A Problem From Hell Page 6

  Back in Poland, Lemkin was accused of trying to advance the status of Jews with his proposal. Foreign minister Beck slammed him for “insulting our German friends.”13 Soon after the conference, the anti-Semitic Warsaw government fired him as deputy public prosecutor for refusing to curb his criticisms of Hitler.14

  Jobless and chastened by the reception of his draft law, Lemkin still did not question the soundness of his strategy. History, he liked to say, was “much wiser than lawyers and statesmen.” The crime of barbarity repeated itself with near “biological regularity.”15 But Lemkin saw that people living in peacetime were clearly going to have difficulty hearing, never mind heeding, warning pleas for early action. The prospect of atrocity seemed too remote, the notion of a plot to destroy a collective too inhuman, and the fate of vulnerable groups too removed from the core interests of outsiders. Yet by the time the crimes had been committed, it would be too late for concerned states to deter them. States would forever be stuck dealing with the consequences of genocide, unable to see or unwilling to act ahead of time to prevent it. But Lemkin did not give up. Over the next few years, at law conferences in Budapest, Copenhagen, Paris, Amsterdam, and Cairo, Lemkin rose in his crisply pressed suit and spoke in commanding French about the urgency of the proposal.

  Lemkin was not the only European who had learned from the past. So, too, had Hitler. Six years after the Madrid conference, in August 1939, Hitler met with his military chiefs and delivered a notorious tutorial on a central lesson of the recent past: Victors write the history books. He declared:

  It was knowingly and lightheartedly that Genghis Khan sent thousands of women and children to their deaths. History sees in him only the founder of a state. . . . The aim of war is not to reach definite lines but to annihilate the enemy physically. It is by this means that we shall obtain the vital living space that we need. Who today still speaks of the massacre of the Armenians?16

  A week later, on September 1, 1939, the Nazis invaded Poland. In 1942 Hitler restored Talaat’s ashes to Turkey, where the Turkish government enshrined the fallen hero’s remains in a mausoleum on the Hill of Liberty in Istanbul.17

  Flight

  If Lemkin had been in a position to utter a public “I told you so” in September 1939, he would have done so. But like all Jews scrambling to flee or to fight, Lemkin had only survival on his mind. Six days after the Wehrmacht’s invasion of Poland, he heard a radio broadcast instructing able-bodied men to leave the capital. Lemkin rushed to the train station, carrying only a shaving kit and a summer coat. When the train was bombed and set aflame by the German Luftwaffe, Lemkin hid and hiked for days in the woods nearby, joining what he called a “community of nomads.” He saw German bombers hit a train crammed with refugees and then a group of children huddling by the tracks. Three of his traveling companions were killed in an air raid. Hundreds of Poles marching with him collapsed of fatigue, starvation, and disease.

  Under the terms of the secret Soviet-German deal known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, the Soviets invaded Poland just after the Germans, and the country was divided into a Soviet and a German zone. Lemkin kept on the move until November 1939, when he wound up in a small town in Poland’s Soviet-occupied half and persuaded a devout Jewish family to shelter him for a few days. There, despite the warmth and generosity of his hosts, Lemkin was frustrated by their passivity and wishful thinking in the face of Hitler’s brutality.

  “There is nothing new in the suffering of Jews, especially in time of war,” the man of the house, a baker, insisted. “The main thing for a Jew is not to get excited and to outlast the enemies. A Jew must wait and pray. The Almighty will help. He always helps.”

  Lemkin asked the man if he had heard of Mein Kampf. The man said he had heard of it but that he did not believe Hitler would follow through on his threats.

  “How can Hitler destroy the Jews, if he must trade with them?” the baker asked Lemkin. “I grant you some Jews will suffer under Hitler, but this is the lot of the Jews, to suffer and to wait.”

  Lemkin argued that this was not like other wars. The Germans were not interested only in grabbing territory. Hitler wanted to destroy the Jews completely.

  “In the last war, 1915–1918, we lived three years under the Germans,” the baker said. “It was never good, but somehow we survived. I sold bread to the Germans; we baked for them their flour. We Jews are an eternal people, we cannot be destroyed. We can only suffer.”18

  This disbelief, this faith in reason, in human contact, in commerce, convinced millions to remain in place and risk their fates. Only a small number of Jews had Lemkin’s foresight. The vast majority expected persecution and maybe even the occasional pogrom, but not extermination.

  Lemkin studied the man carefully and reflected:

  Many generations spoke through this man. He could not believe the reality of [Hitler’s intent], because it was so much against nature, against logic, against life itself, and against the warm smell of bread in his house, against his poor but comfortable bed. . . . There was not much sense in disturbing or confusing him with facts. He had already made up his mind.19

  Lemkin took a train to eastern Poland, where his brother and parents lived. He begged them to join him in flight. “I have been living in retirement for more than ten years because of my sickness,” his father said. “I am not a capitalist. The Russians will not bother me.” His brother chimed in, “I gave up my store and registered as an employee before it was taken over by the new government. They will not touch me either.” Lemkin later remembered: “I read in the eyes of all of them one plea: do not talk of our leaving this warm home, our beds, our stores of food, the security of our customs. . . . We will have to suffer, but we will survive somehow.” He spent the next day feeling as if he was living their funerals while they were still alive. “The best of me was dying with the full cruelty of consciousness,” he noted.20

  Before Lemkin left Wolkowysk, his mother lectured him on the importance of rounding out his life. She reminded him that his goal of writing a book a year was not as important as developing “the life of the heart.” Lemkin, who had not dated, joked that maybe he would have more luck in his new capacity as a nomad than he had had “as a member of a sedentary society.” He told his parents that he planned to travel first to Sweden and then, he hoped, to the United States, because that was where decisions were made.

  After waving good-bye to his parents with a determined casualness, Lemkin headed toward Vilnius, Lithuania, a town bustling with refugees. He spent what was left of his money on two telegrams. The first the fastidious scholar sent to Paris to inquire whether his publisher had received a manuscript that he had mailed a week before the war’s outbreak. The second, a plea for refuge, he dispatched to a friend, the minister of justice in Sweden.21 As he awaited notification from the Swedish consulate, he visited with various Jewish intellectuals around town. None planned to leave.

  The life of the vagrant was not agreeing with Lemkin. Although his acquaintances were generous, he felt his personality “disintegrate” as apathy set in. “There were three things I wanted to avoid in my life: to wear eyeglasses, to lose my hair, and to become a refugee,” he wrote. “Now all these three things have come to me in implacable succession.”22 He busied himself by buying a dictionary and learning Lithuanian from the daily newspaper. But only the arrival of a package from his publisher in France cheered him up. The publisher enclosed galleys of his latest book on international finance regulations, as well as copies of Lemkin’s 1933 draft law banning acts of barbarity and vandalism. In his newfound free time, the lawyer immediately set out to improve them.

  Lemkin’s request for refuge was granted, and he traveled to neutral Sweden by ship in February 1940. He was able to lecture in Swedish after just five months, an achievement he credited with enabling him to “rise spiritually from the ‘refugee’ fall of modern man.”23 While lecturing on international law at the University of Stockholm, he began assembling the legal decrees the Nazis had issue
d in each of the countries they occupied. He relied upon a corporation whose legal affairs he had once managed from Warsaw—as well as Swedish embassies around Europe, Red Cross delegations, and German occupation radio—to gather the official gazettes from any branches that remained open in the occupied countries. In compiling these laws, Lemkin hoped he would be able to demonstrate the sinister ways in which law could be used to propagate hate and incite murder. He also hoped decrees and ordinances in the Nazis’ own words would serve as “objective and irrefutable evidence” for the legions of disbelievers in what he called the “blind world.”24

  Lemkin was desperate to leave the libraries of neutral Stockholm and get to the United States, which he had idealized. Thanks to a professor at Duke University with whom he had once translated the Polish criminal code into English, Lemkin secured an appointment to the Duke faculty to teach international law. He flew to Moscow, took the Trans-Siberian railroad to Vladivostok, and then picked up a small boat, which he and the other refugees called the “floating coffin,” to the Japanese port of Tsuruga. He then took a bigger boat from Yokohama to Vancouver and on to Seattle, the U.S. port of entry, where he landed on April 18, 1941.

  A New Beginning, an Old Crusade

  Lemkin traveled by train to North Carolina, marking the end of what had been a 14,000-mile journey. The evening he arrived, he was asked to deliver a speech at a dinner with the university president. Without preparation or a full command of English, Lemkin urged Americans to do as Ambassador Morgenthau had done for the Armenians. “If women, children, and old people would be murdered a hundred miles from here,” Lemkin asked, “wouldn’t you run to help? Then why do you stop this decision of your heart when the distance is 3,000 miles instead of a hundred?”25 This was the first of hundreds of speeches Lemkin gave around the state. He bought himself a white suit, white shoes, white socks, and a dark silk tie for his appearances before chambers of commerce, women’s groups, and colleges. Members of the audiences approached Lemkin after his talks and apologized for America’s reluctance to join the fight against Hitler.

  While at Duke, Lemkin received a letter from his parents on a scrap of paper a quarter the size of a regular sheet. “We are well,” the letter read. “We hope you are happy. We are thinking of you.” Several days later, on June 24, 1941, he heard a radio broadcaster announce that the German army had declared war on the Soviet Union, abrogating the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact that had divided the country into a German and a Soviet zone. Hitler’s forces were now storming into eastern Poland. Colleagues on campus asked, “Have you heard the news about the Nazis?” Lemkin, dazed and sullen, looked down. “Sorry,” they said, pulling away.26

  Although Lemkin was panicked about the fate of his missing family, he busied himself by proselytizing about Hitler’s crimes. The prevailing wisdom in the United States, as it had been in Lithuania, was that the Nazis were waging a war against Europe’s armies. When Lemkin told U.S. government officials that Germany was also wiping out the Jews, he was greeted either with indifference or incredulity. But with Hitler’s declaration of war against the United States, Lemkin, then fluent in nine languages, thought he might acquire more cachet. In June 1942 the Board of Economic Warfare and the Foreign Economic Administration in Washington, D.C., hired him as chief consultant, and in 1944 the U.S. War Department brought him on board as an international law expert. But his horror stories were not a U.S. governmental concern. “My companions were mildly and only politely interested,” he remembered. “Their attention was rather absorbed by their own assignments. . . . They were masters in switching the discussion in their direction.”27

  Lemkin reached out to those at the top. He met with Henry Wallace, Roosevelt’s vice president, and attempted to personalize his message. Ahead of the meeting, he had studied up on the Tennessee Valley Authority project on irrigation, which he knew would interest Wallace. Because the vice president had been raised in the cornfields of Iowa, Lemkin also slipped in references to his farm upbringing. Lemkin met with Wallace on several occasions and introduced his proposals to ban the destruction of peoples. “I looked hopefully for a reaction,” Lemkin remembered. “There was none.”28

  Lemkin next tried to approach President Roosevelt directly. An aide urged him to summarize his proposal in a one-page memo. Lemkin was aghast that he had to “compress the pain of millions, the fear of nations, the hopes for salvation from death” in one page. But he managed, suggesting that the United States adopt a treaty banning barbarity and urging that the Allies declare the protection of Europe’s minorities a central war aim. Several weeks later a courier relayed a message from the president. Roosevelt said he recognized the danger to groups but saw difficulties adopting such a law at the present. He assured Lemkin that the United States would issue a warning to the Nazis and urged patience. Lemkin was livid. “‘Patience’ is a good word to be used when one expects an appointment, a budgetary allocation or the building of a road,” he noted. “But when the rope is already around the neck of the victim and strangulation is imminent, isn’t the word ‘patience’ an insult to reason and nature?”29 He believed a “double murder” was being committed—one by the Nazis against the Jews and the second by the Allies, who knew about Hitler’s extermination campaign but refused to publicize or denounce it. After he received word of Roosevelt’s brush-off, Lemkin left the department and walked slowly down Constitution Avenue, trying not to think about what it meant for his parents.

  He was sure politicians would always put their own interests above the interests of others. To stand any chance of influencing U.S. policy, he would have to take his message to the general public, who in turn would pressure their leaders. “I realized that I was following the wrong path,” he later wrote. “Statesmen are messing up the world, and [only] when it seems to them that they are drowning in the mud of their own making, [do] they rush to extricate themselves.”30 Those Americans who had been so responsive to Lemkin in person were not making their voices heard. And most Americans were uninterested. Lemkin told himself:

  All over Europe the Nazis were writing the book of death with the blood of my brethren. Let me now tell this story to the American people, to the man in the street, in church, on the porches of their houses and in their kitchens and drawing rooms. I was sure they would understand me. . . . I will publish the decrees spreading death over Europe. . . . They will have no other choice but to believe. The recognition of truth will cease to be a personal favor to me, but a logical necessity.31

  As he lobbied for action in Washington and around the country in 1942 and 1943, he flashed back to a speech delivered by British prime minister Winston Churchill in August 1941, broadcast on the BBC, which had urged Allied resolve. “The whole of Europe has been wrecked and trampled down by the mechanical weapons and barbaric fury of the Nazis. . . . As his armies advance, whole districts are exterminated,” Churchill had thundered. “We are in the presence of a crime without a name.”32

  Suddenly Lemkin’s crusade took on a specific objective: the search for a new word. He replayed in his mind the Churchill speech and the response of the lawyers in Madrid to his proposal. Perhaps he had not adequately distinguished the crime he was campaigning against from typical, wartime violence. Maybe if he could capture the crime in a word that connoted something truly unique and evil, people and politicians alike might get more exercised about stopping it. Lemkin began to think about ways he might combine his knowledge of international law, his aim of preventing atrocity, and his long-standing interest in language. Convinced that it was only the packaging of his legal and moral cause that needed refining, he began to hunt for a term commensurate with the truth of his experience and the experience of millions. He would be the one to give the ultimate crime a name.

  New York Times Photo Archive

  Raphael Lemkin

  Chapter 3

  The Crime With a Name

  “Believe the Unbelievable”

  Although he did not realize it at the time, Lemkin belonged t
o a kind of virtual community of frustrated, grief-stricken witnesses. A continent away, Szmul Zygielbojm, a fellow Polish Jew, was making arguments similar to those Lemkin registered in the U.S. War Department. In late May 1942, when reports of Nazi terror were still branded “rumors,” Zygielbojm, a member of the Polish National Council in London, released and publicized a report prepared by the underground Jewish Socialist Bund in Poland. For the previous two years, Zygielbojm had been traveling around Europe and the United States describing ghastly conditions in occupied Poland, but the Bund report offered the most complete, precise, and chilling picture of Hitler’s extermination plot. The Nazis had dispatched Einsatzgruppen, or mobile killing units, to conquered territory in eastern Europe. In Lithuania and Poland in the summer of 1941, the Bund reported,

  men, fourteen to sixty years old, were driven to a single place, a square or a cemetery, where they were slaughtered or shot by machine guns or killed by hand grenades. They had to dig their own graves. Children in orphanages, inmates in old-age homes, the sick in hospital were shot, women were killed in the streets. In many towns the Jews were carried off to “an unknown destination” and killed in adjacent woods.1

  The Bund report introduced readers to the gas vans that roamed around the Polish town of Chelmno, gassing an average of 1,000 people every day (ninety per van) from the winter of 1941 to March 1942. The report revealed that Germany had set out to “exterminate all the Jews of Europe.” More than 700,000 Jews had already been killed; millions more were endangered. Its authors called upon the Polish government-in-exile to press the Allies to retaliate against German citizens in their countries.2 Others urged the Allies publicly to link their bombing of Germany to Nazi atrocities and to drop leaflets over German territory informing German citizens of the atrocities. Zygielbojm appeared on the BBC on June 26, 1942, to deliver the same message. Speaking in Yiddish, he read aloud a letter from a Jewish woman in one ghetto to her sister in another: “My hands are shaking. I cannot write. Our minutes are numbered. The Lord knows whether we shall see one another again. I write and weep. My children are whimpering. They want to live. We bless you. If you get no more letters from me you will know that we are no longer alive.” The Bund report and the woman’s letter, Zygielbojm said, were “a cry to the whole world.”3