103. Inge Barth a Primo Levi, 1 marzo 1980

Bad Cannstatt, 1/03/80

Caro Signor Levi!

La ringrazio di cuore per la Sua lettera. È bello che mi abbia scritto, mi ha fatto davvero molto piacere.

Sì, Lei ha ragione nel dire che l’impotenza dei prigionieri nel lager non era certo paragonabile a quella del cittadino tedesco medio nel Terzo Reich. Nel lager, ogni forma di attività era senza speranza, condannata fin dall’inizio al fallimento.

Era senza speranza anche il solo pensiero di poter fare qualcosa.

I cittadini tedeschi avevano in effetti altre possibilità. Con il mio paragone intendevo più che altro dire che, in ogni situazione, esistono tipi umani diversi che hanno reazioni diverse –  tanto nella libertà quanto nella prigionia. Se volessimo distinguere molto genericamente due gruppi, uno sarebbe quello dei passivi, degli arrendevoli, forse anche dei mentalmente inerti o rassegnati; l’altro includerebbe gli intraprendenti, i fiduciosi, gli attivi, almeno sul piano intellettuale, le teste pensanti. Ma, come Lei giustamente osserva, distinguere tra passivi e attivi ad Auschwitz non era determinante, né decideva della libertà o della prigionia.

Lei ha pienamente ragione nel rimproverare a una parte degli intellettuali tedeschi dell’epoca di aver vissuto nell’obbedienza, nel consenso o addirittura in perfetta sintonia con il regime hitleriano. Posso solo pregarLa, nel formulare questi giusti rimproveri, di non dimenticare le molte persone che emigrarono,[1] furono perseguitate o si videro costrette alla fuga: Hannah Arendt, Bloch, Horkheimer, Marcuse, Adorno, Brecht, Auerbach, Broch, Musil, Kästner, Werfel, Zuckmayer, Heinrich e Thomas Mann, Tillich, Unseld, Max Reinhardt, Strawinski, Schönberg, Hindemith, Klemperer, Weill, Bruno Walter e Friedrich Holländer, solo per citarne alcuni. Ho trovato questi nomi in un articolo pubblicato di recente sul nostro quotidiano. Lo firmava una giornalista tedesca corrispondente da Washington, dove si è appena svolto, presso la Smithsonian Institution, un convegno di tre giorni sul tema dell’esodo intellettuale dalla Germania nazista: Die Musen fliehen vor Hitler.[Le Muse fuggono da Hitler].[2] Alla domanda di un partecipante americano su come fosse stato possibile accettare all’epoca una simile perdita di intellettuali, Alan Beyerchen, nel suo discorso di apertura, affermava: «L’atteggiamento anti-intellettuale dei tedeschi ha radici lontane che affondano nel diciannovesimo secolo.[3] Sull’onda di un diffuso e ben noto sentimento del popolo tedesco sorto in quel contesto, ebrei, liberali, marxisti e intellettuali venivano così fortemente identificati con la tanto invisa Repubblica di Weimar, che gran parte della popolazione — e perfino un’ampia fetta dell’élite accademica — è stata fin troppo pronta a sacrificare creatività ed eccellenza in nome di un’idea distorta di omogeneità culturale.»[4] L’articolo si concludeva con queste parole: «Colpisce il fatto che, ancora oggi, nella Repubblica Federale, non si sia affrontato seriamente questo esodo,[5] anzi, si direbbe quasi che lo si voglia negare. Gli sforzi per porvi rimedio, per offrire nuovamente una patria intellettuale ad artisti e scienziati, avrebbero dovuto essere ben più vigorosi».[6]

Caro Signor Levi, questa frase finale esprime la stessa inquietudine che sia Lei sia io proviamo quando ci interroghiamo sulla situazione attuale. A che punto siamo adesso? Noi in Germania, ma anche tutti gli altri popoli del mondo? Oggi dobbiamo guardare oltre, non pensare solo alle colpe del passato, perché le aggressioni che si abbattono sull’uomo e sull’umanità intera provengono da ogni direzione, a differenza di un tempo, quando erano innegabilmente riconducibili allo stato hitleriano.[7] Mi sembra che le reazioni alla crisi afghana mostrino, almeno in parte, che oggi l’umanità è diventata più vigile[8] e non sia più disposta ad accettare l’ingiustizia e l’oppressione in silenzio. Restano tuttavia aperte delle domande: per esempio, si può ancora tentare di risolvere una prova di forza come quella attuale con le parole? O dobbiamo di nuovo assistere, in nome della “pace mondiale”, al tentativo solitario del popolo afghano di conquistare la libertà — per poi vederlo, con ogni probabilità, naufragare?[9] La paura ci tiene stretti nella sua morsa. Con la paura si manovra, si ricatta, si violenta. Dove sono i limiti della sopportazione umana? Siamo abbastanza forti da opporci all’ingiustizia e alla violenza? Abbiamo l’energia, e soprattutto la volontà e la possibilità di lottare per il bene, la verità, la giustizia, la pace e l’umanità? O magari abbiamo ancora l’energia, sì, ma non più gli strumenti? E non è forse vero che, proprio quando ci accorgiamo di avere delle possibilità, finiamo ogni volta per condurre l’umanità sull’orlo dell’abisso? E abbiamo compreso che tecnica, progresso e materia non possono essere i fini ultimi dell’uomo? E oserei addirittura porre una domanda un po’ inusitata: le nostre anime e i nostri cuori, li abbiamo finalmente trovati? No, è sicuro. Ma dovremmo comunque provare a vivere con questo obiettivo davanti a noi, e in questo spirito tentare di educare i nostri figli. Se tutti gli esseri umani della Terra desiderassero sinceramente la pace, nessun potere al mondo potrebbe davvero metterla in pericolo.

Si tratta, senza dubbio, di un obiettivo altissimo e forse utopico nella situazione in cui ci troviamo. E, nel momento stesso in cui decidiamo di perseguirlo, sappiamo già di avere poche probabilità di raggiungerlo. Ma allora che senso ha porsi obiettivi che non potranno mai essere raggiunti?[10] In questo caso, un obiettivo irraggiungibile dovrebbe almeno fungere da punto di riferimento, orientare le nostre azioni e proteggerci dai peggiori pericoli. Piccole istanze producono piccoli effetti e piccoli successi. Solo grandi e nobili istanze potrebbero, in determinate circostanze, quanto meno avvicinarci a uno stato ideale.

Caro Signor Levi, i bambini della mia classe[11] hanno fra i sette e gli otto anni. Ho raccontato loro del Suo libro e delle Sue dolorose esperienze ad Auschwitz. Tutti hanno voluto farLe un piccolo dono e Le inviano questi disegni con i loro più affettuosi saluti.[12] Come Lei sa, nelle scuole noi abbiamo molti bambini stranieri. E nelle nostre classi non ci sono problemi di nazionalità. Pietro Cimino[13] La saluta nella lingua madre di entrambi; la madre della piccola Daniela Bonavita ha tradotto per me la Sua lettera in tedesco, poiché ne capivo solo una parte.

La ringrazio ancora una volta per la Sua risposta amichevole e per il Suo interesse. Le invio i miei più cordiali saluti e i migliori auguri per il Suo futuro. Sperando che sia, per tutti noi, un futuro di pace.

Con amicizia
Sua 

Inge Barth

P.S. Sicuramente Lei conoscerà lo scrittore e filosofo ERICH FROMM,[14] che vive in America. Uno dei suoi libri si intitola:

Anatomia della distruttività umana

Nel suo libro, Erich Fromm presenta le analisi di tre personaggi che all’epoca ricoprivano ruoli decisivi: Hitler, Himmler e Stalin. Ho letto il libro con grande interesse. Se ancora non lo conosce, credo che potrebbe essere interessante anche per Lei, per quanto potrebbe suscitarLe molte emozioni tristi e sconvolgenti.

Inge Barth
Ortelsburger Str. 8
7000 Stuttgart – 50

Bad Cannstatt, March 1, 1980

Dear Mr. Levi,

Thank you so much for your letter. It is nice that you wrote to me, and I was very pleased to receive it.

Yes, you are right when you say that the powerlessness of the prisoners in the camp was of course not comparable to that of the average German citizen in the Third Reich. In the camp, all activities were hopeless and doomed to failure from the outset.

The mere thought of any activity was hopeless.

The German people did indeed have other options. I think what I wanted to express with my comparison was that in every situation there are different types of people with different reactions—in freedom as well as in captivity. If one wanted to distinguish between two groups in general, one would be the group of passive, accepting, possibly also mentally inactive or mentally resigned people. And the others belonged to the group of the active, hopeful, engaged, at least in spirit and thinking. But as you rightly say, passivity or activity was not a significant difference in Auschwitz and could not determine freedom or lack thereof.

You are right to accuse some of the intellectuals of Germany at that time of having lived in obedient agreement or approval of Hitler’s state. I can only ask you not to forget, in your justified accusations, the many people who emigrated[1], were persecuted, or were forced to flee, such as: Hannah Arendt, Bloch, Horkheimer, Marcuse, Adorno, Brecht, Auerbach, Broch, Musil, Kästner, Werfel, Zuckmayer, Heinrich and Thomas Mann, Tillich, Unseld, Max Reinhardt, Strawinski, Schönberg, Hindemith, Klemperer, Weill, Bruno Walter and Friedrich Holländer, to name but a few. I took these names from a recent report in our daily newspaper. In it, a German journalist reports from Washington, where a three-day colloquium on the intellectual exodus from Germany during that period had just been held at the Smithsonian Institute: “The Muses Flee from Hitler.”[2] In response to a question from an American participant about how this immense intellectual loss could have been accepted at the time, Alan Beyerchen said in his opening speech: “The roots of the Germans’ hostility to intellectualism go back a long way into the nineteenth century,[3] and Jews, liberals, Marxists, and intellectuals were so closely identified with the unpopular Weimar Republic by the resulting, well-known German national sentiment that a large part of the German population, even a large part of the academic elite, was only too willing to sacrifice creativity and excellence for a misunderstood cultural homogeneity.”[4] The report concludes: “It is thought-provoking that even today, the Federal Republic of Germany has not thoroughly addressed this exodus,[5] and indeed seems to deny it altogether. Greater efforts should have been made to reverse it and offer artists and scientists a spiritual home once again.”[6] 

Dear Mr. Levi, this concluding sentence expresses the same thoughtfulness that both you and I had when considering the current state of affairs. Where do we stand now? We in Germany—but also all people throughout the world? Today, we must think beyond the guilt of the past, because aggression is coming at people and humanity from many sides and is no longer as firmly fixed as it was back then on Hitler’s state.[7] It seems to me that the reactions to the crisis in Afghanistan at least suggest that people around the world have become more vigilant[8] and are no longer willing to simply accept injustice and oppression. The only question is whether, for example, this trial of strength can still be negotiated verbally, or whether, in order to save “world peace,” we will once again have to stand by and watch as the Afghan people fight alone for their freedom—and probably ultimately fail?[9] Fear has us firmly in its grip; fear is used to manipulate, to blackmail, and to violate. Where are the limits of human resilience? Are we strong enough to defend ourselves against oppression and injustice? Do we have the strength and, above all, the willingness and ability to fight for good, justice, truth, peace, and humanity? Or do we have the strength—but no longer the means? Is it not the case that, in pursuing our goals, we bring humanity to the brink of extinction every time? And have we recognized that technology, progress, and materialism cannot be humanity’s ultimate goals? I would even venture to ask the somewhat unusual question: Have we finally rediscovered our hearts and souls? Certainly not. But with this goal in mind, we should try to continue living and also try to educate our children in this spirit. If all people on this earth want peace together, then no power on earth can seriously endanger that peace.

In our situation, this is certainly a very lofty and very fantastic goal. And while we set this goal for ourselves, we probably already know that we can never achieve it. Is it even possible to set goals if they can never be achieved?[10] In this case, the unattainable goal should at least be a point of reference that determines our actions and can protect us from the worst things. Small demands bring small effects and small successes. With big and lofty demands, we might at least be able to get closer to an ideal situation.

Dear Mr. Levi, the children in my school class[11] are seven and eight years old. I told them about your book and your sad experiences in Auschwitz. They all wanted to make you happy and are sending you these pictures with warm regards.[12] As you know, we also have many children from abroad in our schools. And there are no nationality problems in our classes. Pietro Cimino[13] sends you greetings in your and his native language, and the mother of little Daniela Bonavita translated your letter into German for me, as I could only understand part of it by myself.

I would like to thank you once again for your friendly reply and for your interest. Warmest regards to you and all the best for your future. Let us hope it will be a peaceful future for us all!

In friendship,
Yours,

Inge Barth

P.S. Surely you are familiar with the writer and philosopher ERICH FROMM[14], who lives in America. One of his books is titled:

            The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness

In his book, Erich Fromm analyzes three individuals who played such decisive roles at that time: Hitler, Himmler, and Stalin. I read the book with great interest. If you are not yet familiar with it, I believe it could be worth reading for you, too, even if it might bring up a lot of sad and disturbing emotions.

Inge Barth
Ortelsburger Str. 8
7000 Stuttgart – 50

Bad Cannstatt, den 1. 3. 80

Lieber Herr Levi!

Ich bedanke mich ganz herzlich für Ihren Brief. Es ist schön, daß Sie mir geschrieben haben, und ich habe mich sehr darüber gefreut.

Ja, Sie haben recht, wenn Sie sagen, daß die Impotenz der Gefangenen im Lager natürlich nicht vergleichbar war mit derjenigen der deutschen Durchschnittsbürger im Dritten Reich. Im Lager waren sämtliche Aktivitäten hoffnungslos und schon von Anfang an zum Scheitern verurteilt.

Die bloßen Gedanken an irgedeine Aktivität waren hoffnungslos.

Da hatten die deutschen Menschen tatsächlich andere Möglichkeiten. Ich glaube, ich wollte mit meinem Vergleich mehr zum Ausdruck bringen, daß es in jeder Situation verschiedene Menschentypen mit verschiedenen Reaktionen gibt – in der Freiheit genauso wie in der Gefangenschaft. Wenn man ganz allgemein 2 Gruppen unterscheiden wollte, dann wäre das eine etwa die Gruppe der Passiven, Hinnehmenden, womöglich auch geistig Untätigen oder geistig Resignierenden. Und die anderen gehörten zu der Gruppe der Aktiven, Hoffnungsvollen, Agierenden, zumindest im Geistigen, und Denkenden. Aber wie Sie richtig sagen, Passivität oder Aktivität, das war in Auschwitz kein wesentlicher Unterschied und konnte nicht über Freiheit oder Unfreiheit entscheiden.

Mit Recht werfen Sie einem Teil der Intellektuellen des damaligen Deutschlands vor, daß sie in gehorsamem Einverständnis oder in Zustimmung zum Hitlerstaat gelebt haben. Ich kann Sie dazu nur bitten, bei Ihren berechtigten Vorwürfen die vielen Menschen nicht zu vergessen, die emigrierten,[1] verfolgt wurden oder sich zur Flucht veranlaßt sahen, so etwa: Hannah Arendt, Bloch, Horkheimer, Marcuse, Adorno, Brecht, Auerbach, Broch, Musil, Kästner, Werfel, Zuckmayer, Heinrich und Thomas Mann, Tillich, Unseld, Max Reinhardt, Strawinski, Schönberg, Hindemith, Klemperer, Weill, Bruno Walter und Friedrich Holländer, um nur einige zu nennen. Ich habe diese Namen einem erst kürzlich erschienen Bericht in unserer Tageszeitung entnommen. Darin berichtet eine deutsche Journalistin aus Washington, wo jetzt gerade 3 Tage lang im Washingtoner Smithsonian – Institut ein Kolloquium stattgefunden hat, das sich mit dem geistigen Exodus des damaligen Deutschlands befaßte: Die Musen fliehen vor Hitler.[2] Auf die Frage eines amerikanischen Teilnehmers, wie denn dieser immense geistige Verlust damals überhaupt hingenommen habe werden können, sagte Alan Beyerchen in seinem Eröffnungsreferat: „Die Wurzeln der geistfeindlichen Haltung der Deutschen gehen nun einmal weit ins neunzehnte Jahrhundert zurück,[3] und Juden, Liberale, Marxisten und Intellektuelle sind von dem daraus erwachsenen, sattsam bekannten deutschen Volksempfinden so sehr mit der ungeliebten Weimarer Republik identifiziert worden, daß ein großer Teil der deutschen Bevölkerung, ja selbst ein großer Teil der akademischen Elite, nur allzu willens gewesen ist, Kreativität und Exzellenz einer falsch verstandenen kulturellen Homogenität zu opfern”.[4] Zum Schluß heißt es in dem Bericht: „Es stimmt nachdenklich, daß man sich auch heute noch in der Bundesrepublik mit diesem Exodus nicht gründlich auseinandergesetzt hat,[5] ja ihn geradezu zu negieren scheint. Die Anstrengungen, ihn rückgängig zu machen, Künstlern und Wissenschaftlern erneut eine geistige Heimat zu bieten, hätten größer sein müssen”.[6]

Lieber Herr Levi. Dieser Schlußsatz bringt die gleiche Nachdenklichkeit zum Ausdruck, die sowohl Sie als auch ich hatten bei der Frage nach dem heutigen Stand der Dinge. Wo stehen wir jetzt? Wir in Deutschland – und aber auch alle Völker in der ganzen Welt? Heute müssen wir weiter denken als nur an die Schuld der Vergangenheit, denn die Aggressionen kommen von vielen Seiten auf die Menschen und auf die Menschheit zu und sind nicht mehr so fest fixiert wie damals auf den Hitlerstaat.[7] Es scheint mir, daß man aus den Reaktionen auf die Afghanistankrise doch zumindest schließen kann, daß die Menschen in aller Welt heute wachsamer geworden sind[8] und nicht mehr willens sind, Ungerechtigkeit und Unterdrückung einfach hinzunehmen. Es fragt sich nur, ob z.B. gerade diese Kraftprobe jetzt noch verbal ausgehandelt werden kann oder ob wir wieder einmal, um den „Weltfrieden” zu retten, zusehen müssen, wie das afghanische Volk einsam um seine Freiheit kämpft – und am Schluß wahrscheinlich doch versagen wird?[9] Die Angst hat uns fest in ihrem Griff, mit der Angst wird operiert, mit der Angst wird erpreßt und vergewaltigt. Wo sind die Grenzen der menschlichen Belastbarkeit? Sind wir stark genug, uns gegen Unterdrückung und Unrecht zu wehren? Haben wir die Kraft und vor allem die Bereitschaft und Möglichkeit, für das Gute, das Recht, die Wahrheit, den Frieden und die Menschlichkeit zu kämpfen? Oder haben wir die Kraft – aber keine Möglichkeiten mehr? Ist es nicht so, daß wir bei der Wahrnehmung unserer Möglichkeiten die Menschheit jedesmal an den Abgrund ihrer Existenz bringen? – und haben wir erkannt, daß Technik, Fortschritt und Materie nicht die endgültigen Zielsetzungen der Menschheit sein können? Ich würde vielleicht sogar die etwas ungewöhnliche Frage wagen: Haben wir endlich unsere Herzen und unsere Seelen wiedergefunden? Sicherlich nicht. Aber mit diesem Ziel vor Augen sollten wir weiterzuleben versuchen und auch versuchen, unsere Kinder in diesem Sinne zu erziehen. Wenn alle Menschen auf dieser Erde gemeinsam den Frieden wollen, dann kann keine Macht der Erde diesen Frieden ernstlich in Gefahr bringen.

Eine sehr hohe und sehr phantastische Zielsetzung ist das in unserer Situation auf jeden Fall. Und während wir uns dieses Ziel setzen, wissen wir wahrscheinlich schon, daß wir es niemals erreichen können. Kann man sich dann überhaupt Ziele setzen, wenn sie nie erreicht werden können?[10] In diesem Fall sollte uns das nie erreichbare Ziel wenigstens ein Orientierungspunkt sein, der unser Handeln bestimmt und uns vor den schlimmsten Dingen bewahren kann. Kleine Forderungen bringen kleine Wirkungen und kleine Erfolge. Durch große und hohe Forderungen könnten wir uns unter Umständen doch wenigstens einem Idealzustand nähern.

Lieber Herr Levi. Die Kinder in meiner Schulklasse[11] sind 7 und 8 Jahre alt. Ich habe ihnen von Ihrem Buch und von Ihren traurigen Erlebnissen in Auschwitz erzählt. Alle wollten Ihnen eine Freude machen und schicken Ihnen diese Bilder mit recht herzlichen Grüßen.[12] Wie Sie wissen, haben wir auch viele Kinder aus dem Ausland in unseren Schulen. Und es gibt in unseren Klassen keine Nationalitätenprobleme. Pietro Cimino[13] grüßt Sie in Ihrer und in seiner Muttersprache, und die Mutter der kleinen Daniela Bonavita hat mir Ihren Brief ins Deutsche übersetzt, da ich nur einen Teil selbst verstehen konnte.

Ich bedanke mich noch einmal bei Ihnen für Ihre freundschaftliche Antwort und für Ihr Interesse. Sehr herzliche Grüße für Sie und alles Gute für Ihre Zukunft. Hoffentlich ist es eine friedliche Zukunft für uns alle!

In Freundschaft
Ihre

Inge Barth

P.S. Sicherlich kennen Sie den in Amerika lebenden Schriftsteller und Philosophen ERICH FROMM.[14] Eines seiner Bücher heißt:

Die Anatomie der menschlichen Destruktivität

Erich Fromm bringt in seinem Buch Analysen von 3 Personen, die in der damaligen Zeit so entscheidende Rollen gespielt haben: Hitler, Himmler und Stalin. Ich habe das Buch mit großem Interesse gelesen. Falls Sie es noch nicht kennen, so glaube ich, es könnte auch für Sie lesenswert sein, selbst wenn es eine Menge trauriger und erschütternder Emotionen in Ihnen wachrufen wird.

Inge Barth
Ortelsburger Str. 8
7000 Stuttgart – 50

Bad Cannstatt, March 1, 1980

Dear Mr. Levi,

Thank you so much for your letter. It is nice that you wrote to me, and I was very pleased to receive it.

Yes, you are right when you say that the powerlessness of the prisoners in the camp was of course not comparable to that of the average German citizen in the Third Reich. In the camp, all activities were hopeless and doomed to failure from the outset.

The mere thought of any activity was hopeless.

The German people did indeed have other options. I think what I wanted to express with my comparison was that in every situation there are different types of people with different reactions—in freedom as well as in captivity. If one wanted to distinguish between two groups in general, one would be the group of passive, accepting, possibly also mentally inactive or mentally resigned people. And the others belonged to the group of the active, hopeful, engaged, at least in spirit and thinking. But as you rightly say, passivity or activity was not a significant difference in Auschwitz and could not determine freedom or lack thereof.

You are right to accuse some of the intellectuals of Germany at that time of having lived in obedient agreement or approval of Hitler’s state. I can only ask you not to forget, in your justified accusations, the many people who emigrated[1], were persecuted, or were forced to flee, such as: Hannah Arendt, Bloch, Horkheimer, Marcuse, Adorno, Brecht, Auerbach, Broch, Musil, Kästner, Werfel, Zuckmayer, Heinrich and Thomas Mann, Tillich, Unseld, Max Reinhardt, Strawinski, Schönberg, Hindemith, Klemperer, Weill, Bruno Walter and Friedrich Holländer, to name but a few. I took these names from a recent report in our daily newspaper. In it, a German journalist reports from Washington, where a three-day colloquium on the intellectual exodus from Germany during that period had just been held at the Smithsonian Institute: “The Muses Flee from Hitler.”[2] In response to a question from an American participant about how this immense intellectual loss could have been accepted at the time, Alan Beyerchen said in his opening speech: “The roots of the Germans’ hostility to intellectualism go back a long way into the nineteenth century,[3] and Jews, liberals, Marxists, and intellectuals were so closely identified with the unpopular Weimar Republic by the resulting, well-known German national sentiment that a large part of the German population, even a large part of the academic elite, was only too willing to sacrifice creativity and excellence for a misunderstood cultural homogeneity.”[4] The report concludes: “It is thought-provoking that even today, the Federal Republic of Germany has not thoroughly addressed this exodus,[5] and indeed seems to deny it altogether. Greater efforts should have been made to reverse it and offer artists and scientists a spiritual home once again.”[6] 

Dear Mr. Levi, this concluding sentence expresses the same thoughtfulness that both you and I had when considering the current state of affairs. Where do we stand now? We in Germany—but also all people throughout the world? Today, we must think beyond the guilt of the past, because aggression is coming at people and humanity from many sides and is no longer as firmly fixed as it was back then on Hitler’s state.[7] It seems to me that the reactions to the crisis in Afghanistan at least suggest that people around the world have become more vigilant[8] and are no longer willing to simply accept injustice and oppression. The only question is whether, for example, this trial of strength can still be negotiated verbally, or whether, in order to save “world peace,” we will once again have to stand by and watch as the Afghan people fight alone for their freedom—and probably ultimately fail?[9] Fear has us firmly in its grip; fear is used to manipulate, to blackmail, and to violate. Where are the limits of human resilience? Are we strong enough to defend ourselves against oppression and injustice? Do we have the strength and, above all, the willingness and ability to fight for good, justice, truth, peace, and humanity? Or do we have the strength—but no longer the means? Is it not the case that, in pursuing our goals, we bring humanity to the brink of extinction every time? And have we recognized that technology, progress, and materialism cannot be humanity’s ultimate goals? I would even venture to ask the somewhat unusual question: Have we finally rediscovered our hearts and souls? Certainly not. But with this goal in mind, we should try to continue living and also try to educate our children in this spirit. If all people on this earth want peace together, then no power on earth can seriously endanger that peace.

In our situation, this is certainly a very lofty and very fantastic goal. And while we set this goal for ourselves, we probably already know that we can never achieve it. Is it even possible to set goals if they can never be achieved?[10] In this case, the unattainable goal should at least be a point of reference that determines our actions and can protect us from the worst things. Small demands bring small effects and small successes. With big and lofty demands, we might at least be able to get closer to an ideal situation.

Dear Mr. Levi, the children in my school class[11] are seven and eight years old. I told them about your book and your sad experiences in Auschwitz. They all wanted to make you happy and are sending you these pictures with warm regards.[12] As you know, we also have many children from abroad in our schools. And there are no nationality problems in our classes. Pietro Cimino[13] sends you greetings in your and his native language, and the mother of little Daniela Bonavita translated your letter into German for me, as I could only understand part of it by myself.

I would like to thank you once again for your friendly reply and for your interest. Warmest regards to you and all the best for your future. Let us hope it will be a peaceful future for us all!

In friendship,
Yours,

Inge Barth

P.S. Surely you are familiar with the writer and philosopher ERICH FROMM[14], who lives in America. One of his books is titled:

            The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness

In his book, Erich Fromm analyzes three individuals who played such decisive roles at that time: Hitler, Himmler, and Stalin. I read the book with great interest. If you are not yet familiar with it, I believe it could be worth reading for you, too, even if it might bring up a lot of sad and disturbing emotions.

Inge Barth
Ortelsburger Str. 8
7000 Stuttgart – 50