The Sunflower

Jean Améry responds to Wiesenthal’s question as a fellow Holocaust survivor. He addresses the question of forgiveness from two perspectives: the psychological and the political. From both perspectives, he believes that the question of whether he should or should not forgive is essentially an irrelevant question.

From the psychological perspective, Améry suggests that Simon’s decision to forgive or not to forgive was merely a function of his personality and immediate circumstances. He suggests that any small variation in the situation might have made Simon more or less disposed to forgive than he was in that particular moment.

From the political perspective, Améry points out that this question of forgiveness is a theological one, a matter of religion, and that as an atheist himself, he recognizes no intrinsic value in the conferring of forgiveness. For this reason, he states that he “must abstain from approving or condemning” (107) Wiesenthal’s decision not to forgive the SS man. Améry states that his main concern is not the matter of forgiveness, but rather that what he and Wiesenthal experienced “must not happen again, never, nowhere” (108).

In conclusion, he states that it was within Wiesenthal’s right not to forgive the dying man, just as it would also have been in his right to forgive if he had done so. He asserts that Wiesenthal’s life path since his release from the concentration camp is what matters. What he did in that instance with the one man doesn’t matter, but Wiesenthal should continue to bring the crimes of Nazis to light, to “make sure that the arm of worldly justice . . . still reaches them” (109).

Smail Balić acknowledges that, under the circumstances, Wiesenthal could only have given forgiveness on his own “personal behalf” (110) for the wrongs he personally had suffered.

Balić writes of the Bosnian concept of merhamet, a compassion that, through tradition, binds him to anyone who is suffering. This concept suggests that “in order to understand a person who has carried the burden of so much injustice and suffering, we have to imagine ourselves in his position” (110). Such compassion must be applied to both Karl, the SS man, and to Simon, the Jewish prisoner.

Balić views the “conversion” (110) of Karl as an indicator that better times lie ahead for the nation as a whole. He suggests that the young man’s remorse is “a sign of hope and a signal of a new democratic beginning for Germany” (110). He goes on to qualify this statement by saying that he does not believe in the concept of collective guilt, and asserts that each individual is responsible for his or her own actions. Therefore, he says that forgiveness and reconciliation must be handled only by the doer of the misdeed and by his victim. Simon, as a third party, “has no proper role other than mediator” (111).

Balić also acknowledges other elements embedded within Wiesenthal’s story. While he does not believe in collective guilt, he does concede that “those who might appear uninvolved in the actual crimes, but who tolerate acts of torture, humiliation, and murder, are certainly also guilty” (111). Also in the story, Balić points out, is a recognition of “historically embedded prejudices, clichés, and stereotypes that shape the views of the masses” (111). He acknowledges that Wiesenthal’s story is one means of educating people about the destructive power of such misinformation.

Moshe Bejski, who is also a Holocaust survivor, begins by acknowledging that, writing as he is, fifty years after the episode in question, it is difficult to say for certain what one might have done under those circumstances. He acknowledges that, in theory, the Nazi may have been theologically and rationally worthy of forgiveness by virtue of the assumed fact that he was sincere in his remorse. Bejski also acknowledges, however, that Wiesenthal, whose state of victimization remained unchanged by the Nazi’s confession, was in no position to give absolution. While Simon is not one of Karl’s victims directly, he has borne witness to the same manner of crimes perpetrated by people of the same regime to which Karl was loyal. Bejski suggests that any person caught in the system of torture, starvation, and humiliation that Wiesenthal was in at the time would not be capable of any rational act of forgiveness. He says, “How can forgiveness be asked of someone whose death sentence will soon be carried out by the dying man’s partners in crime” (114). Bejski goes on to say that, had Wiesenthal granted the requested pardon, he might view his own forgiveness as “an act of betrayal and repudiation of the memory of millions of innocent victims who were unjustly murdered” (115).

Bejski recalls the matter of “God’s silence” (115), that notion raised by friends of Wiesenthal. Bejski himself remembers a relative, once observant and preparing to become a rabbi, who rejected his belief in God after so much time in a concentration camp. Bejski states that, in the absence of faith, the religious act of forgiveness would not be possible anyway.

Moshe Bejski goes on to talk about the process of accountability that has been taking place since the end of the war. He expresses concern that more and more people are “interested in consigning the crimes of the Nazi regime to oblivion” (116). He suggests that, because of this move toward forgetting, many of the guilty parties are able to move into peaceful happy lives without ever experiencing repentance or forgiveness.

Returning to Wiesenthal’s situation, Bejski makes the observation that Simon’s decision to the leave the room without giving forgiveness was in fact an act of silence, rather than a refusal. He did not act in revenge, nor did he concede the desired forgiveness. Considering this, alongside the fact that Simon eventually visited Karl’s mother without telling her the painful details of his death, would indicate that Simon did indeed act in mercy. According to Bejski, Wiesenthal exercised a “restraint [that] goes beyond what a human being could be expected to do” (117).