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A Former Soldier Tells His Grandson: ‘I Wasn’t a Nazi.’ A Former Soldier Tells His Grandson: ‘I Wasn’t a Nazi.’
(12 days later)
WE GERMANSBy Alexander StarrittWE GERMANSBy Alexander Starritt
As the granddaughter of a Holocaust survivor, I’ll admit I was a bit nervous when I was asked to review “We Germans,” a novel written in the form of a letter from a German soldier to his grandson, recalling his years on the Eastern Front. The book, inspired by Alexander Starritt’s own grandfather’s wartime past, promised an unfamiliar and potentially uncomfortable lens. But it was precisely this premise, and the moral quandary it presented, that intrigued me.As the granddaughter of a Holocaust survivor, I’ll admit I was a bit nervous when I was asked to review “We Germans,” a novel written in the form of a letter from a German soldier to his grandson, recalling his years on the Eastern Front. The book, inspired by Alexander Starritt’s own grandfather’s wartime past, promised an unfamiliar and potentially uncomfortable lens. But it was precisely this premise, and the moral quandary it presented, that intrigued me.
“My dear Callum,” the book begins, introducing us to Meissner, the narrator, and to his British grandson, whose commentary is interspersed seamlessly throughout. Meissner is a 19-year-old science student when he’s drafted into the German Army. He spends five long years evading death as a soldier and two more confined to the gulag. His letter, however, focuses on the fall of 1944, when his regiment has dissolved and the Germans, in retreat from a rapidly advancing Russian Army, have all but lost the war, their “mental, physical and moral disintegration almost complete.”“My dear Callum,” the book begins, introducing us to Meissner, the narrator, and to his British grandson, whose commentary is interspersed seamlessly throughout. Meissner is a 19-year-old science student when he’s drafted into the German Army. He spends five long years evading death as a soldier and two more confined to the gulag. His letter, however, focuses on the fall of 1944, when his regiment has dissolved and the Germans, in retreat from a rapidly advancing Russian Army, have all but lost the war, their “mental, physical and moral disintegration almost complete.”
“I wasn’t a Nazi,” Meissner maintains from the start. “I never asked to be here, in this uniform or this godforsaken country.” He is also explicit about his actions — he killed people, too many even to remember — and about the fact that his letter isn’t meant to be a plea for forgiveness. “I’m not trying to clear my conscience,” he assures his grandson. “What’s on it is on it.” Instead, Meissner offers a layered meditation on the ideology of the Nazi Party, and on what his actions say about him as a human. “Can you do evil without meaning to?” he asks. The question will plague him for a lifetime.“I wasn’t a Nazi,” Meissner maintains from the start. “I never asked to be here, in this uniform or this godforsaken country.” He is also explicit about his actions — he killed people, too many even to remember — and about the fact that his letter isn’t meant to be a plea for forgiveness. “I’m not trying to clear my conscience,” he assures his grandson. “What’s on it is on it.” Instead, Meissner offers a layered meditation on the ideology of the Nazi Party, and on what his actions say about him as a human. “Can you do evil without meaning to?” he asks. The question will plague him for a lifetime.
[ Read an excerpt from “We Germans.” ]
Starritt’s prose is riveting. It unspools like a roll of film — raw, visceral and propulsive, rich with sensory detail and unsparing in its depictions of cruelty. His account of the war in the East is shockingly gruesome. “It was not like the fighting in France,” where German soldiers, Meissner imagines, found themselves in “holidaymakers’ countryside,” “eating cheese and visiting the chateaux” and “trying out their schoolboy French.” The war with Russia was one of savagery, where seven of eight of all German soldiers would meet their deaths, and where it was not uncommon to come across villagers strung up from trees “like swollen plums” or starving P.O.W.s resorting to cannibalism, cutting “strips of jerky … from our comrades’ thighs.”Starritt’s prose is riveting. It unspools like a roll of film — raw, visceral and propulsive, rich with sensory detail and unsparing in its depictions of cruelty. His account of the war in the East is shockingly gruesome. “It was not like the fighting in France,” where German soldiers, Meissner imagines, found themselves in “holidaymakers’ countryside,” “eating cheese and visiting the chateaux” and “trying out their schoolboy French.” The war with Russia was one of savagery, where seven of eight of all German soldiers would meet their deaths, and where it was not uncommon to come across villagers strung up from trees “like swollen plums” or starving P.O.W.s resorting to cannibalism, cutting “strips of jerky … from our comrades’ thighs.”
The barbarity, at times, is nearly unbearable — but just when you think you can’t take it any longer, Meissner turns inward, reflecting on matters as mundane as his feet (“the infantryman’s hobby and an object of daily fascination”), which are “very white, soft and wrinkled, like vegetables left in the sink,” or as acute as his hunger, “a furious spirit trapped inside our bodies like black smoke,” or as gnawing as his regret, which he still grapples with decades later. “I wear a mark of shame,” he writes. “No matter what anyone says, it was me who held the rifle, and it always will be.” His remorse runs deep. And yet, in acknowledging it, he offers a shred of hope: “Where there is still shame, there may yet be virtue.”The barbarity, at times, is nearly unbearable — but just when you think you can’t take it any longer, Meissner turns inward, reflecting on matters as mundane as his feet (“the infantryman’s hobby and an object of daily fascination”), which are “very white, soft and wrinkled, like vegetables left in the sink,” or as acute as his hunger, “a furious spirit trapped inside our bodies like black smoke,” or as gnawing as his regret, which he still grapples with decades later. “I wear a mark of shame,” he writes. “No matter what anyone says, it was me who held the rifle, and it always will be.” His remorse runs deep. And yet, in acknowledging it, he offers a shred of hope: “Where there is still shame, there may yet be virtue.”
As I struggle to make sense of the polarized world we live in today, “We Germans” feels eerily timely. Meissner’s and Callum’s puzzlements are ours: How do we hold ourselves — and our ancestors — accountable for past wrongs? How do we acknowledge and atone for a nation’s violations? Starritt’s daring work challenges us to lay bare our histories, to seek answers from the past and to be open to perspectives starkly different from our own.As I struggle to make sense of the polarized world we live in today, “We Germans” feels eerily timely. Meissner’s and Callum’s puzzlements are ours: How do we hold ourselves — and our ancestors — accountable for past wrongs? How do we acknowledge and atone for a nation’s violations? Starritt’s daring work challenges us to lay bare our histories, to seek answers from the past and to be open to perspectives starkly different from our own.