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The changing lessons of the Holocaust.

THE YEAR 2005 MARKS THE SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF the end of the events we now know as the Holocaust or the Shoah. Called upon for a book-jacket blurb for Gunnar Paulsson's Secret City, one of the books reviewed here, however, well-known Holocaust historian Michael Marrus admitted, "For many of us in this field, it is difficult to imagine something new," and it has been some years since any new publication on the subject has captured public attention beyond the academic arena the way Daniel Goldhagen's controversial Hitler's Willing Executioners did in 1996. Are the new publications that continue to appear merely adding a few more brushstrokes to a picture that is essentially complete? And in particular, does the latest historical scholarship on the Holocaust have anything new to say about issues of concern to Jewish readers and scholars?

It is true that the most fundamental questions about the Holocaust are still the same as those that were asked at the time: how could anyone have committed such horrendous acts, and how should we judge the behavior of the victims?

Of the six books discussed here, three--Claudia Koonz's The Nazi Conscience, Christopher Browning and Jurgen Matthaus's The Origins of the Final Solution, and Robert Jan Van Pelt's The Case for Auschwitz--fit into the category of "perpetrator history"--the attempt to understand those who carried out the Holocaust. The others focus on parallel issues, especially psychological and motivational ones. These however explore Jewish responses. Recent scholarship thus shows that the lessons of the Holocaust are changing: the connection between genocide and bureaucratic structures now seems less self-evident, the status of Jewish resistance perhaps more ambivalent, the commonality of Jewish fate inflected by gender differences. Even if Eva Hoffman is correct in claiming that the Jewish community's obsession with the Holocaust has begun to wane, however, it is clear that the events of the Shoah still loom large in the definition of Jewish identity. Pondering the rise in antisemitism since September 11 and the American invasion of Iraq, Hoffman laments the fact "that my generation has not attained full freedom from the constrictions of Jewish history after all" (263). But simple analogies with the Hitler period can be dangerous. Like the Jews of the Holocaust era, we have to choose our courses of action without complete understanding of the situation we face, and without any clear way of knowing what the outcomes of our choices will be. The newest Holocaust scholarship shows that this was the situation in the Hitler era, and Jews cannot escape from this condition, which is, after all, the common fate of humankind. The Nazi Conscience, for example, is a study of Hitler's Germany in the 1930s, before the war and the start of the extermination campaign. Like most academic historians, Koonz rejects Daniel Goldhagen's claim that German antisemitism was always so virulent that no further explanation of why so many Germans participated in genocide after 1941 is really required. She shows instead that in the 1930s most "decent" Germans were put off by the crude and violent hate propaganda associated with Hitler's militant followers, and that the regime was always careful to avoid offending public sensibilities too directly.

Rather than appealing directly to racial hatred after he took power, Koonz shows, Hitler managed to recruit followers who thought they were following their better instincts. Even as Nazi thugs committed acts of violence, Hitler spoke of the need for national unity and sacrifice. He found respectable allies among the German professoriate, many of whom, like the philosopher Martin Heidegger, convinced themselves that they were transforming crude Nazi doctrines into something more intellectually respectable. The rough edges of the Nazi movement were rounded off by persuading Stormtroopers to busy themselves collecting donations for Party charity drives instead of brawling in the streets. Ideas about "racial hygiene" were sold as scientific ways of creating a healthier, happier German Volk; the grimmer implications for the Jews were spelled out only to the Nazi faithful. Although some schoolteachers eagerly embraced Nazi doctrines, the majority resisted preaching violent antisemitism. They were willing, however, Koonz finds, to accept "a tacit compromise that highlighted ethnic solidarity and minimized coarse racism." Lessons about Jewish inferiority may even have been more effective when they were presented as part of an overall curriculum in biology rather than as "blatant racial hate" (160, 144). By the time Hitler was ready to move toward genocide, the majority of the population was prepared to participate "as a consequence of their acceptance of knowledge disseminated by institutions they respected" (272), rather than because of the circulation of more overt Nazi hate propaganda.

Koonz's book helps make sense of the findings of many other scholars, which have generally stressed the German population's hesitation to embrace the more extreme forms of Nazi antisemitism. Koonz outlines a middle path between the positions of Christopher Browning and Daniel Goldhagen, the two historians whose views have dominated the debate about German motives since the mid-1990s. In his study of German perpetrators in Poland during the war, Ordinary Men, Browning downplayed the importance and extent of Nazi propaganda in conditioning the men who became killers. He argued that wartime conditions, above all a feeling of solidarity with their comrades and their commanding officers, were sufficient to explain this behavior. Goldhagen, on the other hand, maintained that the vast majority of Germans were and always had been pathological antisemites, and that wartime conditions simply provided them an opportunity to show their true selves. Koonz's findings suggest that prewar indoctrination was more important than Browning acknowledged, but that the arguments that made the greatest impression on the population were often those

that cloaked hatred in a veil of apparent moral idealism or pseudoscientific authority. From the point of view of the Jewish victims, this menace was all the more difficult to combat because Germans who adopted antisemitism on these grounds could convince themselves that their motives were pure and could even see themselves as quite different from the more vulgar Nazis of the Julius Streicher persuasion.

Christopher Browning and Jurgen Matthaus's The Origins of the Final Solution deals with what has come to be recognized as the most critical part of the Holocaust story: the move from a policy aimed at expelling Jews from German-controlled territory to a systematic campaign of annihilation of the entire European Jewish population. The importance of this book can be summed up by saying that it significantly revises the account provided in Raul Hilberg's classic The Destruction of the European Jews, the work that has been the central pillar of Holocaust studies for the past generation. Browning and his collaborator Jurgen Matthaus (credited for having written slightly more than one chapter of the book) have incorporated a vast amount of recent research on the subject to give a picture that affects not only our understanding of the specifics of the Holocaust, but also the implications of the Holocaust process for our comprehension of how bureaucracies function and, implicitly, our judgment of the behavior of the Jewish victims of German policy.

Hilberg was convinced that Nazi ideology pointed inexorably to extermination as the only solution to "the Jewish problem," and that bureaucracies are great impersonal machines which, once set in motion, go forward relentlessly until they reach their goals. Implied in Hilberg's deterministic vision of events is the notion that Hitler's victims should have been able to understand the menace facing them, since genocide was the only logical outcome of Nazi policy. This was the basis for Hilberg's brief but bitter condemnation of Jewish behavior during the Holocaust, often seen as paralleling Hannah Arendt's notorious critique of the victims' passivity. Browning and Matthaus's meticulously detailed narrative of German policy provides a new understanding of its development. Although they, unlike Hilberg, offer no overt judgment on Jewish responses to the Germans, the implications of their approach suggest a very different conclusion on the subject.

Browning and Matthaus's basic thesis, based on their own research and on the consensus of other recent scholarship, is "that a simple, linear, top-down model of decision-order-implementation does not capture the amorphous and unstructured nature of the Nazi decision-making process. Rather, Nazi policy evolved through an unsystematic dialectical interaction of mutual radicalization between central and local authorities involving numerous variations of exhortation, legitimization, and support, as well as decisions and orders from above; and intuition, initiative, and experimentation, as well as obedience from below" (214). This is not to say that they consider the campaign against the Jews to be the result of historical accidents: they take it for granted that Hitler and his closest henchmen harbored a violent hatred for Jews from the start and eagerly exploited the opportunities the war provided for them. In particular, unlike proponents of the "functionalist" thesis about the Holocaust popular thirty years ago, who sometimes portrayed Hitler as a "weak dictator" who left policymaking to his unsupervised subordinates, Browning and Matthaus show that Hitler not only "legitimized and prodded the ongoing search for final solutions" but that he was also "an active and continuing participant in the decision-making process. Indeed, not a single significant change in Nazi Jewish policy occurred without his intervention and approval" (424-5). But Hitler achieved his goal without giving specific directions. "To make his wishes known," Browning and Matthaus write, Hitler relied on "signals in the form of relatively vague and inexplicit statements, exhortations, and prophecies" (425). He left it to his followers to figure out how to translate these into implementable policies, intervening erratically but effectively to settle disputes and set priorities.

The Origins of the Final Solution contends that the Final Solution was not the result of a single decision but rather of a whole series of choices, starting with the determination to make Germany and parts of occupied Poland Judenrein after the unexpectedly rapid victory in September 1939. Subsequent steps, some of which overlapped with each other in timing, included the policy of confining the Polish Jews to ghettos, the realization that the conquest of France and the other western European countries created a possibility of "solving" the Jewish problem in all of Europe and not just in Germany and Poland, the decision to exterminate all male Jews in occupied parts of the Soviet Union, which was soon broadened to include the killing of the entire Jewish population there, the accumulation of expertise in efficient mass killing through the euthanasia campaign in Germany itself in 1939-1941, and finally the creation of death camps in Poland to carry out the murder of the European Jewish population. Although the result of all these diverse initiatives was a ruthlessly efficient campaign of extermination, Browning and Matthaus insist that "only at the end of this journey of innovation did the Final Solution take on an air of obviousness and inevitability that could not have been apparent to the perpetrators at the time" (316). In place of Hilberg's depiction of a well-oiled bureaucratic machine directed toward a clear goal, Browning and Matthaus reveal an efficiency expert's nightmare of competing agencies that frequently obstructed each others' initiatives. Yet the result of this Darwinian struggle for survival among the Nazis was not deadlock but rather accomplishment of Hitler's most extreme antisemitic fantasies.

Raul Hilberg's interpretation of the Holocaust was strongly influenced by Max Weber's theories about the development of modern, rationalized bureaucracies. Hilberg's work has been interpreted by social theorists such as Zygmunt Bauman in his influential Modernity and the Holocaust (1989) as confirmation of Weber's thesis that bureaucracies governed by abstract rules develop a mind of their own, and lose sight of the human consequences of their procedures. Although it was certainly not Hilberg's intention to exculpate the thousands of participants in the Holocaust process, his emphasis on the bureaucratic nature of the process did lend some support to the claim later made by many Germans that they were "just following orders" and that they could easily persuade themselves that the actions they were performing were too trivial to engage their personal responsibility. By contrast, the story reconstructed by Browning and Matthaus has little place for impersonal routine. It shows instead how many Germans actively took the initiative in finding ways to carry out what they took to be Hitler's wishes, often in the face of substantial obstacles. One of the implications of The Origins of the Final Solution is thus that the facile identification of Nazi genocide as a consequence of bureaucratic modernity needs to be rethought.

Browning and Matthaus's work is resolutely in the tradition of "perpetrator history": unlike Hilberg, they do not even make any passing comments about the behavior of the Germans' victims. Their work has at least one very important implication for Jewish history, however. Hilberg's criticism of Jewish behavior, especially that of Jewish community leaders faced with the Nazis, depended on the notion that the Germans' deadly intentions were obvious from the start. The Origins of the Final Solution demonstrates that this was not true: until some date in the second half of 1941, even the top German leaders had not yet settled on a definite policy of total extermination. It was during this critical period that the Jewish councils were set up, and when both Jewish leaders and the mass of the Jewish population had to make basic decisions about the relative dangers of compliance or resistance. Given the unsettled nature of German policy, they were faced with an impossible task. By the time they realized that the Germans had reached a decision, it was too late. But it is hardly possible to condemn either Jewish leaders or ordinary Jews for not embarking on clearly suicidal policies of resistance in anticipation of a German policy that was still taking shape. The explanation of the Holocaust offered in Browning and Matthaus's work thus undercuts the denunciations of Jewish "passivity" in many earlier works on the subject.

Robert Jan van Pelt's The Case for Auschwitz, although by far the longest of the books reviewed here, deals with the narrowest subject. An architecture historian by training, van Pelt has become an acknowledged expert on the history of the Auschwitz camp, and he was called to testify in the libel trial brought by the British Holocaust denier David Irving against the American Holocaust scholar Deborah Lipstadt in 2000. In one sense, it is depressing to see that it takes 558 pages of small type to demonstrate that there actually were gas chambers at Auschwitz, and to realize that the courtroom debates about mass murder at one point appeared to hinge on whether there was enough evidence that there had been openings in the buildings' roofs (the vents through which the cyanide tablets were introduced into the gas chambers). From another point of view, however, it is important to realize that the "case for Auschwitz" is solid enough to resist all but the most prejudiced skepticism. Van Pelt's role in the trial required him to base his testimony on only the most irrefutable evidence: on documents indisputably generated during the camp's existence, on accounts given before the Auschwitz story had become widely circulated, and on reports provided by people who had not only been in the camp, but had been in a position to know exactly what went on in the gas chambers and crematoria.

Although Auschwitz, unlike the other major death camps, was not in an isolated location and awareness of its function was undoubtedly widespread, the Germans did manage to restrict knowledge of the details of the gassing procedure, and wartime bombing destroyed many relevant SS documents, leaving evidence about the construction of the camp but not about its operations. Van Pelt acknowledges that historians therefore have to rely heavily on "testimonies, confessions, memoirs," that is, on "intentional evidence" created to persuade its readers, rather than on documents that seem more reliable because they are only unintentionally revealing (102). Holocaust negationists like Irving have seized on this situation to claim that there is no absolute proof that the now-ruined structures at Auschwitz were actually gas chambers. Van Pelt's painstaking inventory of the available evidence, however, shows that "the assertion that our knowledge about Auschwitz is a fabrication balancing precariously on a very narrow evidentiary basis is patently false" (143). Few Jewish readers have ever doubted this, but even they will come away with a renewed appreciation of the importance of those prisoner eyewitnesses who did whatever they could to leave some record behind. Sadly, even this massive tome will not silence those negationists whose antisemitism drives them to embrace any argument, no matter how outlandish, to discredit evidence about the Holocaust. But The Case for Auschwitz should remind the perpetrators of similar crimes of how hard it is to completely eradicate the traces of mass murder.

If even research focused squarely on the perpetrators of the Holocaust has important implications for the understanding of the Jewish experience during this catastrophe, it is not surprising that scholarship focused on Jewish responses also continues to change our picture of the subject. Two important recent works in this vein are Gunnar Paulsson's study of Warsaw Jews who tried to survive in hiding during the war and Nechama Tec's more general survey of Jewish behavior during the Holocaust. Paulsson takes issue with Raul Hilberg's description of the Jewish response to persecution as having been primarily passive, and also with Hilberg's insistence that Jews would have done better to resort to overt resistance. Hilberg briefly mentioned what he called "evasion" as a possible alternative, but gave it little emphasis. Paulsson insists that attempted survival by hiding was far more widespread than historians have realized, that it offered much better survival chances than has generally been realized, and that Jews who tried to find hiding places for themselves should be regarded as active agents in determining their own fate, rather than passive beneficiaries of the efforts of others, like the protagonist of Roman Polanski's recent film The Pianist.

Other historians, including Nechama Tec, who herself survived the war by passing as a Christian child in wartime Poland, have examined the mechanics of evasion, and a large proportion of survivors' memoirs are the stories of Jews who hid successfully. The originality of Paulsson's study is his insistence on the importance of the phenomenon, and his critique of the prevailing emphasis on organized resistance as the proof that Jews did not go "like sheep to the slaughter." "Of all the options that seemed available to the Jews, including armed resistance, flight unquestionably offered in practice the best chance of survival," he writes (13), and by including pre-war refugees and Jews who managed to escape eastward into the Soviet Union when the Germans invaded Poland, he advances a figure of two million lives saved this way (14). Extrapolating from the number of known survivors found in Warsaw at the end of the war, and the number of victims caught outside the ghetto, he makes a plausible estimate of about 28,000 Jews who hid on the "Aryan" side of the city at some point during the war, and suggests that about forty per cent of them survived the war--a proportion considerably higher than that for Jews who remained in the Warsaw ghetto. Careful reading of survivor memoirs also allows him to estimate that some 70 to 90,000 non-Jews must have been involved in aiding these hidden Jews, a figure that compares favorably to the 3 to 4,000 Poles whom he calculates profited by blackmailing Jews or turning them in to the Germans.

Paulsson is not shy about underlining some of the more radical implications of his approach. Although he relies heavily on documentation gathered by Jews during the Holocaust and on survivors' memoirs, he insists that these sources often distort our picture of wartime conditions. "Contemporary accounts tended to note what was notable, remember what was memorable and filter out the ordinary responses," he contends (157). In particular, he thinks that these sources exaggerate the intensity of Polish antisemitism and underrate the number of Poles willing to help Jews. Jews' excessive pessimism about their Polish fellow citizens discouraged them from making the effort to escape from the ghetto and made them more likely to commit themselves to armed resistance or to try to conceal themselves in bunkers inside the Jewish district, strategies that offered little hope of survival. The lesson, Paulsson concludes, is that "a vulnerable minority needs to have an accurate view of the society around it" (246). Paulsson does not deny the courage of the activists who staged the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, but he does question the tendency to see them as the only ones who saved Jewish honor from the stain of passivity. In his view, "evasion is an active and not a passive response," which leads him not only to deemphasize the importance of the armed fighters, but also that of the gentile rescuers, who he sees as helpers rather than as the central figures in rescue dramas (247).

Paulsson is not immune to the tendency toward overstatement that often seizes scholars pursuing a new insight. While he concedes that the Jews who survived in hiding in Warsaw were a tiny minority of those who found themselves in the Polish capital during the war, his description of this group's survival as "the greatest mass escape from confinement in history ... a dramatic story that has few parallels" (1), gives an inflated sense of the importance of the phenomenon in our overall understanding of the Holocaust. Paulsson also shows that hiding, like armed resistance, was an option whose risks only came to seem worth running for most Jews after the mass deportations of the summer of 1942, which claimed the lives of the overwhelming majority of the ghetto Jews. Until then, complying with German decrees had been a much safer choice. Like Browning and Matthaus, Paulsson thus underlines the consequences of the confusion caused by the long delay before the Germans actually settled on a policy of total extermination. Finally, Paulsson fails to acknowledge how hard the break with community solidarity, especially the solidarity of that intimate community, the family, was for most Jews. Communal and family efforts had seemed to provide the only possible method for Jewish survival from 1939 to 1942. An unwillingness to abandon those closest to oneself may have been as important as the fear of the Gentile world that Paulsson stresses in deterring Jews from making the attempt to evade capture.

Family dynamics are central in another recent book about Jewish behavior during the Holocaust, Nechama Tec's Resilience and Courage. Tec, herself a survivor, brings a perspective to the subject that, as she reports, many of the fellow survivors she interviewed resisted accepting: she asks whether Jewish victims' fates differed according to their sex. Both Holocaust survivors and many scholars have objected to this line of inquiry, fearing, as Tec comments, that it "might shift attention from the Jewishness of the victims to their sex" (15-16). She nevertheless insists that gender, as well as age and social class, did affect victims' experiences as they "traveled on different roads toward the single destination planned for them by the Germans" (345). But Tec's findings do not support any simple conclusion about these gendered differences in experience. She agrees with women's historians who have written about the Holocaust that some women--mothers with small children and those who were pregnant--were particularly targeted in the camps because of their procreative role, but she suggests that men were more exposed during the ghetto period, both because the Germans initially treated them more harshly and because they lost their normal roles as breadwinners and protectors of their families. Men also faced special risks in attempting to hide or pass as gentiles, because circumcision made them easily identifiable, and they had less chance of being hired as domestics, a resource which enabled many women to support themselves.

On the whole, Tec's research shows that both Jewish men and women accepted fairly traditional notions of gender roles during the Holocaust as long as circumstances permitted. The added functions women took on in the Polish ghettos were expansions of their traditional roles as homemakers. Even when mothers heroically insisted that their sons and daughters leave their families behind and make efforts to escape, they were carrying out their accustomed duty of sacrificing for the good of their children. Where Jews were able to take on active roles as partisans, men automatically claimed the leadership positions and women often had to pay with sexual favors for being included at all. In the extreme conditions of the camps, reactions were less predictable. Tec does not endorse the claim, made in some previous studies, that women were more likely to form bonds with other prisoners in the camps. She recognizes that women were less likely to be selected for work and there by given a chance of survival, but on the other hand her informants generally agreed that men had a harder time coping psychologically with the complete loss of status and independence that camp conditions inflicted on them, and with the starvation rations they received.

Resilience and Courage demonstrates that gender is a relevant category for understanding Jewish experience during the Holocaust, but Tec's findings should reassure those who have worried that such an approach would blur the ties between Jewish men and women or lead to accusations that Jewish men contributed to the victimization of Jewish women. Some feminist readers may feel that Tec puts too much emphasis on the ways in which women continued to act out traditional sex roles, and not enough on women who were active in resistance groups or who took the initiative in saving themselves by hiding, but to try to paint the Holocaust as in any way a liberating experience for women would clearly be as unhistorical as it is to suggest that their patriarchal attitudes made Jewish men accomplices of the perpetrators.

The current crop of historical scholarship on the Holocaust thus continues to clarify important issues, and to modify our understanding of Jewish experience in this catastrophe. Historians will no doubt continue to probe the topic for a long time to come. But can the intensity of the Jewish community's engagement with the Holocaust persist as the survivor generation reaches its end? Eva Hoffman brings her personal experience as the Polish-born daughter of survivors as well as her training in psychology to bear on this question in After Such Knowledge. Hoffman's essay traces the evolution of Holocaust memory from the perspective of the special group to which she belongs: not the survivors themselves, but the "second generation," those who were children of survivors. Her purpose is not to claim that this group deserves to be accorded a special moral status, but to argue that their experience offers unique insights into the legacy of the Holocaust. "The second generation after every calamity is the hinge generation, in which the meanings of awful events can remain arrested and fixed at the point of trauma; or in which they can be transformed into new sets of relations with the world, and new understanding," she writes (103).

Although Hoffman's essay is based heavily on her own experience, she makes a convincing case for the wider relevance of her story. Like many other survivors, her parents did talk about their wartime experiences, but primarily in private or with others who had shared them. In general, however, they were more concerned to build new lives for themselves and did not want to dwell on the past. "This was before the culture of confession," Hoffman notes, and few of the survivors were accustomed to the idea that talking about what they had suffered might help them deal with their experiences (47). As young people, many children of survivors were only too happy to distance themselves from an event whose nature they could only dimly understand but whose drastic impact on their parents they sensed only too well. The end of her generation's personal latency period coincided with a widening discussion of the topic in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Like many other Jews, Hoffman found her thinking about the Holocaust affected by encounters with Germans and, in her case, Poles. Her suggestions about why dialogue between Jews and Germans has been less confrontational than the "head-on clash of two martyrological memories" in Poland are insightful, and offer hope for a more productive discussion of the latter issue. Her discussion of the "Holocaust memory" phenomenon eschews the polemics that the topic has often inspired. Although she is aware of the danger that "the rhetoric of awe can turn into the idealization of horror" (176), experiences such as her encounter with a survivor of the Rwandan genocide who had found a course on the Holocaust helpful in coping with his own people's tragedy show that probing the past can have a positive function. "The meaning of being human would be diminished if we could not hold those who have died in our minds, if we could not sustain a symbolic relationship to them," she writes (161).

The parallel Hoffman draws between individual psychological development and collective memory warns her, however, that the salience of the Holocaust will continue to change. Indeed, she thinks that the imminent disappearance of the survivor generation, the aging of their children, and the new cultural climate symbolized by September 11, 2001, all indicate that "the statute of limitations on the Holocaust is running out, as it must" (266). The event still poses deep questions, and those that she lists are, significantly, those that the latest scholarly literature deals with: research, such as Claudia Koonz's and Christopher Browning's, responds to Hoffman's call for study of "how people are led towards systematic sadism, how the mind converts ordinary ambivalence into extreme cruelty" (271). And studies such as Paulsson's and Tec's respond to her urging to "enter more boldly into that most taboo of areas--the range of Jewish behavior during the Holocaust" (273). The purpose of further research on the Holocaust, Hoffman suggests, should be not just to maintain Jewish memory, but to illuminate the larger and all-too-common problem of genocidal violence and to "think about structures to restrain such instincts ..." (275). For Jews, however, she wonders whether it is not time to begin to stake out some emotional distance from the event. "There is a Jewish tradition that says we must grieve for the dead fully and deeply," she concludes, "but that mourning must also come to its end. Perhaps that moment has come, even as we must continue to ponder and confront the knowledge that the Shoah has brought us in perpetuity" (279).

Books discussed in this essay: Christopher Browning and Jurgen Matthaus, The Origins of the Final Solution: The Evolution of Nazi Jewish Policy, September 1939-March 1942 (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2004); Eva Hoffman, After Such Knowledge: Memory, History, and the Legacy of the Holocaust (New York: PublicAffairs, 2004); Claudia Koonz, The Nazi Conscience (Cambridge, MS: Harvard University Press, 2003); Gunnar S. Paulsson, Secret City: The Hidden Jews of Warsaw, 1940-1945 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002); Nechama Tec, Resilience and Courage: Women, Men, and the Holocaust (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003); Robert Jan van Pelt, The Case for Auschwitz: Evidence from the Irving Trial (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2002).

JEREMY D. POPKIN is professor of European history at the University of Kentucky, where he has taught courses on the Holocaust since the early 1980s. His essay, "Holocaust Memory: Bad for the Jews?," appeared in the Winter 2001 issue.
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Title Annotation:Books
Author:Popkin, Jeremy D.
Publication:Judaism: A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought
Article Type:Book Review
Date:Jun 22, 2004
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