killed on Hitler’s orders in the Dachau concentration camp.

The 56-foot sculpture erected in his honor in Berlin is an outline of Elser’s profile, and lights up at night. It was unveiled on November 8, 2011, to coincide with the anniversary of his heroic attempt.

Stjepan Filipović Monument

Valjevo, Serbia

Stjepan Filipvić joined the laborer’s movement in 1937. He spent a year in jail for his association with the anti-fascist group, but his conviction remained. He joined the Communist Party of Yugoslavia in 1940, and by ‘41 he’d been made commander of the Partisans’ Tamnavsko-Kolubarski unit in Valjevo. He was captured by the Axis forces in 1942 and sentenced to death. But even in his final moments, he resisted the Nazi occupation. The Yugoslav communist stood on the gallows in Valjevo, rope around his neck, and threw his fists in the air and shouted out his last words to the onlookers: “Smrt fašizmu, sloboda narodu!” (“Death to fascism, freedom to the people!”).

Stjepan Filipović was declared a National Hero of Yugoslavia in 1949, and in 1960, a 52-foot statue was erected in his honor. The sculptor Vojin Bakic’s monument to Filipović stands in the same defiant pose in the city where he was killed.

Warsaw Uprising Monument

Warsaw, Poland

In August of 1944, an uprising broke out in Warsaw, Poland, which at the time had been occupied by Nazi forces for five years. The Polish resistance had been planning an attack for some time, but they were forced to carry it out much sooner than expected and without help from the Allied forces.

The resistance expected Soviet help to arrive during the 68-day battle, but it never came. Documents are hard to obtain and the motive is unclear. It’s possible the Soviet troops were too tired or the roads were too treacherous to quickly maneuver, or Stalin stopped the aid for fear the uprising might encourage Russian workers to move against his leadership.

By the end of the uprising, the Polish resistance had managed to kill 8,000 Nazi soldiers and wounded around the same number. But as the Nazis razed the city, the resistance deaths had climbed to 16,000 people, and the civilian death toll, including the Jews being hidden by the Polish people, reached as high as 200,000. The Nazis went on to destroy almost 90 percent of the buildings in the area.

A 33-foot-tall bronze sculpture was unveiled in 1989 to commemorate the resistance. It depicts a group of fighters in active combat while running beneath the ruins of a falling building. A smaller structure shows insurgents entering a manhole, which pays tribute to the way the Poles made use of the city’s sewer system.

The Little Insurrectionist

Warsaw, Poland

Hitler and SS leader Heinrich Himmler made the Polish capital city a specific target early on in the war. Their plan of attack was detailed in the horrifically succinct Order for Warsaw: “Every citizen of Warsaw is to be killed including men, women and children. Warsaw has to be leveled to the ground in order to set a terrifying example to the rest of Europe.”

The children of Warsaw were no strangers to the ongoing atrocities, and many young boys in the Polish Underground Scouting, known during wartime as the Gray Ranks, played an integral role in the Warsaw Uprising, mostly carrying messages for the troops, but sometimes donning stolen German helmets and guns and fighting on the front lines.

This statue of a young boy wearing an oversized helmet and holding a German submachine gun is reputed to be modeled after a child soldier called “Antek,” a 13-year-old boy who was killed on August 8, 1944.

Mauthausen Memorial

Marbach, Austria

The Mauthausen Memorial describes itself as “a former crime scene, a place of memory, a cemetery for the mortal remains of thousands of those murdered here and, increasingly, a site of political and historical education.” Between 1938 and 1945, the Mauthausen concentration camp was the center of more than 40 sub-camps and was the main site of persecution by the National Socialist regime on Austrian territory.

The memorial features a museum in the preserved buildings of the center camp. There are three permanent collections, including the “Room of Names,” which features over 81,000 names of those killed at Mauthausen and the surrounding sub camps.

The outside areas feature sculptures that honor the 190,000 people from over 40 different nations who were imprisoned during the camp’s seven years of terror. Memorial sculptures of varying sizes and styles pay homage to the Jewish, French, Dutch, Polish, and other victims of Mauthausen. One particularly striking statue is the Albanian Memorial, which portrays an Albanian resistance fighter standing over a defeated Nazi soldier. He’s about to strike the Nazi in the face with his rifle stock.

Wojtek the Soldier Bear Memorial

Edinburgh, Scotland

A beer-drinking, Nazi-fighting brown bear named Wojtek was an unlikely but beloved member of the 22nd Artillery Transport Company. The Polish 2nd Corps adopted the orphaned bear in Iran in 1943. To bypass a rule that forbade soldiers from bringing pets into theaters of operations, Wojtek was enlisted and accordingly given an official number and the rank of private.

Private Wojtek
 served with the Poles for the rest of the war, most notably during the pivotal Battle of Monte Cassino, when he voluntarily helped move crates of ammunition. He was so popular among his fellow soldiers that a graphic of a bear carrying an artillery shell became the official emblem of the 22nd Company.

After the war ended, Wojtek was moved to the Edinburgh Zoo. His old Polish brothers-in-arms visited him regularly, as did the scores of new admirers he gained during the remainder of his life.

Unveiled on November 7, 2015, the bronze statue in Princes Street Gardens commemorates not only the much-beloved bear, but also the Polish soldiers who bravely shared the same harrowing journey.

Source: http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles

Croatia removes plaque with WWII pro-Nazi regime’s slogan near death camp

‘For the homeland — Ready! salute, used by puppet regime during war, has resurfaced among nationalists and right-wingers

ZAGREB, Croatia — Croatian authorities on Thursday removed a plaque bearing a salute used by the country’s pro-Nazi regime during World War II that was placed last year near the site of a notorious wartime concentration camp.

Workers took down the plaque in the town of Jasenovac that honored fallen Croatian fighters from the country’s 1990s war and moved it to a memorial site in the town of Novska.

The “For the homeland — Ready!” salute was used by the pro-Nazi puppet regime that was established in Croatia during World War II. Tens of thousands of Jews, Serbs, Roma and Croat anti-fascists were killed in Jasenovac and other camps. The salute has since resurfaced among nationalists and right-wingers.

Croatia’s right-leaning government has faced criticism for not responding sooner to the plaque. Jewish and Serb groups have boycotted official Holocaust commemoration ceremonies in protest of the plaque and junior partners have threatened to walk out of the ruling coalition.

Critics argue that the government’s reluctance to act has only encouraged the surging right in the European Union’s newest member state.

Prime Minister Andrej Plenkovic said Thursday the salute was unacceptable to him because of its link to the WWII Ustasha regime. But Plenkovic added the government wanted to resolve the divisive problem through dialogue and with respect those who died in the 1990s war.

That war erupted after Croatia declared independence from Yugoslavia and minority Serbs launched a rebellion. Around 10,000 people died in the 1991-1995 conflict.

Ivan Friscic of the Croatian fighters union said the group agreed to move the plaque from Jasenovac.

“It will be placed elsewhere as it is,” he said. “With all the symbols and signs, and no one must touch it.”

Local media said ex-fighters used the “For the homeland — Ready” salute at Thursday’s press conference.

Source: https://www.timesofisrael.com

The woman who carried Hitler’s teeth on V-Day

The memoir of a Jewish military translator who helped the Soviet army identify Adolf Hitler’s burned corpse is about to be published in English for the first time.

Elena Rzhevskaya, who died in April at the age of 97, was just 25 years old in May of 1945 when she carried a box of the Nazi dictator’s teeth around war-torn Berlin in search of an expert who could confirm that the teeth had belonged to the Fuhrer.

Eventually she found a dental assistant who had visited Hitler in his underground bunker just days before his death. The dental assistant was able to draw a sketch of Hitler’s teeth from memory, which matched with the drawing made by the Soviet pathologist who autopsied Hitler’s charred body.

Rzhevskaya’s memoir, entitled “Berlin, May 1945,” will be published in the United Kingdom and will also be sold in the United States, said Elena Rzhevskaya’s granddaughter Liubov Summ in a telephone interview from Moscow.

The book, which was first printed in 1965 in Russian and sold more than a million copies in the Soviet Union, has already been translated to German, Italian and Japanese. But there has been no English translation until now, nor has the book been translated to Hebrew, Summ said.

Explaining why her grandmother was trusted with the dictator’s teeth, Summ said, “She was an officer and a woman and everyone knew that [all the men] would get drunk on Victory Day.”

“She carried the box under her arm. It smelled lightly of perfume. She saw her own reflection in a big mirror and thought, ‘My God, am I standing here holding in my hands the only thing that is left of Hitler?’”

Hitler’s dental assistant Kathe Heusermann’s recollection and the letters of the Soviet pathologist who removed the teeth from Hitler’s jaws will also be included as appendices in the book. They are being published for the first time, said Summ.

It was possible to identify Hitler from his teeth because he had had extensive dental work. By the end of his life, Hitler had very few of his own teeth left, and most of them had crowns. The remaining teeth were prosthetic and were held together with bridges.

“His teeth were in such bad shape that his dentist was with him in the bunker,” Summ said. “There are photos that are very unpleasant to look at.”

When Heusermann was questioned, she talked not only about Hitler’s teeth, but also about what she saw and heard during his last days in the bunker, Summ said. Rzhevskaya listened and later included these stories in her book. For example, Heusermann said that she tried to talk Magda Goebbels out of murdering her six children, and shared the story about how Eva Braun, who got married to Hitler just before their suicide, wanted everyone in the bunker to call her “Frau Hitler.”

“Everything that Kathe said, was said with my grandmother’s lips — because my grandmother translated,” Summ said.

The two women bonded. Heusermann told Rzhevskaya about how she had twice been raped by Soviet soldiers. Rzhevskaya also found out that Heusermann had hidden a Jewish dentist, for whom she worked before the war, in her home.

“He returned to Berlin at the end of April, met her and asked her to hide him in her apartment, while she was going to Hitler’s bunker to work every day! You understand [what would have happened] if someone found out,” said Summ. “She is also one of the righteous in a way.”

Summ said that the last time the two women spoke, Heusermann promised that as soon as the Soviet interrogations stopped, she would bring Rzhevskaya to her hairdresser.

But that was not to be. Soviet leader Joseph Stalin decided that Hitler’s suicide and the story about how his body was discovered should be a military secret. Heusermann was sent to the gulag, where she spent 10 years, including six years in solitary confinement, Summ said. By the time she returned home, her fiancé had married someone else.

“They told her that by helping to fix Hitler’s teeth she contributed to the continuation of the war, and that she should have hit him on the head with a bottle,” Summ said. “But her actual fault was that she was a witness of Hitler’s death and that was a secret.”

After the war, Rzhevskaya — whose birth name was Kagan — returned to Moscow, studied literature in university and became a writer.

She changed her family name because she could not get a job with a name that sounded so obviously Jewish, said Summ.

“She would phone schools and libraries and they would tell her that there was a vacancy, but when she went there, and they saw her documents and her Jewish name, they would not hire her,” Summ said. “She couldn’t even get a job in a village school.”

When she became a writer, she also didn’t want to use her real name because she didn’t want to the impression that “the Jews are writing about the war again,” Summ said.

So her grandmother adopted the name “Rzhevskaya,” which means “From Rzhev,” the town where she was almost killed by shrapnel from a German bomb in 1942. It was also here that she was sent on her first translation assignment, questioning a German soldier who was taken prisoner.

Her first memoir, entitled “Memories of a Wartime Interpreter,” originally included a few pages in the end about what it was like to identify Hitler from his teeth, but the editor of the magazine that published the memories cut those pages, Summ said.

“No one wrote about this before, so why should we be first?” the editor reportedly said, according to Summ. “It was a funny comment for an editor of a magazine.”

But in the Soviet Union, editors had to be cautious.

It was not until after Stalin’s death that Rzhevskaya openly wrote about identifying Hitler, and it was not until 1996 that she found out what happened to Hitler’s dental assistant.

“It was a big blow for her,” Summ said. “Heusermann returned home when she was 45 years old. She ended up losing her [future] husband and never had children, and this really haunted my grandma.”

The Soviet pathologist was also upset that the story about the identification of Hitler’s teeth was kept secret.

“He was hurt that he did this work to identify Hitler, but he didn’t get any recognition,” Summ said.

To remember Rzhevskaya, a special evening in her honor will be organized in Moscow on her birthday, October 27, her granddaughter said.

The museum in the town of Rzhev is also planning a local history conference dedicated to her memory in the spring. A few handwritten pages from Rzhevskaya’s memoir and her World War II military uniform, which she kept all of her life, will be donated to the museum.

Source: The Times of Israel

A teachable moment about anti-Semitism

Anti-Semitism is a form of hatred that shares characteristics with other kinds of prejudice such as racism and homophobia. Included are the fear of the other and the unknown, stereotyping and discrimination.

On the other hand, anti-Semitism has a distinct history. What has made it distinctive and what goes a long way in explaining some of the historical anomalies about it – how long it has lasted, its contradictions, its lethality–is the idea that Jews are all-powerful, poisonous and a threat to society.

This theme has appeared time and again over the centuries to justify hatred of the Jew. It reached its culmination in the 20th century with the infamous fraudulent document known as The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion and in the Nazi extermination of European Jews.

The Protocols, emerging in 1903, conjured up the fantasy of Jewish leaders’ secret plans to take over the world, despite the fact that at the time Jews had no country of their own, no army and no power. And the Nazis exploited that theme to implement their anti-Jewish program, which ultimately became the Holocaust.

All of this comes to mind with the images of the Charlottesville hate rally and the Vice TV video of it by reporter Elle Reeve fresh in one’s consciousness. Reeve pointed out that despite the president’s making it sound as if the rally was about maintaining Confederate leaders statues, in fact, the demonstrators were obsessed with Jews, screaming things like “Jews will not replace us” and claiming that Jews were behind all the evils in America.

This comes at a time when anti-Semitism, long a forgotten subject, had already begun to reenter the American conversation.

While Europe, from the beginning of the new century, saw a revolting resurgence of anti-Semitism, America until the past year seemed largely immune with the disturbing exception of the rise of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement among student groups on some campuses, carrying with it certain anti-Semitic connotations.

Then came the dramatic rise of anti-Semitic incidents, an over 30 percent increase in 2016 and the first quarter of 2017, even if one doesn’t count the traumatic bomb threats against Jewish institutions in January and February, most of which it turned out came from a disturbed American-Israeli Jew.

Some of the increase was attributed to the rhetoric of the Trump campaign and the bias expressed toward various groups, which seemed to embolden haters of all kinds, including those filled with hatred toward Jews.

To see neo-Nazis and white supremacists marching on the streets of Charlottesville, drawing a relatively large crowd and attracting nationwide attention because of the violence that accompanied it, was disturbing and a direct outgrowth of the new enabling mood for extremism in this country.

At the same time it should serve as a teachable moment about the nature of anti-Semitism, which some in this country are either ignorant about or have chosen to forget.

Because Jews have been successful in America and because anti-Semitism has been significantly reduced in recent decades, there is a tendency among some to conclude that Jews should not be included in minority coalitions struggling for equal rights and against intolerance. It is even suggested that Jews are part of the white establishment, benefit from white privilege and are not a vulnerable group.

This, however, fails to take into account that unique and essential element of anti-Semitism, the accusation of alleged evil Jewish power, which often means that Jews paradoxically could be most vulnerable exactly when they appear to be doing well.

It has often been noted that Germany before the rise of Hitler was one of the places in Europe where Jews had advanced in society and played a role in many areas of German life. All of which became a focal point of Nazi propaganda and ideology.

The neo-Nazis marching in Charlottesville would be anti-Semitic whether or not Jews were prominent in American life. But the fact that Jews are successful and have a good life in America adds credibility and strength among their followers to their charges of Jewish control of America.

None of which should lead to pushing any panic buttons. It should, however, send warning signals about avoiding complacency about anti-Semitism in America. (There’s been more than two dozen anti-Semitic incidents in the two weeks post-Charlottesville). And it should make many do some rethinking when they dismiss the notion of anti-Semitism as relevant to the struggle against oppression.

The good thing to take away from this experience is that, unlike the president, the vast majority of Americans, leaders, mayors and others, on the right and the left, understood and rejected what they saw in Charlottesville.

This is reassuring that America will remain a welcome home for the Jews of this great county.


Source: The Times of Israel
Ken Jacobson is Deputy National Director of the Anti-Defamation League.

The last Nazi hunters

The Central Office for the Investigation of National Socialist Crimes is an austere, pale-yellow prison building nestled into the 18th-century city wall of Ludwigsburg in southwestern Germany. Once used by the Nazis to detain political prisoners, the building announces its contemporary tenants obliquely, with a small, silver sign. Entering the Central Office still feels like entering a jail; to gain access, one must pass through a white metal gate and then through a second secure doorway.

Since it was created by the West German government in 1958, the Central Office’s mission has been to deliver Nazis to justice. Every year, its six investigative “departments,” each of which consists of a single prosecutor, scour the globe looking for members of the Third Reich. Chief prosecutor Jens Rommel, who heads the operation, is a sturdy, jovial 44-year-old with frameless glasses and a triangular goatee. The German press calls him a Nazi hunter, but Rommel doesn’t like the term. “A hunter is looking for a trophy,” he told me. “He has a rifle in his hand. I’m a prosecutor looking for murderers and I have criminal code in my hand.”

Rommel and his staff visit the sites of former concentration camps across Germany and eastern Europe to sift through records and walk the grounds to determine what defendants might have witnessed from their posts. Over the past decade, the office, which has an annual budget of €1.2m, has also conducted more than 20 trips to archives in South America. The investigators spend most days under an avalanche of bureaucratic documents, checking and cross-checking names on German, Russian, British, French and Polish lists – everything from SS papers documenting quotidian affairs such as the issuing of new uniforms and marriage requests, to Allied inventories of prisoners of war. Their goal is to find the last living Nazis who have yet to be indicted and might still be able to stand trial.

When I visited Ludwigsburg in May, Rommel was preparing for a trip to Moscow, where he would search an archive for names of perpetrators from the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, which the Nazis operated near Berlin from 1936 to 1945. Another Central Office prosecutor, Manuela Zeller, was sorting through records from Auschwitz and Ravensbrück, looking for anyone whose name hadn’t been checked by her predecessors. Her colleague Michael Otte was doing the same for the Buchenwald and Stutthof concentration camps. Another colleague was about to travel to Mauthausen, in Austria, where at least 95,000 people were murdered during the war.

“This is a giant cold-case operation,” Devin Pendas, a historian of Nazi prosecutions at Boston College, said of the Central Office. “It’s looking at crimes that happened a long time ago, with only the sketchiest information about who the perpetrators might be.” Rommel, a former criminal prosecutor, approaches the work the same way he used to investigate homicide cases, treating the archives at his disposal as live crime scenes. “There are crimes behind these words, but there’s no blood here,” he said.

Central Office prosecutors unearth the names of about 30 living perpetrators per year. Their cases are then handed over to regional prosecutors, who usually spend another year conducting follow-up investigations and deciding whether to take the individuals to court. Since the start of the 21st century, this work has led to six prosecutions, but in the media, every case has been called “the last Nazi trial”, as if writers, editors and readers all hope the label will finally prove to be true.

Today, the youngest suspects are 90 years old, and most were low-level Nazi functionaries: guards, cooks, medics, telephone operators and the like. The defendants tend to die during the lengthy judicial process, so the odds of conviction are miniscule. Partly as a result, few Germans know the Central Office exists, and many of those who do tend to view it with ambivalence. “It is hard for people to see what exactly the point is of putting a 90-year-old in jail,” Pendas said. Others view the office with reverence, awed by what it has managed to achieve despite considerable odds.

Throughout its history, the condition of the Central Office has been one important measure of Germany’s evolving relationship to its Nazi past. After its founding in 1958, it enjoyed 10 years of robust activity before receding from public view, amid widespread opposition to further investigations of German war crimes. Now, every day that passes – separating the present from the atrocities in question – further imperils the Central Office’s cause.

In Rommel’s corner office, on the second floor of the old prison, 16 small flags, one for each German state, stand atop a wooden bureau. “My bosses,” he said. The 16 regional ministers of justice will soon determine when Rommel’s investigative operation will shut down, ending this global effort to bring Nazi perpetrators to justice. One regional minister told the press that 2025 is a possible deadline for the Central Office to complete its investigations – “‘deadline’ being almost literal,” Rommel told me. Others view that as an optimistic estimate, predicting that the end of the Central Office is much nearer.

The question of whether Nazi trials should continue in spite of the increasingly unrealistic odds of success – whether the work of the Central Office remains essential, or if it needlessly litigates crimes that belong to the past – lingers over the Ludwigsburg headquarters. “How much does Germany need to do to render justice on its own prior crimes?” Pendas said. “And how long does it need to make those kinds of efforts?” These questions have haunted Germany since the war’s end, but have gained renewed currency with the rise of rightwing populist movements such as Alternative for Germany, which may become the third-largest party in the German parliament after the country’s upcoming September election, though the party’s support has declined in recent months. Earlier this year, an AfD politician called for Germany to stop atoning for its Nazi crimes.

Yet the very fact of the Central Office’s continued existence is a testament to the gravity and extent of Nazi crimes, a reminder of just how much is threatened by the rise of reactionary nationalism both in Germany and abroad. In the US, parallel institutions are under threat of closure. The Trump administration has plans to close the State Department’s modest Office of Global Criminal Justice, which is tasked with supporting international prosecutions for perpetrators of war crimes, crimes against humanity, and genocide; its director, Todd F Buchwald, has already been reassigned. As his predecessor, Stephen J Rapp, told the New York Times earlier this year, “The promise of ‘never again’ has proven hard to keep.”

Behind a vault door in the basement of Ludwigsburg’s old prison building lies the Central Office’s “treasure,” as Rommel calls it. In row upon row of beige file cabinets, an ever-expanding archive of 1.7m yellow and green index cards records the names of massacres, battles, concentration camps, victims, witnesses and perpetrators. It is the world’s most comprehensive repository of Nazi crimes and postwar attempts to bring the regime to justice. Anyone who has ever testified or even been mentioned during a Nazi trial has a card, filed in alphabetical order. But the record is not yet complete, and part of the Central Office’s job is to fill in the blanks. “Every day, we add new cards, we change cards,” Rommel said.

Only one copy of the Ludwigsburg archive exists, stored in microfilm at an undisclosed location. Protecting the index is paramount to ensuring war crimes can be tried, and that nothing is forgotten or undocumented – a relatively new undertaking in the history of warfare. For centuries, most peace treaties sought to obliterate the memory of war, a practice stretching back to the 1648 Treaty of Westphalia, which called for “perpetua oblivio et amnestia”, or “perpetual oblivion and amnesty” on both sides. It was only after the 1919 Treaty of Versailles assigned guilt to Germany for igniting the first world war, and demanded the arrest and trial of German officials, that the promise of oblivio et amnestia was abandoned.

Versailles laid the groundwork for the prosecution of war criminals after the second world war, an effort that was well underway even before the Nazis surrendered to allied forces in Reims, France, on 7 May 1945. At the time of his death, a week before the surrender, Adolf Hitler was under indictment by the UN War Crimes Commission, whose members produced hundreds of files documenting his crimes. The commission, which was established in 1943 to investigate offences by the axis powers, also supported indictments against 36,000 German and Japanese personnel, of whom at least 10,000 were convicted in roughly 2,000 trials over the next five years.

These efforts were not universally applauded. Some international participants felt the year-long Nuremberg trials, which culminated in 1946, were a “shocking waste of time”, in the words of Sir Norman Birkett, a British judge who served at the trials. In Germany, the press portrayed the hearings as an attempt to humiliate the country. “If you want to understand why the Central Office was created in the first place, you can see this as a counter-project against Nuremberg,” says Annette Weinke, a historian of post-war prosecutions. “We wanted to take the past into our own hands.”

Between 1945 and 1949, West German courts issued 4,600 convictions for Nazi crimes, but after the creation of the Federal Republic in 1949, a desire for amnesty and oblivion prevailed on both sides of the Atlantic. The UN War Crimes Commission was shuttered and its records sealed, an erasure propelled by the cold war and a rising tide of pro-Nazi sentiment in the US and Germany. As Communists became the greater enemy, the public turned away from reckoning with the Holocaust. Many of the Nazis convicted in the trials that followed Nuremberg were released in the 1950s, when a series of amnesty laws passed by the newly minted West German parliament reinstated the pensions of Nazi soldiers and paroled 20,000 Nazis previously jailed for “deeds against life”. According to the German historian Norbert Frei, nearly 800,000 people benefited from amnesty laws. By the end of the decade, thousands of Nazis had been freed from German prisons and rehabilitated, taking up comfortable posts in the judiciary, police and state administration.

At the same time, however, new trials were gradually opening up the public’s eyes to the enormity of the crimes that had been committed, particularly in eastern Europe. In 1958, during what is now known as the Ulm trial, 10 former policemen from the same mobile killing unit were tried as accessories in the murder of more than 5,000 Lithuanian Jews. Ulm was the first major Nazi trial to take place under West German law, and it exploded “like a bomb” on the German psyche, says Hans-Christian Jasch, director of the memorial site and museum at Wannsee House, where the Nazi leadership discussed the “final solution to the Jewish question” in 1942. Süddeutsche Zeitung, the largest German daily newspaper, carried an opinion piece headlined “Noch sind die Mörder unter uns” (“Murderers are still among us”), calling for more trials. Eager to counter East German propaganda that claimed his government was crawling with former Nazis, chancellor Konrad Adenauer created the Central Office, which was to focus solely on bringing Nazis to justice.

The first index cards were logged at the Central Office when it opened in December 1958. Yet, in truth, the office was never really meant to revise the West German policy of amnesty and reintegration. Its function was intended to be largely symbolic – a kind of alibi for a West German state that wanted to appear as if it were pursuing postwar justice without actually indicting the former Nazis who were once again part of the country’s establishment. As such, the Central Office was denied the ability to prosecute criminals itself. Its work was also hampered by the fact that German law contained no special provision for war crimes, and by a statute of limitations that made certain crimes nearly impossible to prosecute after 1960.

When it became known that the office was delivering a spate of names to regional prosecutors, the West German leadership, and the public, was nonplussed. The Central Office’s work was “done against domestic opinion rather than going with it,” Pendas said. Its staffers contributed evidence to the Frankfurt Auschwitz trials, which lasted from 1963 to 1965 and attracted unprecedented coverage in the domestic and international press, but were a “matter of indifference, if not open hostility, for much of the German public,” Pendas has written. When they concluded, pollsters asked the German public whether further Nazi trials should be held. Fifty-seven percent said no.

In 1969, the German high court dealt a blow to the Central Office, when it overturned the conviction of an Auschwitz dentist and former SS member on the grounds that working at the concentration camp was not a crime in itself. As a result, prosecutors were forced to drop an investigation into the Reich Security Main Office, the primary organisation responsible for implementing Hitler’s policy of mass murder. It was a “perpetrator-friendly approach,” Weinke said. “In a way, they were exonerating these crimes.” It also cast the Holocaust, legally and in the public imagination, as a sequence of ordinary murders, replacing the narrative of systematic, state-sponsored genocide with one of individually motivated killings.

After 1969, the work of the Central Office stalled, its prosecutors reduced to chasing the few former Nazi officials whose murderous acts had been recorded on paper. Even though a series of public debates in the 1960s and 70s led to the elimination of the statute of limitations for murder, thousands of men and women who served as cogs in the machine of genocide – as concentration camp guards, doctors, police, administrators and even radio operators – were never forced to reckon publicly with their culpability. For the next four decades, the Central Office largely receded from public view, and many forgot it existed entirely. Then, starting in 2007, a series of landmark cases changed everything.

In January 2007, Mounir el Motassadeq was sentenced by a German court to 15 years in prison. While studying in Hamburg, Motassadeq, a Moroccan national, had wired money to the 9/11 hijacker Marwan al-Shehhi. He was convicted of 246 counts of being an accessory to murder, one for every passenger aboard the four flights that were hijacked that day. The decision had momentous implications for prosecuting Nazis. If Motassadeq could be guilty of helping commit murder, so too could people like John Demjanjuk, a former guard at the Sobibor extermination camp in Poland. Thomas Walther, a lawyer who was working with the Central Office at the time, came up with a strategy to use the same logic to challenge the precedent set in 1969.

Walther’s revelation came just in time for the 50th anniversary of the establishment of the Central Office, which was teetering on the brink of irrelevance, as victims, witnesses and perpetrators began to die of old age. Pursuing Demjanjuk helped justify the office’s continued existence, and Kurt Schrimm, the head of the Central Office at the time, used the case and the anniversary to try to recast the office as a success of the postwar West German government.

Die Zeit called the Demjanjuk trial a “premiere”, because it promised to be the first of many attempts to hold former Nazis accountable for serving in death camps, and the process was avidly covered in the international and domestic media. In 2011, 91-year-old Demjanjuk was convicted of 28,060 counts of accessory to murder – the number of people slaughtered at Sobibor during the four months he served there in 1943 – but the case was still under appeal when Demjanjuk died in a Bavarian nursing home a year later, still a free man. (In Germany, a conviction does not legally hold if an appeal is pending.)

In 2013, a year after Demjanjuk’s death, the Central Office prepared the “Auschwitz list”, consisting of 30 living former Auschwitz personnel who could be immediately tried according to the logic of the Motassadeq ruling. Of these, only five cases made it to court. (The others died, or were deemed unfit to stand trial.) Ernst Tremmel, a former Auschwitz guard, died in 2016, days before he was due to make his first court appearance for 1,000 counts of accessory to murder. His fellow former guard, 95-year-old Reinhold Hanning, was convicted in June 2016 of facilitating more than 170,000 murders, but died on 30 May of this year, days before Germany’s highest court was expected to deny his final appeal. One trial, that of the 96-year-old former Auschwitz medic Hubert Zafke, is still ongoing, but the proceedings have been so poorly handled that the head judge has become the first jurist in history to be dismissed from an Auschwitz trial because of accusations of bias.

Rommel arrived somewhat reluctantly at the Central Office in 2015, in the midst of these cases. He was leaving a comfortable position as a public prosecutor in his hometown of Ravensburg, a stone’s throw from the Alps, where he liked to ski on weekends. But the allure of approaching the past not as history, but as crime, swayed Rommel to take the Central Office helm (that, and the fact that the age of the average defendant meant the job would hardly last for ever). According to Rommel, the government also wanted someone relatively young to head the organisation, “to avoid the impression that they were terminating the work”.

In 2016, Rommel sent 30 cases to prosecutors. That same year, Oskar Groening became the first person on the Auschwitz list to be successfully convicted using the precedent set by the Motassadeq case. The long story of Groening’s belated sentencing captured something of the agonising history of trying to bring Nazis to justice. Groening’s name was on the final 1948 UN War Crimes Commission list of Polish indictments concerning Auschwitz. But after the commission was dissolved, none of the allied powers provided the Central Office with a copy of the 36,000 indictments the commission processed. (It received a digital copy sometime in the 1980s.)

For the rest of the 20th century, Groening’s guilt was not widely known. Then, in 2005, the former “bookkeeper of Auschwitz” agreed to be interviewed by Der Spiegel. Groening spoke at length about how he sorted through Jewish inmates’ belongings, confiscated their money, and heard their screams emanating from gas chambers. “I would describe my role as a ‘small cog in the gears’,” he said. “If you can describe that as guilt, then I am guilty, but not voluntarily. Legally speaking, I am innocent.”

At the time, the Central Office passed along the article to local prosecutors, but neither law enforcement nor the courts were ready to take on what appeared to be an improbable, and perhaps unpopular, battle. After Motassadeq, however, sentencing Groening seemed not just possible, but prudent.

The final judgment against Groening bought the Central Office a bit more time. Without Groening’s conviction, “our work would have stopped,” Rommel said. Instead, the threshold for guilt had been substantially lowered, and 70 years after the crimes in question, it was once again possible to hold cogs accountable. Groening was 20 when he joined the SS; he is now 96, and in August, prosecutors in Hanover, his home region, deemed him fit to serve his four-year-prison sentence.

In March, I followed Manuela Zeller and Michael Otte, the Central Office prosecutors, to Buenos Aires, where they were trying to complete a database of Nazis who escaped to Argentina after the war. They went with little hope of finding living suspects – no indictments have come out of more than 20 expeditions to archives in Brazil, Peru, Chile, Argentina and Paraguay. A few years ago, they identified a former concentration camp doctor who fled to Peru, but it turned out he was already dead. Given the dismal track record, Zeller and Otte’s trip was primed to be the organisation’s final mission to South America, the culmination of more than a decade of scouring the continent.

“The point of the work is not always to put someone in front of a judge, but also being able to close an archive and say, ‘OK, now we know,’” Otte, a trim, bald prosecutor, explained to me over dinner in Buenos Aires’s antique San Telmo district. “It’s for future generations to know what happened.” The record will never be complete, nor will the Central Office get the chance to check archives in every country where Nazis are known to have fled. “We tried to get into Paraguay, but they said: ‘We have no Nazis here,’” he told me.

The apparent fruitlessness of the Central Office’s expeditions has not escaped scrutiny in the German press. Before Rommel took over in 2015, Die Welt, a conservative broadsheet, ran an article criticising the organisation’s expenditures, under the headline “German Nazi Hunters on Holiday in South America?” It was accompanied by a stock photograph of beachgoers in Rio de Janeiro.

Another common refrain among detractors is that the Central Office’s work could have been completed decades ago. “What I started doing in 2008, they could have done 30 years before,” said Thomas Walther, the lawyer who pressed the Central Office to take up the Demjanjuk case. Law is open to constant reinterpretation and revision; someone could have challenged the high bar for Nazi prosecutions long before the Motassadeq verdict, but, astonishingly, no one thought of it, or dared to try. If they had, it might still have been possible to find and try living offenders around the world; these days, it’s almost certainly impossible.

Although the promise of prosecution has been virtually extinguished, naming every as-yet-unknown name is not futile. Rommel is all too aware of the belatedness of his efforts, and the fact that time is running out. But he is also driven by a sense of finality – the knowledge that if the Central Office does not complete its inventory of Nazi perpetrators, no one will. Collecting the evidence is physically strenuous, mentally exhausting work, but it is perhaps the only thing, short of a trial, that can approximate justice. “Even if we don’t get a lot of perpetrators now, it’s important both for the survivors and their relatives, and for German society as well,” he told me in Ludwigsburg. “I think that’s why all of my colleagues are here, to try to do what’s possible today.”

Two days after our dinner in Buenos Aires, I found Otte and Zeller in an old dormitory on the top floor of the Hotel de Inmigrantes, a sprawling, spare complex that opened in 1911 to accommodate thousands of immigrants arriving from the Old World, and now also serves as a museum. The dormitory had been converted into an archive and working immigration office, its walls lined with 20th-century ship ledgers from around the world. Displayed on one side of the room were European ship manifests from between 1939 and 1968 – a record of every individual who arrived at the port seeking asylum, opportunity and, all too often, a place to hide.

Hugo Mouján, the museum’s press manager, laid out Adolf Eichmann’s landing record. The logistical mind behind the Holocaust had arrived at the Hotel de Inmigrantes in 1950, under the alias of Ricardo Klement. One year prior, the Auschwitz physician Josef Mengele, who performed deadly experiments on prisoners, had also passed through the hotel’s doors. Mouján laid out Mengele’s landing record, browned and frayed, documenting his arrival under the alias Helmut Gregor. The success of the Central Office’s current expedition relied on a single, simple assumption: unlike high-ranking Nazi officials such as Eichmann and Mengele, lower-ranking SS members did not expect to be held accountable for their sins, so they did not bother concealing their identities upon arriving in South America.

Zeller and Otte spent the next two weeks poring over passenger lists from between 1959 and 1962, recording the names of every German who could have served the Nazi regime and who could still be alive. Zeller, a former Bavarian judge who has a short black bob and triple ear piercings, had made herself a cheat sheet. The men and women she was looking for must have been born between 1918 and 1931 (14 is the German threshold for criminal culpability, and the Central Office will not open cases against anyone over 99), which means they would have been between 28 and 44 years old upon arriving in Buenos Aires between 1959 and 1962. Every time she and Otte came across a German name that fit those parameters, they wrote it down on a plain piece of A4 printer paper, noting the individual’s nationality, age and hometown.

Standing under a crucifix at the doorway to the archive, arms folded, Zeller reflected on the prevailing public criticism of the Central Office. “They say: ‘Why now, when we have only the little ones, and the others have never been charged?’ But I think that’s no reason to let them all go untouched.”

By the end of their trip, Otte and Zeller had collected more than 1,000 names of potential perpetrators. It will take about 12 months for the Central Office staff to cross-check them against the names in the basement archive. If a name from Buenos Aires happens to match that of an SS officer, Otte will open an investigation. But even if some suspects are alive today, they may not be a year from now.

On their last work night in Buenos Aires, Otte and Zeller seemed at peace with the limited nature of their mission. They said knowing that they’re probably the last ones to do their work – the clean-up crew for one of history’s darkest episodes – makes the job a little easier to bear; the march of time lends it renewed urgency, the impending conclusion endows it with heightened integrity.

“It’s all maybe for nothing – we know that,” Zeller said. “The point now is to say we’ve left nothing out.”

In an 18th-century gatehouse next to the old prison building in Ludwigsburg, a replica of the office of one of Rommel’s earliest predecessors is visible beneath a transparent floor. The exhibit conveys the slow, analogue nature of the postwar pursuit of justice. Stacks of files line the walls; the desk is littered with books, paper and stamps; a binder lies open to a page full of portraits of notable Nazi officers. Leather belts hang from pegs on the wall, ready to be used in binding thousands of pages of evidence. Today, boxes rather than belts are used to store files from the few cases that see the inside of a courtroom. Their slow accumulation has begun to transform the former prison into a labyrinthine memorial to the victims of the Holocaust.

Despite its imperfect mandate and modest findings, the Central Office provides a model for the expiation of national wrongs, acting as a precedent for countries that might be compelled to re-evaluate the past not as history, but as crime. A research institute and federal archive already share the building with Rommel and his team; when it becomes impossible to justify opening any further cases, they will likely subsume the investigative wing. “Criminal justice will hand the baton over to history,” says Lawrence Douglas, a professor of law and jurisprudence at Amherst College.

For the first time, the past will be past, the crime scene will be closed, and Germany’s effort to convict its own criminals will come to an end. Other nations, reckoning with their own wrongdoings, have been far hastier to arrive at this point. As Dan Plesch, author of a new history on the UN War Crimes Commission, put it, “Right now, you see a German chancellor and public who are ironically more alive to the dangers, more willing to share the past, than some of the countries that fought them.”

Rommel and his staff are keenly aware that some in Germany would like to see the Central Office’s closure expedited, including those who think the office’s efforts to prosecute Nazi telephone and radio operators, guards, chefs and medics strain the limits of propriety. The ambivalence with which much of the public views their trials is understandable, Plesch said, “until it becomes the thin end of the wedge for Holocaust denial, which it very often does, and very quickly”. In 2015, when the refugee crisis ignited a wave of xenophobic hate crimes against asylum seekers in Germany, the Central Office received emails and letters from Nazi sympathisers protesting its work.

For now, though, there’s still so much left to be done: “There are still documents which haven’t been put together, there are still matches that can be found,” Hans-Christian Jasch told me after a recent fact-finding trip to Auschwitz. For Rommel, continuing to scour the world for new evidence is “a question of personal guilt and responsibility”, he said. “A lot of my compatriots have preferred to look into the future instead of into the dark past.”

Source: theguardian.com

‘AUSCHWITZ ON THE BEACH’ EQUATES PLIGHT OF REFUGEES WITH DEATH CAMP

After a wave of criticism, including from the head of the Munich Jewish community, the “documenta 14” cultural center in the German city of Kassel canceled on Tuesday a performance exhibition likening the plight of refugees making their way to Europe by sea to Auschwitz.

In a statement on the exhibit titled “Auschwitz on the Beach,” the documenta 14 center wrote that in “reaction to the number of complaints and accusations which we received over the last weeks, we have decided to cancel the planned performance from Franco ‘Bifo’ Berardi. We respect those who feel attacked by Franco ‘Bifo’ Berardi’s poem. We do not want to add pain to their sorrow.”

Dr. Efraim Zuroff, head of the Jerusalem office of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, told The Jerusalem Post on Tuesday, “It is a very problematic tendency to compare all sorts of tragedies and plights of different people to Auschwitz. And very rarely are these comparisons worthy and accurate. Despite whatever sympathy we feel for the plight of refugees, their plight is not reminiscent of the plight of the Jews ordered to death camps and should not be compared.”

Charlotte Knobloch, head of Munich’s Jewish community, said on Friday about the exhibit: “What is planned here is a grotesque production.” While it is important to highlight the fate of refugees and the partial failure of the EU and international community to address the current crisis, it is “unacceptable and intolerable” to use the interests of refugees to “relativize the Holocaust,” she said.

The installation was slated to run in Kassel – with a population of nearly 198,000 in the state of Hesse – beginning on Thursday for three days.

The documenta 14 center claims it is the world’s largest exhibitor of modern art, with 160 artists from across the globe currently represented there.

According to the “Auschwitz on the Beach” production text, the author wrote, “The Europeans build on their territory concentration camps and pay their gauleiter [head of a district annexed by Nazi Germany] in Turkey, Libya and Egypt to carry out the dirty work along the coast of the Mediterranean where salt water has replaced Zyklon B.”

Knobloch, who survived the Holocaust in hiding in Bavaria, termed the text “obscene” and “absolutely blind to history.”

Berardi, who was born in Bologna in 1949, is an Italian Marxist. His poem, a soundtrack and pictures make up the “Auschwitz on the Beach” installation.

Kassel Mayor Christian Geselle told the HNA news outlet on Monday the exhibit is “an outrageous provocation.”

The city’s cultural official Boris Rhein told hessenschau.de news outlet the same day: “Freedom of art is highly valued,” but slammed comparisons between the Shoah and the refugee crisis, saying “the crimes of the Nazis were unique.”

Martin Sehmisch, the head of an organization fighting Antisemitism (Informationsstelle Antisemitismus Kassel) in the city, called the announcement of the installation a “statement of political and moral bankruptcy from those in charge” at documenta 14.

Source: The Jerusalem Post

Austrian soccer fan gets 18 months for Nazi salute

An Austrian soccer fan has been given an 18-month prison sentence for a Hitler salute during a match, falling foul of the country’s tough laws against Nazi glorification.

The unemployed 39-year-old from top-flight Rapid Vienna’s “ultra” wing of hardline fans was spotted performing the banned gesture during a match in August 2016 and sentenced in Vienna on Monday.

“I didn’t really give it much thought. But it clearly wasn’t a good idea,” the skinhead told the court, saying he had had “a few beers and spritzers” before the game.

Similar convictions are relatively common but usually the sentences are suspended. In this case, however, than man had a previous conviction for wishing Hitler happy birthday on Facebook in 2013.

Rapid Vienna is Austria’s most successful club with 32 league titles but its hardcore “ultra” supporters have a reputation for hooliganism and anti-Semitism.

Earlier this year, the the team launched an internal probe into its fans who had chanted anti-Semitic slogans at a friendly game in May.

A small group among the several hundred spectators were filmed shouting “Jewish pigs” after Rapid II lost 2-1 against arch rival Austria Vienna in Tuesday evening’s clash.

Rapid at the time described the behavior as “unforgivable,” saying it “trampled on the club’s values and principles.”

“Anyone who is found to have joined in these insults will be immediately banned from SK Rapid events,” the club said in a statement sent to AFP.

Source: timesofisrael.com

Volunteers from 7 countries clear historic Jewish cemetery in Poland

An international group of 18 volunteers from Spain, Denmark, the Netherlands, Germany, Finland, the Czech Republic and Turkey with the help of seven volunteer Polish scouts from Poznan are cleaning a Jewish cemetery in Warsaw.

The work on the Jewish cemetery at Okopowa Street in Warsaw began on August 16 and will continue through August 24. The organizer of the project, the Cultural Heritage Foundation, has been carrying out cleaning work in this cemetery for three years. This year, together with the One World Association, the foundation invited young people from abroad to participate.

Participants will take part in discussions, lectures and thematic walks connected to Jewish culture in Warsaw, as well as visit the Museum of the History of Polish Jews and the Warsaw synagogue.

“The cemetery is largely undiscovered, and access to many cemetery quarters is hampered by wild plants. Thanks to the help of over 100 volunteers, we managed to organize almost 3 hectares of the cemetery,” coordinator of the volunteer projects of the Jewish Heritage Foundation, Ola Waszak, told JTA.

Cleaning work consists mainly of cleaning of the oldest part of the cemetery and removing broken tree boughs and plants. Preliminary cleaning of the cemetery is essential to allow qualified conservationists and visitors to gain access to historic gravestones. All work is supervised by the director of the cemetery, the Jewish Community in Warsaw and the Jewish Historical Institute.

Founded in 1806, the Jewish cemetery in Warsaw’s Wola district is one of the largest in the world, with over 80,000 identified gravestones