Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps 9781501313264, 9781501313257, 9781501313295, 9781501313288

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of Figures
Notes on Contributors
Introduction: Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps— Challenging the “Order of Terror”?
Part One The Concentration Camp Universe
1 The Camp Society: Approaches to Social Structure and Ordinary Life in Nazi Concentration Camps
2 Translanguagers and the Concentrationary Universe
Part Two Language Diversity in the Camps
3 Linguistic Terror in Nazi Concentration Camps: Lucien and Gilbert—Portraits of Two “Interpreters”
4 Lagersprache through the Lens of Primo Levi’s Essay on Translation: “Tradurre ed essere tradotti”
5 On Translating and Being Translated
Part Three Interpreting in the Camps
6 “Someone whispered the translation in 100 languages, like a Babel …”: Interpreting in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp
7 Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)
8 “Deaf Holocaust”: Deaf Jews and Their “True” Communication in the Nazi Concentration Camps
Part Four Translating the Legacy of the Holocaust
9 “L’ écrit reste. L’ écrit est une trace, tandis que les paroles s’ envolent”: On the Hermeneutics of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs
10 The Ambiguous Task of the Interpreter in Lanzmann’ s Films Shoah and Sobibor: Between the Director and Survivors of the Camps and Ghettos
11 The Illusion of “Authenticity”: The Translation of Video Testimonies with Survivors of National Socialist Terror for Use in Educational Work
Part Five Limits of Permeability
12 Interpreters in Soviet Prisoner of War Camps: Beyond the “Unsayable”?
13 Interpreting under Pressure: From Collaboration to Resistance
Name Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps

Literatures, Cultures, Translation Literatures, Cultures, Translation presents a new line of books that engage central issues in translation studies such as history, politics, and gender in and of literary translation, as well as opening new avenues for study. Volumes in the series follow two main strands of inquiry: one strand brings a wider context to translation through an interdisciplinary interrogation, while the other hones in on the history and politics of the translation of seminal works in literary and intellectual history. Series Editors Brian James Baer, Kent State University, USA Michelle Woods, The State University of New York, New Paltz, USA Editorial Board Rosemary Arrojo, The State University of New York, Binghamton, USA Paul Bandia, Concordia University, Canada, and Harvard University, USA Susan Bassnett, Professor of Comparative Literature, Warwick University, UK Leo Tak-hung Chan, Lingnan University, Hong Kong, China Michael Cronin, Dublin City University, Republic of Ireland Edwin Gentzler, University of Massachusetts Amherst, USA Carol Maier, Kent State University, USA Denise Merkle, Moncton University, Canada Michaela Wolf, University of Graz, Austria

Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps Edited by Michaela Wolf With an essay by Primo Levi

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc

N E W YO R K • LO N D O N • OX F O R D • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 © Michaela Wolf and Contributors, 2016 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Whilst every effort has been made to locate copyright holders the publishers would be grateful to hear from any person(s) not here acknowledged. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the editor. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Wolf, Michaela, editor. Title: Interpreting in Nazi concentration camps / edited by Michaela Wolf ; with an essay by Primo Levi. Description: London ; New York : Bloomsbury Academic, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc, [2016] | Series: Literatures, cultures, translation | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015049931 (print) | LCCN 2015050517 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501313264 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501313257 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501313271 (ePub) | ISBN 9781501313288 (ePDF) Subjects: LCSH: Concentration camps–Language. | Translating and interpreting–Social aspects. | World War, 1939-1945–Prisoners and prisons. | Concentration camps–Management. | Intercultural communication. | BISAC: LITERARY CRITICISM / European / German. | LITERARY CRITICISM / Semiotics & Theory. | LANGUAGE ARTS & DISCIPLINES / Translating & Interpreting. Classification: LCC D805.6.L35 I58 2016 (print) | LCC D805.6.L35 (ebook) | DDC 940.53/185014–dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015049931 ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-1326-4  PB: 978-1-5013-1325-7 ePub: 978-1-5013-1327-1  ePDF: 978-1-5013-1328-8 Series: Literatures, Cultures, Translation Cover design: Daniel Benneworth-Gray Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd.

Contents List of Figures Notes on Contributors Introduction: Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps— Challenging the “Order of Terror”? Michaela Wolf

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1

Part 1  The Concentration Camp Universe 1 2

The Camp Society: Approaches to Social Structure and Ordinary Life in Nazi Concentration Camps Alexander Prenninger Translanguagers and the Concentrationary Universe David Gramling

25 43

Part 2  Language Diversity in the Camps 3 4 5

Linguistic Terror in Nazi Concentration Camps: Lucien and Gilbert—Portraits of Two “Interpreters” Heidi Aschenberg Lagersprache through the Lens of Primo Levi’s Essay on Translation: “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” Zaia Alexander On Translating and Being Translated Primo Levi

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79 87

Part 3  Interpreting in the Camps 6



“Someone whispered the translation in 100 languages, like a Babel …”: Interpreting in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp Michaela Wolf

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Contents

vi 7 8

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944) Małgorzata Tryuk “Deaf Holocaust”: Deaf Jews and Their “True” Communication in the Nazi Concentration Camps Mark Zaurov

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135

Part 4  Translating the Legacy of the Holocaust 9

“L’ écrit reste. L’ écrit est une trace, tandis que les paroles s’ envolent”: On the Hermeneutics of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs Peter Kuon 10 The Ambiguous Task of the Interpreter in Lanzmann’ s Films Shoah and Sobibor: Between the Director and Survivors of the Camps and Ghettos Francine Kaufmann 11 The Illusion of “Authenticity”: The Translation of Video Testimonies with Survivors of National Socialist Terror for Use in Educational Work Sylvia Degen

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Part 5  Limits of Permeability 12 Interpreters in Soviet Prisoner of War Camps: Beyond the “Unsayable”? Viktor Milosevic 13 Interpreting under Pressure: From Collaboration to Resistance Piotr Kuhiwczak Name Index Subject Index

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227 230

List of Figures 7.1 Bilingual inscription at KL Majdanek. Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek. 7.2 Letter by Witold Tryuk from KL Flossenbürg, January 18, 1943. Personal archives. 7.3 Letter from Hermann Florstedt, commandant of KL Majdanek, dated February 23, 1943, announcing the change of the official name of the camp from “Kriegsgefangenenlager der Waffen-SS Lublin” to “Konzentrationslager Lublin.” Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek. 7.4 Notice for a Polish translator in the camp post office, January 7, 1943. Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek.

118 121

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Notes on Contributors Zaia Alexander is a writer and literary translator living in Los Angeles and Potsdam. She holds a PhD in Germanic Languages and Literature from the University of California, Los Angeles. Her publications include Wende Kids: A New Generation of German Authors and “Primo Levi and Translation” in the Cambridge Companion to Primo Levi. Heidi Aschenberg is Adjunct Professor of Romance Philology at the University of Tübingen. Her research focuses on philosophy of language, discourse analysis, translation, and historiography of language. Her works include the articles “Sprachterror. Kommunikation im nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager” (2002) and “Polyglossie im Konzentrationslager: literarische Reflexe in Texten zur Shoah” (2003). Sylvia Degen has been involved in political education for many years, focusing particularly on memorial work to the victims of National Socialism. She has been working as a freelance translator and is currently completing a PhD thesis at the University of Aberystwyth on the translation of survivors’ video testimonies. David Gramling is Assistant Professor at the, Department of German Studies, University of Arizona. He researches at the intersections of critical multilingualism studies, literary translation, applied linguistics, transnational German studies, and Turkish-German film and literature. His book The Invention of Monolingualism is to be published by Bloomsbury in the fall of 2016. Francine Kaufmann taught Hebrew language and literature in Paris III and Paris VIII Universities and French translation at the Bar-Ilan University, Israel. She interpreted Hebrew interviews in the films Shoah and Sobibor by Claude Lanzmann. Her publications focus on literature of the Shoah, Jewish translation, and media translation. Piotr Kuhiwczak obtained his PhD from the University of Warsaw. He spent over twenty years researching and teaching translation studies and comparative literature at the University of Warwick. His research focus is

Notes on Contributors

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on translation and the Holocaust and on the study of trauma in refugees. Currently, he is a refugee services coordinator at the British Red Cross. Peter Kuon is Professor of Romance Philology at the University of Salzburg. His areas of research include contemporary avant-garde literature, intertextuality and literary metamorphoses, and Shoah literature. He is the editor of Trauma et texte (2008) and the author of L’ écriture des revenants. Lectures de témoignages de la déportation politique (2013). Viktor Milosevic obtained his MA in translation and interpreting studies at the University of Graz. His research interests include the history of interpreting and translation and exile. He works as a freelance translator for various institutions, such as the Goethe-Institut in Moscow, and as a community interpreter in Graz. Alexander Prenninger is a researcher at the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for Historical Social Research and lecturer at the University of Salzburg. He was project coordinator of the “Mauthausen Survivors Research Project.” His research and lectures focus on oral history of deportation and concentration camps, the Second World War and memory studies. Małgorzata Tryuk is Professor and Head of the Department of Translation and Interpreting Studies at the Institute of Applied Linguistics, University of Warsaw. Her research focuses on community interpreting and legal interpreting and on the interpreting activity in Nazi concentration camps. Her most recent publication is On Ethics and Interpreters (2015). Michaela Wolf is Associate Professor at the Department of Translation Studies, University of Graz. Areas of research and teaching include translation sociology, cultural studies and translation, translation history, and translation and visual anthropology. She is the author of The Habsburg Monarchy’s Many-Languaged Soul. Translating and Interpreting, 1848–1918 (2015). Mark Zaurov is currently writing his PhD thesis on Deaf Jews in Art, Politics and Sciences at the University of Hamburg. His research focuses on Deaf culture, Deaf studies, Holocaust studies, and Deaf sign language interpreting. He conducted a series of interviews with Deaf Holocaust survivors (2010) and coined the term “Deaf Holocaust.”

Introduction: Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps—Challenging the “Order of Terror”? Michaela Wolf

The terror that began with the persecution of political enemies ended with the killing of millions of people. The suppression of those who allegedly obstructed the dictatorial Nazi regime’s rise to power ran over into a violent unleashing of absolute control which far exceeded any existing notions of despotism and destruction. With reference to the lager, Wolfgang Sofsky argues that “[i]n the span of twelve years, the concentration camp metamorphosed from a locus of terror into a universe of horror” (Sofsky 1997: 5). In the years that followed the end of the Second World War and the liberation of the concentration camps—which was in no way equatable with the mental and/or physical liberation of their survivors—much effort was taken to create and develop a better understanding of the horrific chain of events that has come to be known as “the Holocaust.” Survivors themselves and witness accounts, tribunals, researchers, and pedagogues have all contributed to shedding light on Nazi politics, racial ideology, the bureaucracy of terror, and especially on the details of ghettoization, deportation, and the annihilation of millions of people, as well as providing information about how the concentration camps functioned. Our perception of the “reality” in the camps nonetheless remains opaque, and this distance nourishes paradigms of “incomprehensibility” and “incomparability,” which threaten to detract from a profound historical engagement with the history of Nazi terror. To counter these and similar topoi, we need to take a closer and deeper look at the social mechanisms underlying the universe of the camps, not least when we consider that the everyday functioning of each concentration camp was not only dependent on a fine-grained and bizarre bureaucracy, but also the specific “product of human action” (Sofsky 1997: 9). I would like to extend my warm thanks to Zahra Mani and Kate Sturge for their invaluable input in style editing some of the chapters in this volume, and to Nadja Grbić for her constructive comments on an early version of this introduction.

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Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps

This volume proffers a body of work that examines various different facets of language and interpreting in relation to the Holocaust, including a broad analysis of the role of interpreters in the Nazi concentration camps as well as looking into the significance of language in the power structure of the camps, examining the language used by survivors in their recollections and memoirs, and the challenges involved in communicating the seemingly unspeakable after the event. The research necessarily addresses a wide range of historical and ethical issues pertaining to neighboring fields such as history, historiography, and social sciences. Psychological and philosophical questions pertaining to identity, conflict, and social structures are examined in the light of language mediation in the context of the paradigmatically horrific violence of Nazi ideology as realized in the camps. This collection is intended to cast a first light on these issues from a translation and interpreting studies perspective, opening up a new field of research to be extended in future through subsequent studies on language mediation both in the concentration camps and in other situations of extreme violence. With German as the only official language in the lager, enabling communication was essential for the prisoners’ survival. To date, hardly any research has been conducted on the mediating role of interpreters who aided communication between SS guards and prisoners on the one hand, and among inmates on the other. The interpreters at the camps were mostly inmates who, by merit of their linguistic competence, were obliged to translate for the perpetrators and for their fellow inmates, which placed them in a situation where decisions pertaining to allegiance and survival were unavoidable and where the act of mediating transcended any common contemporary assumptions related to interpreting and translation. The chapters that examine the challenges of interpreting within the violent constraints of the concentration camps are an example of the way this volume strives to bridge a relevant and to date relatively uncharted space between translation and interpreting studies and the Holocaust, and between language and conflict in an extreme situation of incarceration and brutal violence. One of the book’s central questions therefore addresses the various ways in which interpreting contributed to shaping day-to-day life in the concentration camps. A further central issue is the extent to which the knowledge of languages, and accordingly, certain communication skills, contributed to the survival of camp inmates and of the interpreters themselves. How did communication work, and which forms of interpreting were practiced? These questions will be explored from an internal perspective with recourse to archive materials as well as survivors’ memoirs and testimonials in various languages, which shall be investigated and analyzed not only on a documentary basis, but also from a translation and interpreting studies viewpoint.

Introduction 

3

The Holocaust and the “order of terror” in the concentration camp system The Holocaust can be understood as the systematic genocide of approximately six million European Jews by the Nazis and their allies. The mass killings were primarily the product of an extremist, anti-Semitic worldview that attempted to realize a “utopian” vision of racial “purity” (Levi and Rothberg 2003: 3–4). By exploiting deeply rooted anti-Semitic attitudes in both German and broader European culture, in conjunction with the disastrous economic conditions of the 1920s and 1930s, the National Socialists won the 1932 parliamentary elections with their Führer Adolf Hitler. After the death of President Paul von Hindenburg, Hitler, who had already been appointed as chancellor in January 1933, took over as president. At that time, about 500,000 people who professed to Judaism—that is, 0.76 percent of the whole population—were living in the German Reich (Benz 2008: 16). The Nuremberg Laws of September 1935 institutionalized some of the racial theories prevalent in Nazi ideology. The laws excluded German Jews from Reich citizenship and prohibited them from marrying or having sexual relations with people who had “German or related blood.” Supplementary decrees to the laws deprived Jews of most political rights. Immediately after attaining power, Hitler began using his police and paramilitary forces to murder political opponents and ethnic “traitors” alike. Jews and “Bolsheviks” were at the top of the list for imprisonment in the first “concentration camps” that were established in the German Reich. In the subsequent years, the Nazi extermination policy systematically put into practice its plans for the “Germanization” of eastern Europe and the demographic restructuring of the rest of Europe. These plans were intended to result in the complete annihilation of the Jews and Gypsies and in the partial elimination of Slavs, especially the Poles, along with the handicapped, homosexuals, political opponents, and many others (Piper 1998: 371). Consequently, the Nazi regime established a veritable industry of death: a list drawn up in 1967 by the German Ministry of Justice names about 1,200 concentration camps and sub-camps in countries occupied by Nazi Germany (Bundesministerium der Justiz 1967). The Nazi plan to exterminate the victims was pursued systematically, methodically, and vigorously. The uniqueness of the ensuing genocide lies in the industrial scale on which it was organized and implemented. Concentration camps were organized stringently, according to strict rules. On arrival at the camp, the standard procedure was to bundle the exhausted, bewildered, and terrified people directly from the transport wagons into the

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Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps

traumatic reception procedure. Once “registered,” the prisoners were forced into a persistent state of activity—they were in constant haste, always fearful of castigation and beatings. The inmates suffered from hunger, malnutrition, overwork, and fatigue and were exposed to extreme cold in the winter and heat in the summer. Appalling sanitary conditions were the norm and medical help was scarce, and often non-existent (Smith 2006: 155). In the early morning, after roll call, the prisoners were hurried off by the Kapos to form the labor squads to which they had been allocated. The Kapos were prisoners, mostly criminals, who were assigned by the SS staff to supervise the prisoners’ forced labor (Maršálek 1980: 365). All prisoners endowed with a function were called prisonerfunctionaries and worked in departments such as Work Allocation, in the Sanitätsbaracke (medical care barracks), in the Schreibstube (registry), or the Interrogation Section (Shelley 1992: 12). They could count on slight “privileges” in comparison to their fellow prisoners, and some of them were able to shape their tasks to a certain extent through the way they interpreted—either choosing to serve the SS personnel or to help their fellow inmates, the latter certainly at the risk of their own lives. Interpreters were also classed as prisoner-functionaries. In most camps, there were very few ex officio interpreters. In Auschwitz and some of the other camps, they wore black armbands for identification (Tryuk 2010: 131). The vast majority of “interpreters” were self-proclaimed ad hoc language mediators who aided in communication between their co-inmates (see Wolf, in this volume) and who in most cases tried to ease their suffering. Most of the information we have about the prisoner-functionaries comes from Holocaust survivors’ testimonials, and particularly from Primo Levi (1989), whose writing describes the position of the prisoner-functionaries in particular detail. Communication and interpreting were essential, not least because many of the camps had prisoners from 30 to 40 different nationalities. The growing internationalization of the societies in the camps (see Prenninger, in this volume) led to a need for various different communication strategies which could only partially be managed through the use of the lingua franca in the camps, a mixed language generally known as lagerszpracha (see, e.g., Gramling 2012 or Wolf 2013). Generally, its vocabulary was rudimentary, brutal, and bare of any abstraction. Communication in the concentration camps was fundamentally marked by the expression of power, exclusion, and corruption, but—at least in some instances—could also include expressions of solidarity and support. Apart from the need to have at least the basic knowledge of the German language and of lagerszpracha, the prevailing conditions necessitated the employment of official “camp interpreters,” particularly when the SS personnel were involved. Thus it is evident that

Introduction 

5

language, in all of its multiple manifestations, certainly constituted one of the most determining existential social constants in the camp. In his book The Order of Terror (1997), Wolfgang Sofsky interprets the concentration camp as the incarnation of what he calls “absolute power.”1 For Sofsky, absolute power, as opposed to tyranny or despotism, is not designed to achieve goals through obedience, but is rather an end in itself: “It does not forgo violence, but liberates it from all inhibitions and impediments, intensifying it by organization” (1997: 17). The author unmasks the structural components of this self-sustaining terror that unavoidably result in physical extinction and industrial genocide. Against the backdrop of Sofsky’s central assertion that organizational de-centrality and all imaginable kinds of power were fundamental prerequisites for “effective” killing, the question arises as to how far language and language mediation contributed to shaping and maintaining the structure of the camps. Sofsky elucidates the way in which arbitrary terror and routine violence destroyed personal identity and social solidarity, transforming human work into ongoing torture and unleashing innumerable atrocities. As a result, daily life was reduced to a permanent struggle for survival (Seibel 1998: 1738). Primo Levi clearly illustrated that the knowledge of language was vital (see Alexander and Aschenberg, both in this volume) in this struggle for survival: Sapere il tedesco era la vita: Bastava che mi guardassi intorno. I compagni italiani che non lo capivano, cioè quasi tutti salvo qualche triestino, stavano annegando ad uno ad uno nel mare tempestoso del non-capire: non intendevano gli ordini, ricevevano schiaffi e calci senza comprenderne il perché. (Levi 1986/2007: 74)2

Accordingly, many prisoners who did not understand the language of the perpetrators perished in the course of the first few weeks. As time passed, many prisoners learnt how to “organize” themselves better, which in the context of their communication problems meant that they tried to draw on the help of those fellow inmates who had at least some command of the German language and who might, in the best case, be able to act as interpreters. For the SS, the establishment and maintenance of the “order of terror” necessitated a communication system which was primarily For a critical assessment of the term, see Prenninger in this volume. Aschenberg (in this volume), too, draws on Sofsky’s observations regarding “absolute power.” 2 Knowing German meant life: I only had to look around me. My Italian companions did not understand it. Almost all, with the exception of a few from Trieste, were drowning one by one in the stormy see of not-understanding: they did not know what the orders meant, they received slaps and kicks without comprehending why. (Levi 1989: 74) 1

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based on foreign language skills and upholding it required interpreting, which facilitated more “efficient” communication structures. Moreover, Sofsky claims that the total uncertainty to which the victims were exposed provided the basis of absolute power in the camps. He sees this uncertainty as the result of two structural components: a strict gradation of power and the reduction of victims to a “serially ordered and coerced mass” (1997: 24). The uncertainty was further nourished by the prisoners’ inability to understand the SS’s and Kapos’ orders, thus giving way to the formation of an easily manipulable mass of prisoners who were subjected and exposed to the exertion of any of the perpetrators’ manifestations of power. Communication—and equally the lack of it—was therefore an important parameter in exercising and consolidating absolute power over the increasingly dehumanized prisoner population. This volume will show that “the order of terror,” which—according to the logic of the SS—was a necessary condition of maintaining absolute power in camp society, was closely connected to language and language mediation. The exercise of power was both emphasized and subverted through the activity of interpreting in the camps. In the context of this book, the “order of terror” is thus not seen as a theoretical interpretation of historical material, but rather as a means to discuss the resistant or collaborative potential inherent in the act of interpreting under duress, thus illustrating the continuum between the two extremes of those prisoners who reinforced and those who strove to undermine the Nazi authority in the camps. Yet the “order of terror” did not always follow strict and axiomatic rules, but also included dynamic moments, which were supported by various factors. As Sofsky points out (1997: 13), the social reality of the lager could not always be equated with the SS’s aims to fully control daily life and impose a system of absolute power; on the contrary, a changing set of interests, numerous conflicts, and incessant new orders from the Nazi bureaucracy demonstrate that the system was vulnerable to continuous change, and that daily life was “shaped by dependencies and antagonisms among beneficiaries, personnel, auxiliaries, and victims” (1997: 13). On the other hand, it is undeniable that in the midst of the camp society, the prisoners found themselves in a hermetically sealed microcosm. For them, the lager was “a colony of terror at the far extremity of the social world” (1997: 14). Another important factor underlying the dynamics of the “order of terror” is the fact that any organized terror operates within social situations where the people concerned are either actively or passively involved. Absolute power necessarily targets social situations: it is only in the context of relationships that the power mechanisms at play are able to break resistance, to humiliate human beings, to destroy social ties, or to devastate human life (1997: 14).

Introduction 

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Interpreting played a vital role in these dynamics by contributing to “negotiation,” albeit at an extremely low level, of the terms of power. As some of the contributions to this volume (Aschenberg, Gramling, Tryuk, Wolf, Zaurov) illustrate, the “interpreters” operated under life-threatening conditions and under enormous psychological and physical pressure, and were often traumatized by their personal experiences of the camps. Such conditions forced them to make choices: the extreme expressions of power pervading the camp did not allow the inmates to remain ambivalent, rather forcing them to define a more or less clear-cut position for themselves vis-à-vis the perpetrator. Thus it is hardly possible to identify a position anywhere between the stark dichotomy of either supporting or undermining the camp authorities and the system of “absolute power” that prevailed in the camps. As such, language mediators clearly contributed to determining and structuring the conditions underlying the functioning of camp society. It might even be claimed that interpreting served as a kind of hinge which helped to maintain and dynamize the “order of terror,” holding together the two antagonistic positions of the victims on one side and the perpetrators on the other, adding a layer of (de)humanizing force to the shape of the camp society’s social structure.3

The ambivalence of the interpreting activity Current research Interpreting in the Nazi concentration camps is an under-researched field. In this field, the work of Małgorzata Tryuk from Warsaw University can be considered as pioneering: in 2010, Tryuk published a study on interpreters in Auschwitz-Birkenau, drawing on archival material from the AuschwitzBirkenau Memorial and Museum Archives in Oświęcim/Auschwitz and discussing the rich data mainly in the light of questions pertaining to ethics and norms (see also Tryuk 2012, 2015). Michaela Wolf joined this research avenue, primarily investigating the concentration camp Mauthausen (see Institut für Translationswissenschaft 2014), but also experiences of the camps at a more general level, in the light of language mediation (Wolf 2013, 2014a, A force which Sofsky’s analysis does not take into account is the emotional element which was incumbent in most situations—and not only in cases where the forms of interpreting could be decisive for a prisoner’s life or death. It runs counter to the idea of an “efficient” communication imposed by the system of absolute power and adds a dimension beyond the definite imposition of an “order of terror,” opening up and nourishing a potential space for solidarity and support.

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2014b). These works share the premise that the social determinants in the lager, such as hunger, death, privilege, absolute power, solidarity, or resistance, are affected significantly by language and mediation. This concern is also highlighted by Imre Kertész, who asks—in a discussion about the conditions required in order to “understand” the inner “logics” of the lager—whether it is possible to create an “own language of the Holocaust,” acknowledging the fact that this language would be “so atrocious and so gloomy that in the end it would destroy its speakers” (2003: 219).4 The use of language as an important element of communication in the concentration camps has been the focus of many research projects (see, e.g., Aschenberg 2002 or Warmbold 2008). As Heidi Aschenberg (2006: 207) points out, linguistic studies on the concentration camps tend to concentrate on examining lagerszpracha (see, e.g., Winterfeldt 1968, Jagoda, Kłodziński and Masłowski 1987, Wesołowska 1998: 27). Other studies, mostly on the basis of survivor memoirs, emphasize communication structures in the camps (see Taterka 1995, or, in the context of Italian survivors of Mauthausen, Bandella and Kuon 2003 or Chiapponi 2004). Sociolinguistic models such as that posited by Walter Oschlies (1986) investigate the complexity of the linguistic situation in the lager in all its details, while Aschenberg’s conceptualization of the term “language terror” (2002) is particularly revealing for a better understanding of the communication structure in the camps and the interplay between excessive coercion and language behavior. One area of research which has gained momentum in recent years analyzes the Holocaust in conjunction with the translation of testimonial writing. In his introduction to a special issue of Translation and Literature, “Holocaust Testimony and Translation,” Peter Davies notes: Texts by victims and survivors of Nazi persecution have been produced, translated, rewritten, remediated, lost, recovered, and received in a bewildering variety of languages and cultural contexts, and have taken extraordinary border-crossing journeys. (2014: 161)

Against the background of this richness of sources, the questions raised by research into translating survivors’ accounts primarily emphasize the problem of representing individual experiences of the Holocaust. This representation is often seen as a deformation, a rupture, and an act of violence (Rubin Suleiman 1996, Insana 2011), opening up a field which strives Sie müsste so grauenhaft und so düster sein, daß sie schließlich die zerstören würde, die sie sprechen. Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed.

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Introduction 

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to go beyond the paradigm of “untranslatability” of both the Holocaust experience per se and the text written to describe it. Primo Levi was one of the main agents in this field. The current volume includes Zaia Alexander’s English translation of his essay “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” (1985), which discusses connections between translation and the representation of the Holocaust experience.5 He develops a translation concept which is intended to help to perceive both the language transfer and its metaphorical variant.6 Despite his rather conventional ideas on translation and translating in the narrower sense, Levi recognized the strengths of the translated dimension as a means of understanding, whereby understanding and communicating the understanding are not two different options for Levi, but a moral obligation (Levi 1985: 113). In this sense, Levi places the translator of Holocaust testimonies in a central and significant position, justified in his conviction that experiences of translation—in both the wider and the narrower sense—can also be conveyed, even if these experiences are considered untranslatable by other scholars (see also Mendel 1998 and Alexander 2002). Another aspect frequently dealt with in works on the translation of Holocaust writing is the acceptability of translated testimonial texts, especially in connection with readers’ expectations (see Hammel 2004 or Seidman 2006). The question becomes particularly salient in the case of translations into German, “the murderer’s language,” implying a clash between the victim’s perspective and that of the perpetrator (see Degen 2008). The issue of translating Holocaust writings has also been discussed with regard to English usage: although English was quite far removed from the Nazi concentration camps—it was neither a primary language of the persecutors nor of the victims—today it is undeniably the strongest vehicle for mediating, or the attempt toward mediating, the Holocaust experience. It is undeniable that our understanding of the events has been at least partially shaped by the English language: studying the Holocaust and debates about its implications have predominantly taken place in English-speaking countries, and many conclusions have been drawn from texts read only in translation. This holds true for both primary (mostly translated) and secondary sources. Several See also Insana (2009) or Brodzki (2007) who discuss the question of representing the Holocaust in a broader sense by adopting translation as a metaphor. These and similar studies, however, do not take into consideration the communication structure in the camps and do not deal with questions of interpreting or translating as a communication technique. 6 See also Arnds (2012), who reflects upon the connection between these two aspects in Levi’s work in general. For this context, see also Alexander (2002, 2007) and her chapter in this volume. 5

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scholars have addressed these highly relevant questions: Piotr Kuhiwczak (2002, 2007) investigates the extent to which translation has altered the nature of survivor accounts, and how linguistic and cultural mediation has influenced interpretations of the Holocaust, while Alan Rosen’s Sounds of Defiance (2005) narrates the evolving status of English in writing about the Holocaust and explores its special position with regard to the Holocaust and vis-à-vis the role of other languages, including Yiddish, Hebrew, and German. The themes of translating autobiographical texts by Holocaust victims and the role of English in the construction of literary canons of Holocaust testimonies are particularly highlighted by Peter Davies (2014), who stresses the hitherto rather non-reflective treatment of these construction processes and especially the prevailing lack of consideration with regard to the implications of the creation, conservation, and transmission of knowledge about the Holocaust and the establishment of a “common stock of literary reference points for discussion and re-use” (2014: 162), both filtered through a “civilized” Western discourse (Rosen 2005: 6). The majority of the survivor memoirs that provide source material for most of the contributions in this volume were used by the authors in their original versions. The focus on the act of interpreting in the chapters presented here links the issues addressed in the individual articles up to a series of questions raised in the literature mentioned above and also opens up a new research avenue which promises to deepen our insights into how interpreting in particular, and communication in a broader sense, functioned in the context of the lager, and into the way in which it shaped the prisoners’ chances of survival in the everyday life of the camps. Thus, the volume also hopes to contribute to a profounder understanding of the multitude of aspects underlying the act of interpreting under conditions of extreme violence.

Descriptions of the interpreting activity in survivor accounts Testimonial writings on the concentration camps depict various features to characterize the act of interpreting, including frequent references to the metaphor of the Tower of Babel, the expression of “absolute power” experienced throughout the interpreting procedure, and the mostly ad hoc, involuntary, and thus unprepared and “non-professional” aspect of language mediation. Interpreting gained momentum in the camps with the increase of “international” inmates and became an indispensable tool for communication. In many survivor accounts, communication in the multilingual setting of larger concentration camps like Auschwitz-Birkenau, Dachau, or Mauthausen was often correlated with the trope of the Tower of Babel. A

Introduction 

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number of authors made use of the “confusion of tongues,” which can be seen as a common topos in the inmates’ reflections on language mediation, in most cases sadly associated with the daily violence pervading the lager, as can be seen in the following excerpt from Primo Levi: Tutti i Kapos picchiavano: questo faceva parte ovvia delle loro mansioni, era il loro linguaggio, piú o meno accettato; era del resto l’unico linguaggio che in quella perpetua Babele potesse veramente essere inteso da tutti. (Levi 1986/2007: 56)7

While Babel stood for the illustration of a variety of situations involving both negative and (relatively) positive aspects, the central feature described by the authors was the utmost brutality as a dominant characteristic of the interpreting activity in the concentration camps. As described above, violence and absolute power infiltrated daily life in the camps, penetrating far into the innermost thoughts and emotions of every single inmate. The dynamics of the power exerted at every given moment were entirely arbitrary and utterly unpredictable. It is also worth noting that as interpreting is a socially regulated activity—even under the extreme conditions of a concentration camp—all interpreting events are subject to and involve relationships based on power and control. Ian Mason identifies three areas of disparities in power that affect interpreting situations: power relations between languages, institutional power, and interactional power (Mason 2015: 314). The first aspect is vital for the imposition of the Nazis’ outright power over the camp’s inmates. As German was the only permitted language, questions of prestige were closely interwoven with the status assigned to the various nationalities in the camps. This led to a strict hierarchy of languages, whereby the inmates’ nationality was automatically ascertained from his or her native tongue, and the social status of a given language was associated with national prejudices: Es gab da im Lager selbst […] eine strikte Hierarchie, von den Nazis über uns alle verhängt. Ein Reichsdeutscher galt mehr als ein Volksdeutscher. Ein flämischer Belgier war mehr wert als ein wallonischer. Ein Ukrainer aus dem Generalgouvernement rangierte besser als sein polnischer Landsmann. Ein Ostarbeiter war schlechter angesehen als ein Italiener.  […] Noch höre ich einen freien französischen Arbeiter

7

All Kapos gave beatings: this was an obvious part of their duties, it was their more or less accepted language; after all, it was the only language that could truly be understood by everyone in that perpetual Babel. (Levi 1989: 55)

12

Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps diskutieren mit einem jüdisch-französischen KZ-Häftling. „Je suis Français“, sagte der Häftling. „Français, toi? Mais, tu es juif, mon ami“, gab ihm sein Landsmann sachlich und ohne Feindseligkeit zurück, […]. (Améry 1966: 139–40)8

Mason’s next power manifestation during the interpreting process, “institutional power” (Mason 2015: 315), is connected to the relatively low social standing attributed to interpreters and is only partly applicable to the context of the concentration camps. As Michaela Wolf shows in her typology of interpreters and interpreting activities in the camp of Mauthausen (Wolf, in this volume), so-called official interpreters exercised their duty by mediating between the SS staff and the prisoner-functionaries or general inmates. Although they were only “remunerated” in exceptional cases with an extra portion of soup or warmer underwear, they sometimes received more attention from the SS when they were interpreting during interrogations or the passing of judgments. The conditions under which interpreting took place in the camps seem in the first instance to reflect typical characteristics pertaining to institutional settings; yet, while the pressure exerted on the interpreting event was definitely prompted by an institution—the concentration camp system—the terms according to which the interpreting event occurred were far from institutionalized. In any case, the interpreters were expected—with more or less success—to align themselves with one side only, that is, with the SS, and the distribution of power was clear from the very outset of the interpreting event, rendering negotiation, a central aspect of “institutional interpreting” (Mason 2015: 315), more or less superfluous. The most predominant and widely spread power relationship in the concentration camps was certainly what Mason calls “interactional power,” which is dependent on the “positions which control scarce resources” (Mason 2015: 315) and relates to the interpreter’s bi- or multilingual expertise, which potentially allows him or her to control the participants’ behavior during the interpreting process. Despite manifold interactional pressures to which most interpreters or language mediators were usually subjected in the

In the lager there was […] a strict hierarchy, imposed on all of us by the Nazis. A Reichsdeutscher [German from the Reich] had a better standing than a Volksdeutscher [Ethnic German]. A Flemish Belgian was worth more than a Wallonian. A Ukrainian from the Generalgouvernement [eastern Poland under Nazi occupation] ranked higher than his Polish countryman. An Ostarbeiter [forced worker from eastern Europe] was looked down on more than an Italian. […] I can still hear a free French worker discussing with a Jewish French camp inmate. “Je suis français” [I am French], the inmate said. “Français, toi? Mais, tu es juif, mon ami” [French? You? But you are Jewish, my friend] his countryman replied matter-of-factly and without any hostility […].

8

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camps, they undoubtedly could have an impact with the help of individual strategies, which could be employed either in order to support and sustain the SS’s discourse of power or to subvert it by (even very slightly) mitigating its violent content. Examples of both scenarios abound in most survivor accounts, and also in interviews with camp survivors. A further aspect of interpreting in the camps that arises in much of the testimonial writing under study is the question of the professionalism, or lack thereof, of the interpreters in the camps. This raises the question of whether the contemporary notion of “non-professional interpreting” might be applicable to the linguistic mediation practiced in the concentration camps. Often seen as an alternative to established professional practice, the “non-professional interpreting” happens frequently in a wide range of contexts and in many different forms (Pérez-González and Susam-Saraeva 2012). Although it might seem accurate to apply the term “non-professional interpreting” to language mediation in the concentration camps, there are some strong limitations to terminology in the context of camp interpreters. According to Rachele Antonini (2011: 102), non-professional translation is conducted “in everyday circumstances by bilinguals who have had no special training for it.”9 This holds particularly true for interpreters or language mediators in the lager. However, although the term is used today for most interpreting activities which are undertaken by people without any formal training and in ad hoc situations—such as child language brokering, or interpreting in religious services or in social networks on the Internet or blogosphere—the term is misleading for various reasons. First, the “non” implies discernible “deficits” vis-à-vis established professional interpreting and translation practices. The negative prefix implies a shortage or insufficiency and suggests that the activity is viewed as second-class. Indeed, even the use of the term “professional” seems problematic because it implies that interpreting commonly operates within an elaborate system of norms and codes of conduct enshrining rigorous ethical and moral obligations. Ultimately, though, the notion of “non-professional” interpreting is not applicable to or appropriate for the kind of interpreting that happened in the concentration camps as a result of the parameters that are associated with the non-professional language mediation:10 de-hierarchization, which leads to linguistic emancipation for all the participants and reflects an attempt toward equal treatment of all involved; democratic concerns, which are mostly related to the question of how non-professional translators and Brian Harris suggested the term “natural translation” as early as 1973 (Harris 1973). Antonini and many others draw on Harris’s research in this field. 10 See Maria Tymoczko (2007) for some of the parameters discussed here. 9

14

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interpreters contribute to the democratic debate in society; an “absence of neutrality” insofar as non-professional interpreting strategies are conventionally interventionist; the primarily humanitarian and altruistic nature of interpreting; a pronounced lack of institutionalization, associated with the temporary nature of the activity; and networking. With the possible exception of “absence of neutrality,” none of these parameters is applicable to the practice of interpreting in concentration camps. On the contrary, describing the interpreting events that took place in the camps as “nonprofessional interpreting” would not only trivialize the activity as such but would also oversimplify the practice.11

The “uniqueness” of the concentration camp experience and the permeability of interpreting Considering the extreme conditions under which interpreting took place in the concentration camps, the question arises of whether this field of action can be compared to others, or if the claim of “uniqueness”—often raised in connection with the Holocaust experience—might be applicable.12 The fundamental incomprehensibility and the idea of the incomparability of the Nazi crimes are common topoi in the historiography of the Holocaust. Sofsky claims that the assertion of these theses serves to “justify a barrier erected to block perception,” because by labeling something incomprehensible, “one can avoid having to perceive its horror in all its details” (1997: 9). Some survivors give voice to the “uniqueness” of the Holocaust in their awareness that the need or desire to represent their own experiences of the unimaginable violence and terror in the camps brings about a conflict between the “unspeakable” and the urge to narrate (Klinkert 2005: 36). Primo Levi, for instance, vehemently rejects the notion of the “incomunicabilità,” the incommunicability, of the lager experience (Levi 1989: 68), thus arguing Apart from the issue of “non-professional interpreting,” currently widely discussed in interpreting studies, there are other connections to common questions that arise within the field, such as the broad research area of language mediation in conflict zones and in wars (see Salama-Carr 2007, Inghilleri 2008, Footitt and Kelly 2012a, 2012b, or Fernández-Ocampo and Wolf 2014). Translation and interpreting activities clearly contribute to shaping the ways that certain conflicts unfold, and research in the last ten years has frequently focused on the involvement of interpreters and translators in situations of military and ideological conflict, emphasizing their roles in mediating and memorializing conflict. Also, many of the questions raised in works on translation history connect to most of the contributions in this volume; see, as a case in point, the pertinent discussion in Grbić and Wolf (2012). 12 Concerning the question of “uniqueness,” see also Kuhiwczak, in this volume. 11

Introduction 

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against the thesis that sees the Holocaust as a unique experience, which would imply that the experience is bound to remain buried with the death of its victims. Levi argues that by adopting a discourse based on memory, the need to give the victims a voice in order to break through their silence that remains becomes particularly salient. This volume follows Levi’s claim by stressing that we have to try to overcome the trope of uniqueness: the functioning of the lager on the basis of sheer terror—and interpreting contributed, to a varying extent, to this functioning—was, as mentioned above, ultimately the product of human action, and human action is fundamentally capable of rational comprehension (Sofsky 1997: 9). What counts is a deeper understanding of the dynamics of the “order of terror” and, for the present context, the role of language mediation within this intricate system. The structure and content of the book are conceived so as to meet these requirements by setting the context of the contributions in a more general discussion of “The Concentration Camp Universe” (Part 1) and moving forward in an exploration of the “Language Diversity in the Camps” (Part 2) with a special focus on the specificity of language as one kind of communication. Part 3, “Interpreting in the Camps,” includes several case studies dedicated specifically to interpreting in the concentration camps with reference to archival research and close readings of survivor memoirs,13 while the chapters in Part 4, “Translating the Legacy of the Holocaust,” revisit the Holocaust from various perspectives. Part 5, “Limits of Permeability,” points toward a chance to break through the “uniqueness” and “non-comparability” thesis. The contributions follow the call to go beyond a meticulous documentation of interpreting events in the lager by working in detail on the rich data available, drawing on material from various concentration camps (see especially Kuon for a hermeneutic approach to addressing the question of sources) and illustrating the significant role of language mediation in lifethreatening situations and the daily struggle to survive, without, however, ignoring the impact of the insights gained from these analyses in more general, not necessarily linguistic, terms. The chapters include various different levels of reflection, ranging from a detailed discussion about the social structure of the concentration camps (Prenninger) to the zones of language within this structure (Alexander and Gramling, both of whom also draw on translation in a metaphorical sense) and from the act of interpreting (see the concrete These sources are of course biased and deliver only a limited perspective on the camp “reality,” which is that of the surviving authors of these narratives. Nevertheless, they are extremely important and valuable testimonies, without which our—necessarily fragmentary—view of the Holocaust would not exist in its current form.

13

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Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps

historical accounts in Aschenberg, Tryuk, Wolf, and Zaurov) to the coercion under which the interpreting activity took place in the camps, which reveals the fundamental power mechanisms underlying the basic functioning of the realm of mediation. No parallel can be drawn between the camps and the interpreting event in present times. However, when assessing the level of constraints under which interpreting took place in exceptional circumstances, some features such as understanding how interpreting functions under extreme pressure or in conflict zones (Kuhiwczak), or the description of a typology of the interpreting modes at work in a specific camp as a case in point (Mauthausen, see Wolf) gain relevance: they help us to understand better the conditions which shape translation and interpreting in situations marked by coercion and the assertion of power today, without neglecting the extreme conditions that language mediators were subjected to in the harsh “reality” of the camps, and the suffering of both the “drowned” and the “saved” (Levi 1989). Gaining insights from the ethical and moral dilemmas with reference to the “illusion of ‘authenticity’ ” when translating survivors’ video testimonies for present-day educational work (Degen) or from the attempt to understand the problems of interpreting in the processes of history-writing and memory (Kaufmann) can definitely be said to represent a significant step in the realization of the current project. The use of terminology and metaphors that were conceived with reference to today’s professional interpreters is unavoidable. At best, this book might trigger a discussion about and perhaps reassessment of well-established notions and concepts developed in interpreting and translation studies over the last few decades. Comparability has long been and will remain a topos in dealing with the history of the Holocaust. The aim of the current volume to get closer to overcoming this worrying paradigm is further substantiated by the inclusion of Viktor Milosevic’s chapter “Interpreters in Soviet Prisoner of War Camps: Beyond the ‘Unsayable’?” Sofsky correctly points out that even if a comparison of German, Soviet, or Chinese lager yields structural similarities, this does not change anything in relation to the moral circumstances involved in any historical or analytical treatment of the concentration camps: the crime remains the same (1997: 11). As far as the structure of the organization of terror, the guards’ behavior, and human destruction through forced labor are concerned, some parallels between the Soviet and the German lager are undeniable, and any assessment of the Soviet crimes should take into account that the Soviet system of terror also made use of ethnic and “social-biological” criteria (1997: 292). Milosevic’s study not only illustrates a continuum between the two fields and indicates connections with other

Introduction 

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zones of violence, but also raises the recurring problem of dichotomizing the victim–perpetrator relationship in concentration and prisoner of war camps, taking into consideration that in the latter, the “victims” are the “perpetrators” of the former. Thus, the chapter stands for the permeability of the book’s central theme, interpreting in the Nazi concentration camps, in the sense that this volume strives to avoid drawing any strict lines of demarcation or restricting itself to hermetically sealed fields of analysis and rather presents a body of work that reaches across theoretical, conceptual, and disciplinary boundaries.

References Alexander, Zaia (2002), “Beyond Babel: Translating the Holocaust at Century’s End,” PhD diss., UCLA, Los Angeles. Alexander, Zaia (2007), “Primo Levi and Translation,” in Robert S. C. Gordon (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Primo Levi, 155–71, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Améry, Jean (1966), Jenseits von Schuld und Sühne. Bewältigungsversuche eines Überwältigten [Beyond Crime and Punishment. A Victim’s Attempt Towards Overcoming Subjugation], München: Szczesny. Antonini, Rachele (2011), “Natural Translator and Interpreter,” in Yves Gambier and Luc van Doorslaser (eds), Handbook of Translation Studies, Volume 2, 102–4, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Arnds, Peter (2012), Translation and Literature. Translating Survival, Translation as Survival in Primo Levi’s Se questo è un uomo, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Aschenberg, Heidi (2002), “Sprachterror. Kommunikation im nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager” [Language Terror: Communication in the National Socialist Concentration Camps], Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 118(4): 529–72. Aschenberg, Heidi (2006), “Polyglossie im Konzentrationslager: literarische Reflexe in Texten zur Shoah” [Polyglossia in the Concentration Camp: Literary Reflections in Texts on the Shoah], in Silke Segler-Messner, Monika Neuhofer and Peter Kuon (eds), Vom Zeugnis zur Fiktion. Repräsentation von Lagerwirklichkeit und Shoah in der französischen Literatur nach 1945 [From Testimony to Fiction: Representations of the Reality of the Camps and the Shoah in French Literature After 1945], 205–18, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Bandella, Monica and Peter Kuon (2003), “Il lager e il suo linguaggio nelle testimonianze dei sopravvissuti italiani di Mauthausen” [The Lager and Its Language in the Testimonies of Italian Survivors of Mauthausen], Levia Gravia, 5: 211–24. Benz, Wolfgang (2008), Der Holocaust [The Holocaust], München: Beck.

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Brodzki, Bella (2007), Can These Bones Live? Translation, Survival and Cultural Memory, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bundesministerium der Justiz (1967), “Anlage zu § 1 Verzeichnis der Konzentrationslager und ihrer Außenkommandos” [Attachment to § 1 Register of Concentration Camps and Their Sub-camps]. Available online: http://www.gesetze-im-internet.de/begdv_6/anlage_6.html (accessed August 25, 2015). Chiapponi, Donatella (2004), La lingua nei lager nazisti [Language in the Nazi Camps], Roma: Carocci. Davies, Peter (2014), “Introduction,” Translation and Literature, 23(2): 161–9. Degen, Sylvia Carmen (2008), Das Problem der Perspektive. Die Übersetzung von Shoah- Überlebendenberichten ins Deutsche. Am Beispiel von Diana Wangs Los Niños Escondidos—Del Holocausto a Buenos Aires [The Problem of Perspective. The Translation of Shoah-Survivor Accounts into German with Reference to Diana Wang’s Los Niños Escondidos—Del Holocausto a Buenos Aires], Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Fernández-Ocampo, Anxo and Michaela Wolf (2014), Framing the Interpreter. Towards a Visual Perspective, London: Routledge. Footitt, Hilary and Michael Kelly, eds (2012a), Languages at War: Policies and Practices of Language Contacts in Conflict, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Footitt, Hilary and Michael Kelly, eds (2012b), Languages and the Military: Alliances, Occupation and Peace Building, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Gramling, David (2012), “An Other Unspeakability: Levi and Lagerszpracha,” New German Critique, 39(3): 165–87. Grbić, Nadja and Michaela Wolf (2012), “Common Grounds in Translation and Interpreting (Studies),” in Yves Gambier and Luc van Doorslaser (eds), Handbook of Translation Studies, Volume 3, 7–16, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Hammel, Andrea (2004), “The Destabilization of Personal Histories: Rewriting and Translating. Autobiographical Texts by German-Jewish Survivors,” Comparative Critical Studies, 1(3): 295–308. Harris, Brian (1973), “La traductologie, la traduction naturelle, la traduction automatique et la sémantique” [Translation Studies, Natural Translation, Automatic Translation and Semantics], Cahier de Linguistique, 2: 133–46. Inghilleri, Moira (2008), “The Ethical Task of the Translator in the Geo-political Arena: From Iraq to Guantánamo Bay,” Translation Studies, 1(2): 212–23. Insana, Lina (2009), Arduous Tasks. Primo Levi, Translation, and the Transmission of Holocaust Testimony, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Insana, Lina (2011), “The Witness’s Tape Recorder and the Violence of Mediation,” in Risa Sodi and Millicent Marcus (eds), New Reflections on Primo Levi, 79–89, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Institut für Translationswissenschaft (2014), “Mauthausen—Die Rolle des Dolmetschens in der ‘Ordnung des Terrors’ ” [Mauthausen—The Role of Interpreting in the “Order of Terror”]. Available online: https://

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translationswissenschaft.uni-graz.at/de/forschen/forschungsprojekte /mauthausen-die-rolle-des-dolmetschens-in-der-ordnung-des-terrors / (accessed August 25, 2015). Jagoda, Zenon, Stanisław Kłodziński and Jan Masłowski (1987), “ ‘bauernfuss, goldzupa, himmelautostrada’. Zum ‘Krematoriumsesperanto’ der Sprache polnischer KZ-Häftlinge” [“peasantfoot, goldsoup, skyhighway”: On “Crematorium Esperanto,” the Language of Polish Concentration Camp Prisoners], trans. Jochen August, Die Auschwitz-Hefte, 2: 241–60. Kertész, Imre (2003), Die exilierte Sprache [Exiled Language], trans. Kristin Schwamm, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Klinkert, Thomas (2005), “Problemi semiotici della scrittura nei testi del dopo-lager: Primo Levi e Jorge Semprún” [Semiotic Problems of Writing in Post-Concentration Camp Texts: Primo Levi and Jorge Semprún], in Monica Bandella (ed.), Raccontare il lager. Deportazione e discorso autobiografico [Narrating the Lager. Deportation and Autobiographical Discourse], 29–42, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Kuhiwczak, Piotr (2002), “Buried in Translation,” The Cambridge Quarterly, 31(3): 199–211. Kuhiwczak, Piotr (2007), “The Grammar of Survival. How Do We Read Holocaust Testimonies?” in Myriam Salama-Carr (ed.), Translating and Interpreting Conflict, 61–74, Amsterdam: Rodopi. Levi, Neil and Michael Rothberg (2003), “General Introduction: Theory and the Holocaust,” in Neil Levi and Michael Rothberg (eds), The Holocaust: Theoretical Readings, 1–22, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Levi, Primo (1985), “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” [Translating and Being Translated], in Primo Levi, L’ altrui mestiere, 109–14, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1986/2007), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, London: Abacus. Maršálek, Hans (1980), Die Geschichte des Konzentrationslagers Mauthausen [The History of the Concentration Camp Mauthausen], Wien: Österreichische Lagergemeinschaft Mauthausen. Mason, Ian (2015), “Power,” in Franz Pöchhacker (ed., in association with Nadja Grbić), The Routledge Encyclopedia of Interpreting Studies, 314–16, London: Routledge. Mendel, David (1998), “Primo Levi and Translation.” Available online: www.leeds.ac.uk/bsis/98/98pltrn.htm (accessed August 25, 2015). Oschlies, Walter (1986), “Lagerszpracha. Soziolinguistische Bemerkungen zu KZ-Sprachkonventionen” [Camp Language: Sociolinguistic Remarks on Concentration Camp Language Conventions], Muttersprache, 96: 98–109. Pérez-González, Luis and Şebnem Susam-Saraeva (2012) “Non-professionals Translating and Interpreting. Participatory and Engaged Perspectives,” The Translator, 18(2): 149–65.

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Piper, Franziszek (1998), “Auschwitz Concentration Camp: How It Was Used in the Nazi System of Terror and Genocide and in the Economy of the Third Reich,” in Michael Berenbaum and Abraham J. Peck (eds), The Holocaust and History. The Known, the Unknown, the Disputed, and the Reexamined, 371–86, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Rosen, Alan (2005), Sounds of Defiance. The Holocaust, Multilingualism and the Problem of English. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Rubin Suleiman, Susan (1996), “Monuments in the Foreign Tongue: On Reading Holocaust Memoirs by Emigrants,” Poetics Today, 17(4): 639–57. Salama-Carr, Myriam, ed. (2007), Translating and Interpreting Conflict, Amsterdam: Rodopi. Seibel, Wolfgang (1998), Review: Sofsky, Wolfgang, The Order of Terror. The Concentration Camp, 1996. American Journal of Sociology, 103(6), 1737–9. Available online: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/231418 (accessed August 25, 2015). Seidman, Naomi (2006), Faithful Renderings: Jewish-Christian Difference and the Politics of Translation, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Shelley, Lore, ed. (1992), Schreiberinnen des Todes [Female Writers of the Death], Bielefeld: AJZ. Smith, Lyn (2006), Forgotten Voices of the Holocaust. True Stories of Survival—From Men, Women and Children Who Were There, London: Ebury Press. Sofsky, Wolfgang (1997), The Order of Terror: The Concentration Camp, trans. William Templer, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Taterka, Thomas (1995), “Zur Sprachsituation im deutschen Konzentrationslager” [On the Language Situation in German Concentration Camps], Magazin für Literatur und Politik, 21: 37–54. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2010), “Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps During World War II,” Interpreting, 12(2): 125–45. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2012), “Ty nic nie mów, ja będę tłumaczył.” O etyce w tłumaczeniu ustnym [“Don’t Say Anything, I Will Interpret.” On Ethics in Oral Translation], Warszawa: Wyd. WLS. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2015), On Ethics and Interpreters, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Tymoczko, Maria (2007), Enlarging Translation, Empowering Translators, Manchester: St Jerome. Warmbold, Nicole (2008), Lagersprache: Zur Sprache der Opfer in den Konzentrationslagern Sachsenhausen, Dachau, Buchenwald [Camp Language: On the Victims’ Language in the Concentration Camps Sachsenhausen, Dachau, Buchenwald], Bremen: Hempen. Wesołowska, Danuta (1998), Wörter aus der Hölle. Die “lagerszpracha” der Häftlinge von Auschwitz [Words from Hell. The “lagerszpracha” of the Prisoners in Auschwitz], trans. Jochen August, Kraków: Impuls. Winterfeldt, Hans (1968), “Die Sprache im Konzentrationslager” [Language in the Concentration Camps], Muttersprache, 78: 126–52.

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Wolf, Michaela (2013), “ ‘German Speakers, Step Forward!’ Surviving Through Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps,” Translation and Interpreting Studies, 8(1): 1–22. Wolf, Michaela (2014a), “Dolmetschen im ‘Netzwerk des Terrors’ ” [Interpreting in the “Network of Terror”], MdÜ—Fachzeitschrift für Dolmetscher und Übersetzer, 1: 38–41 Wolf, Michaela (2014b), “Interpreting in the Network of Terror: ‘Communication’ in Nazi Concentration Camps,” Keynote Speech, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan, Israel. Available online: https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=sNQRDj3LBmw (accessed August 25, 2015).

Part One

The Concentration Camp Universe

1

The Camp Society: Approaches to Social Structure and Ordinary Life in Nazi Concentration Camps Alexander Prenninger

Introduction Imre Kertész concludes his novel Fatelessness with the protagonist Gyuri’s following words: For even there, next to the chimneys, in the intervals between the torments, there was something that resembled happiness. Everyone asks only about the hardships and the “atrocities,” whereas for me perhaps it is that experience which will remain the most memorable. Yes, the next time I am asked, I ought to speak about that, the happiness of the concentration camps. (Kertész 2004: 452)

Survivors of the Holocaust and the concentration camps were often profoundly traumatized by their experiences in the camps. The disturbing message of Fatelessness, however, is that those who survived the camps do not only remember death, torture, exhausting forced labor, hunger, and diseases, but also experienced moments of leisure time, of friendship and love, and even, as Kertész writes, of happiness. Certainly, these moments were rare compared to the hardships of everyday life and the death of so many. Beyond the struggle for survival, the reports of survivors also reveal such moments as described by Gyuri, the protagonist of Kertész’s novel. Jakob Maestro, for example, a Greek Jew from Salonica, was deported to Auschwitz in 1943 at the age of 16. In Salonica, he had worked as a shoeshine boy and learned some German words by serving German soldiers. Upon arrival at Auschwitz, he was selected as an interpreter and rapidly advanced to the position of a translator in the Arbeitseinsatz (allocation of labor). He lived in the Prominentenblock, barracks for Kapos in higher positions,

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and was given a tailor-made suit, shoes, and many things he never had had during his life on the streets of Salonica. In his testimony, he comes to the conclusion: “To tell the truth, I had a better life than at home” (Maestro 2002). Of course, Maestro is telling an extraordinary story, but there are many other examples: Ukrainians, who did not find life in the camp that hard compared to their suffering during the famine of 1932–33; Spanish survivors who are still proud to have constructed Mauthausen, etc. Experiences like Jakob Maestro’s contrast sharply with a major trend in concentration camp research, which focuses primarily on the struggle for survival, particularly by highlighting the role of solidarity among prisoners, or by presenting the prisoners as a coerced mass which is subjected to the total power of the SS guards. How survival was possible is indeed a key question that is brought up by most survivors in their testimonies. The answers provided by both survivors and researchers are, however, often based on an evaluation of behavior from a point of view guided by moral principles. The question of survival and especially that of strategies for survival ought therefore to be extended and we should rather ask: How was it possible to live in a concentration camp? To what extent could prisoners organize their everyday life in the camps? Was there something that could be described as a camp society? Many researchers have postulated the notion of camp or inmate society. The answers, however, depend by and large on the acceptance or rejection of the idea that something akin to a social life existed under the conditions of a camp. As a full analysis of social life in the concentration camps is beyond the scope of this chapter, I would like to reflect on three aspects which seem crucial to an attempt to understand the camp society. My reflections are based on an evaluation of concentration camp research from its very beginnings up to the present day. Firstly, it is important to distinguish the type of camp under study; secondly, I will focus on explanations of survival; and thirdly, I will discuss two opposing models of camp society. I will distinguish between two major lines of interpretation: the first, ranging from Hannah Arendt to Wolfgang Sofsky or Giorgio Agamben, denies any social quality with regard to prisoners and guards living together in the concentration camps and leans toward a vertical approach based on total power, reducing the prisoners to a collected mass. In contrast, a different approach suggests that the social space in the camps can be interpreted as being characterized by structures which resembled, by and large, those existing in civilian societies at the time. In addition to the classification of prisoners as imposed by the SS, this viewpoint posits that social life in the camps was also shaped by the prisoners’ divergent cultural, social, religious, ethnic, and political backgrounds.

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Typologies of the camp An analysis of concentration camp survivors’ testimonies has to take two important factors into consideration. First, that “the camp” did not exist as one unique type over the whole period of the National Socialist regime, as is often mistakenly suggested in scholarly research. A series of important sociological and psychological investigations published by survivors illustrate very specific, individual experiences of the camps. Bruno Bettelheim’s writing, for instance, which first appeared in 1943, is shaped profoundly by his own imprisonment in Buchenwald in 1938–39. His experience was part of the mass imprisonment of German Jews in November 1938, together with a successive worsening of living standards to a degree that was unknown until then, and he left the camp within a few months in order to emigrate. His analysis is limited by the specific experience of a concentration camp before the war, where only Germans and Austrians were interned. This experience and the resulting perspective do not account for the later period during the war, which saw several significant transformations of the camp system, not least with the arrival of masses of prisoners from the occupied territories all over Europe, the development of huge networks of branch camps in 1942–43, and the overcrowding in the camps in the last phase of the war, including mass deaths of prisoners. These limitations of perspective are also evident in the work of other survivor-researchers such as Elie Cohen (1954), Ernst Federn (1948), or Paul Martin Neurath (1951/2004). A second strand of concentration camp studies presents the camp as a generic type or ideal without taking into account chronological or typological differences within the concentration camp system. This conception of the camps results from fictional constructions in the minds of both scholars and the broader public and is based neither on history nor on empirical research. Although such an accusation might be seen as somewhat unfair, this approach is evident in German sociologist Wolfgang Sofsky’s nonetheless inspiring study (1997). Sofsky does not analyze a “real” camp, but a constructed notion of a camp: he describes the camp as an instrument of terror and mass killing and delivers a sociological model of a community defined by force. However, the fictional camp does have traits pertaining to a specific period and type of camp: it is a “main camp” (Stammlager) for male prisoners in the second half of the war, which was shaped by the national and ethnic heterogeneity of its inmates and the use of prisoners for forced labor (Orth and Wildt 1995). A further trend, in recent years, is to speak about “camps” in a highly general way without going into detail with regard to the specific functions of specific camps. Philosophical reflections in particular that address the

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“camps” or even the “century of camps” (Kotek and Rigoulet 2000) tend to fail to clarify what is meant by the term “camp.” In his “homo sacer” project, the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben tried to explain the camp as the bio-political paradigm of modernity or the nomós of the modern: “The camp is merely the place in which the most absolute conditio inhumana that has ever existed on earth was realized” (Agamben 1998: 166). Agamben is not interested in the “events that took place” and does not interpret the camp “as a historical fact and an anomaly belonging to the past (even if still verifiable) but in some way as the hidden matrix and nomos of the political space in which we are still living” (Agamben 1998: 166). Agamben’s reflections have been criticized not only for the lack of any definition of the camp but even more for the disregard for differences between concentration camps and extermination camps (e.g., Schwarte 2007, Pelt 2011). Similarly, the notion of “death camps” mixes up a complex amalgamation of annihilation and deportation in both types of camps. These findings should not be seen as an argument against generalization and comparison. Life in the concentration camps was never a single permanent or stable condition from arrival to liberation. Concentration camps are rather characterized by a fluidity of conditions in relation to chronological, spatial, and typological aspects. Most survivors, in their accounts, accentuate the different experiences they had in different camps. The key question, however, which is raised in almost every account, is why and how they survived.

Survival factors Survivors proffer a series of different reasons for their survival: God, luck, the support of friends, or international solidarity among the prisoners are some of the most frequent explanations. Approaching the issue from the perspective of academic research, I am going to present two different answers to the question of why some prisoners survived and others died. The two antithetic explanatory models are based on pedagogical-psychological theories on the one hand and biological-genetic theories on the other. The first model was developed by Bruno Bettelheim and followed by others, and is based on Bettelheim’s concept of an “autonomous personality.” According to this concept, human beings develop from a state of total dependency as a child and go through a process of maturing to a personality with “consciousness of freedom,” independent of a given social environment: self-respect and decision-making abilities are “at the heart of man’s autonomous existence” (Bettelheim 1960: 69). In the extreme situation of the concentration camp,

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“efforts to deprive the prisoners of even the smallest remnants of their autonomy were particularly vicious and all-pervasive” (Bettelheim 1979: 108): If he was not murdered, how well a person was able to survive depended on how well he managed to maintain if not some of his autonomy, at least some of his self-respect and the meaning his relations to others had for him. On the other hand, how soon and completely he lost all of his autonomy, and how far the disintegration of his personality went were mainly conditioned by two factors: the severity of traumatization he was subjected to, as objectively evaluated; and how shattering it was experienced subjectively by him. (Bettelheim 1979: 108)

Thus, survival depended on a more or less successful process of adjustment to the camp situation, a process which was greatly influenced by the level of personal autonomy developed in the pre-camp period. However, the development of survival mechanisms from the outset to the final stage, for example, through detachment and denial of the reality of the camp, resulted, in Bettelheim’s analysis, in a “personality structure willing and able to accept SS values and behavior as its own” (Bettelheim 1960: 127). Critique of Bettelheim’s “autonomous personality” concept focused first on this theory of “identification with the aggressor,” secondly on the pathological implications of the prisoners’ “regression into childlike behaviour,” and thirdly, on the moral implications of a theory that is simultaneously descriptive and prescriptive, as seminally formulated by Michael Pollak (2000: 14–15).1 The second explanatory model is that of Terrence Des Pres, who, along with other authors, represents the viewpoint that prisoners had to adapt to the camp situation from an “initial shock” to “a second stage, characterized by reintegration and recovery of stable selfhood” and that through such adjustments “they emerged from their dream-state to face what had to be faced” (Des Pres 1980: 76–7). However, Des Pres provides a totally different explanation to Bettelheim regarding how prisoners came to that second stage. Concentration camp behavior, for him, cannot be compared with behavior “in civilized circumstances” but “was governed by immediate death-threat” (Des Pres 1980: 56–7). The ability to act derives here from “nature itself ”:

Other authors who criticize Bettelheim include Pawełczyńska (1980: 48), Pingel (1978: 11–12), and Des Pres (1980: 56–7). On the other hand, Pawełczyńska also shares Bettelheim’s idealist and humanist worldview; her study on survival in Auschwitz emphasizes the upholding of moral values as a mechanism for survival (Pawełczyńska 1980: 11–12).

1

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Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps Survivors act as if they were prepared for extremity; as if anterior to learning and acculturation there were a deeper knowledge, an elder wisdom, a substratum of vital information biologically instilled and biologically effective. We may at least speculate that through long periods of extremity, survival depends on life literally—life, that is, as the biologists see it, not as a state or condition but as a set of activities evolved through time in successful response to crisis, the sole purpose of which is to keep going. Life continues, defends itself, expands. It does this by answering environmental challenges with countless behavioral patterns designed to deal with disturbance and threat. Behavior which proves successful for any particular species over the long run enters its genotype and becomes “innate.” (Des Pres 1980: 192–3)

The psychological and the biological explanatory models are diametrically opposed to one another and should be seen, in their lopsidedness, as nothing more than the extreme poles in an approach toward explication (Pollak 2000: 258). Nonetheless, some common features can be identified: firstly, that a process of adaption to the camp conditions had to take place; secondly, that this process was fundamentally dependent on specific circumstances which—and here the differences re-appear—were either associated with pre-camp experiences or developed under camp conditions; and thirdly, that adaption was both an individual effort and simultaneously the product of group processes and social bonding. In Asylums (1961), Erving Goffman showed that inmates in total institutions2 “always sought some control over the environment and retained some kind of independent self-concept, resulting in a range of ‘secondary adaptations’ ” (Crew 2007). Goffman’s typology, which has subsequently been adapted by many authors, includes firstly, “retreat from the situation” or “acute depersonalisation”; secondly, an “uncompromising attitude” or resistance against superiors; thirdly, “colonization” or compliance with the system; and fourthly, “conversion” which could be equated with Bettelheim’s “identification with the aggressor.” However, Goffman admits that only a minority of inmates coherently follows these types, while the majority Goffman defines a total institution as “a place of residence and work where a large number of like-situated individuals, cut off from the wider society for an appreciable period of time, together lead an enclosed, formally administered round of life” (1961: xiii). He distinguishes between five different groups: (1) asylums for the poor, blind, aged, and orphaned; (2) mental hospitals; (3) prisons and other forms of detention centers; (4) workplaces such as army barracks, ships, or boarding schools; and (5) retreats like monasteries. The overriding characteristic of all these places is to be found in the prevention of social intercourse with the outside world and the prevention of departure (1961: 4).

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tends “to keep cool,” as he puts it, and consists of more or less opportunistic combinations of different types, depending on the given counterpart, specifically on whether they are superiors or co-inmates, which allows him or her to survive without physical or mental damage (Goffman 1961: 68–9). Goffman, like Des Pres, located the resources required for adjustment inside the institution, for example, prison-specific behavior. This “deprivation” or “indigenous” theory is opposed by an “import” theory, including specific “thief cultures,” “convict cultures,” and “legitimate value systems,” which can reflect parallel “pre-concentrationary” circumstances that allow for or support adjustment. The crucial importance of “pre-concentrationary” factors was primarily argued by Falk Pingel. He assumes that prisoners have command over of an inventory of behavioral patterns appropriated throughout their pre-camp life and applied to the camp situation (Pingel 1978: 10–11). However, prisoners also had to learn through observation and, even more importantly, through the experiences of others, such as the “old prisoners,” because any false interpretation of the new situation in the camp could easily lead to physical damage or death (Pingel 1978: 155–6). Michael Pollak, in his analysis of the social identity of survivors, has pointed to the difficulty of maintaining continuity and coherence both in relation to individuals and to groups. Learning camp life meant that each experience in the camp had to be interpreted, sorted, or suppressed in such a way as to make it coherent with conceptions of the self and the world. To secure future life in the camp, the present had to be integrated in the past. Life in the camp, therefore, could be interpreted by religious people as a test imposed by God, by communists as the ultimate struggle against Fascism, or as martyrdom for a greater cause such as the fatherland. Each interpretation depends essentially on the respective survivor’s pre-camp experiences. The analysis of concentration camp experiences thus reveals that individuals in the camps can be seen, broadly, as the product of self-construction and social construction (Pollak 2000: 258–9). Survival is therefore viewed by most authors as being closely connected to the ability of establishing relationships with others.

Total domination? Hannah Arendt’s early analysis of the concentration camps formed a widely accepted view of the camps as “laboratories in the experiment of total domination” (Arendt 1958: 436), an experiment that aimed at “transforming the human personality into a mere thing, into something that even animals are not” (Arendt 1958: 438). Arendt’s analysis follows mainly Bettelheim’s essay of 1943 in which he also assigned to the camps the function “to provide the

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Gestapo with an experimental laboratory” (Bettelheim 1943: 418). H.G. Adler designated concentration camps as an “experimental ground of evil” (Adler 1960: 227). In Sofsky’s terms, the concentration camps were “a laboratory of violence” (Sofsky 1997: 23). Zygmunt Bauman uses similar words to describe the Holocaust as “a sociological ‘laboratory’ ” (Bauman 2008: 12). Agamben combines Arendt’s analysis of totalitarian governance with Michel Foucault’s research on bio-politics (Agamben 1998: 119). The aim of the experiment in the laboratory is total domination, an “anthropological reduction” of man himself to what Agamben calls the “homo sacer” or the “bare life” (Hartung 2007: 104). The weakness of the experimental or laboratory theory lies in the fact that neither Agamben nor Sofsky—Arendt didn’t publish a truly detailed analysis of the camps and Bauman focuses on death camps—can reach their conclusions without portraying “a whole microcosm of the social” which, obviously, cannot be applicable to “bare life,” in that it includes complex relationships such as friendly alliances, barter trade, “organizing” resources, etc. (Zakravsky 2007: 73). In contrast, Adler proposed as early as 1958 to analyze the concentration camp “as a society” (Adler 1958: 513). Sociological, psychological, and philosophical analyses of the concentration camps thus yield different answers to the question of whether societal structures actually existed in the camps. Positions which deny specific social qualities mainly criticize the idea of prisoners acting somehow autonomously within a total institution. This position is discussed by Sofsky, who discounts the notion that the camp formed a society in the light of the opposition between the absolute freedom of the guards and the absolute “incapability of anything” among the inmates (Sofsky 1997: 23). Survival was only possible by chance or by becoming guilty, which serves to explain the development of “survivor guilt” in survivors’ post-camp lives (Lifton 1980, see also Niederland 1980, Leys 2007). In Sofsky’s analysis, the concentration camps are viewed as a distinct system of power that differs fundamentally from prevalent types of power and governance. “Absolute power” includes the organization of power within social structures, the power of labeling prisoners and defining a taxonomy of categories of prisoner, a system of collaboration (i.e., the prisonerfunctionaries or Kapos), and precludes any need for ideological legitimation, the transformation of the significance of human labor, and indeed of sheer violence. Sofsky explicitly denies any social quality to the society of the camp; all human relations are power relations imposed by the SS. The social status of prisoners, therefore, “was determined by the system of categories used to classify prisoners: their power as prisoner-functionaries, by their membership in Kommandos, and by their social and economic contacts with the personnel” (Sofsky 1997: 118).

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Total power, however, has its limits. In his seminal study on “The Society of Captives,” Greshem M. Sykes highlighted the “defects of total power.” Although Sykes differentiates between government power and terror, many of his findings on the custodians’ position of power can be applied to the concentration camps. The crucial argument concerns authority: “In its pure form, then, or as an ideal type, power based on authority has two essential elements: a rightful or legitimate effort to exercise control on the one hand and an inner, moral compulsion to obey, by those who are to be controlled, on the other” (Sykes 2007: 46). We can, however, assume, contrary to Sofsky, that the National Socialist regime and its representatives in the concentration camps claimed to have an ideologically legitimate authority allowing them to persecute, imprison, and kill political and racial opponents of the regime. Sykes’s emphasis lies on the second element of authority: “Like a province which has been conquered by arms, the community of prisoners has come to accept the validity of the regime constructed by their rulers but the subjugation was not complete” (Sykes 2007: 48). Sykes finds it misleading to postulate that prisoners can simply be forced into compliance, in order to achieve which “the custodians must fall back on a system of rewards and punishments.” He goes on to argue that the power system “may also fail because those who are supposed to rule are unwilling to do so” and corruption becomes more frequent as a guard establishes relationships with the inmates. The guard is consequently “evaluated in terms of the conduct of the men he controls,” and becomes dependent on the inmates’ collaboration to fulfill his duties (Sykes 2007: 48–57). Pawełczyńska, who labels the SS a criminal “gang,” concludes in relation to Auschwitz that the SS “disintegrated from within”: “The moral norms that generally exist in criminal groups, but apply only to their members, gradually broke down. Instead of signs of solidarity, a power struggle and internal conflicts of interest took over.” Market relations—that is, the engagement of SS guards in the black market system—led to dependencies on prisoners and as a consequence they undermined the guards’ position of power, at least “outside of the immediate control of the milieu to which he belonged” (Pawełczyńska 1980: 110–11). Extreme instances of corruption even led to bureaucratic investigations and the replacement of SS personnel.

Classification and hierarchies If the power of the guards was not infinite, either through defects in the bureaucracy itself or through individual deviation from camp regulations, we can conclude that the prisoners had limited access to a residual area of free

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action, both individual and collective. Similarly, Sofsky’s “serially ordered and coerced mass” behaved in more ways than those imposed by the SS, who were essentially linked to the taxonomy of categories. Sofsky therefore concludes: “Social ties and group cohesion were only a resource for survival in the camp when they were linked to the formal structure of order, and that was over-determined by the system of categories” (Sofsky 1997: 127). The classification system, based on colored triangles and the categorization of inmates as political, criminal, asocial, etc., seems to have been crucial not only in terms of the hierarchy of prisoners as imposed by the SS but also in relation to the informal social stratification among inmates. Prisoners at the highest levels of both categorization schemes, that is, both formal and informal, had much better chances of gaining access to resources like food or clothes, entering “better” work groups, receiving parcels from their families, etc. Better living conditions were a precondition for actions of solidarity and (limited) resistance. On these top levels, we essentially find “Aryans,” that is, German prisoners who also had access to administrative functions inside the camp (Pingel 1978: 76). The lower levels of the formal and informal hierarchies, especially “non-Aryan,” Slavic, and Jewish prisoners, most likely resemble Sofsky’s anonymous and powerless mass. Maja Suderland proposed that differences attributed to prisoners by the SS should not only be seen as having been imposed but also as categories that would have been familiar to the prisoners themselves from their precamp social lives. Social status in European societies was largely defined by gender, class, and ethnicity (Suderland 2009: 139). Differentiation as a social mechanism according to these categories is part of what Neurath termed “basic concepts” of society: “The difference between the two societies, the society outside and the society inside the camp, appears in this case to be rather a difference in rules of behavior than a difference in basic concepts” (Neurath 1951/2004: 381).3 The social space of the concentration camp can thus be seen as having been characterized by structures which by and large resembled those of the social space of societies at the time (Suderland 2009: 83). Both Neurath’s and Suderland’s approaches characterize camp society as a “class society,” but their conclusions with reference to the characteristics of “classes” are fundamentally different. For Sofsky, the categorization of prisoners was used as a “mechanism of differentiation.” The classification scheme did not reflect the social structure of the society at the time, but rather Der Unterschied zwischen den beiden Gesellschaften, der Gesellschaft außerhalb und der Gesellschaft innerhalb des Lagers, scheint in diesem Punkt eher ein Unterschied der Verhaltensregeln zu sein als ein Unterschied der grundlegenden Ideen. Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed.

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created a taxonomy of prisoners which served primarily to segregate and separate: a class system which profoundly affected the inmates’ perception of their co-prisoners and of insurmountable social borders (Sofsky 1997: 137– 51). Suderland, on the other hand, argues that the prisoners were profoundly affected by “basic concepts” pertaining to their respective societies and their class positions within these societies. The SS attempt to impose a significantly different structure had only limited success. Camp society can therefore be described as an “extreme case of social life” (Suderland 2009: 82–4). Furthermore, Suderland argues that the social structure of the concentration camps also had the traits of a caste system. These traits can be found in stereotypical descriptions by survivors of national or “ethnic” groups, particularly in relation to Jews and Gypsies (Suderland 2009: 117). The racial hierarchy imposed by the SS, ranging from “Aryans” on the top to “Jews” at the bottom, can only explain such descriptions to a certain extent. The conclusion is rather that differentiation along the lines of a caste-like social mechanism was familiar to the prisoners from their pre-camp life, insofar as the mechanism was prevalent in European societies in the first half of the twentieth century. Memoirs of survivors from the early post-war years are full of criticism and condemnation of other prisoner groups: Benedikt Kautsky, for example, portrays the communists as dauntless opponents of the Nazi regime (1948: 154), Jehovah’s Witnesses as “die typischen Sektierer: engstirnig, beschränkt, […] humorlos” (1948: 164),4 the “irremediable” criminals as “absolut hemmungslos und deshalb von schauerlicher Roheit [sic] und unstillbarer Gier” (1948: 169),5 and the “A-Sozialen” as “willensschwache Menschen” and “Bettler und Diebe” (1948: 172).6 Norwegians are characterized as good comrades, the Dutch as clean and orderly, while civilian Russian prisoners formed “ein Gesindel von Dieben, Betrügern und Schiebern” (1948: 175).7 Similar depictions can be found in David Rousset’s L’univers concentrationnaire (The Concentration Camp Universe): he depicts Polish prisoners as “foncièrement conservateurs, passionément anti-russes, haïssant les Allemands […], mais souples et serviles devant les seigners.”8 Czech prisoners, on the other side, are “des hommes de discipline peur eux et pour les autres, cultivés, en petit nombre solidaire” (Rousset 1946: 56–7).9 Jean 6 7 8

typical sectarians: narrow-minded, not all there, […] devoid of humor. totally uncontrolled and therefore of gruesome barbarism and insatiable greed. “anti-socials” as “weak-minded” and “beggars and thieves.” a riff-raff of thieves, crooks, and profiteers. profound conservatives, passionate anti-Russians, and German-haters […], but at the same time pliant and servile before the masters. 9 cultivated, disciplined, and showing solidarity. 4 5

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Laffitte, in his testimony on Mauthausen, complains about the repudiation of French prisoners by other groups: “Scheise Franzose.” C’est le vocable par lequel nous accueillons les Allemands, les Polonais et même quelquefois les Russes. “Vous êtes des salauds,” nous disent la plupart des Espagnols. “Des traîtres,” disent les Tchèques, et l’on en a dit tellement sur notre compte que les Yougoslaves nous méprisent aussi. (Laffitte 1947: 173)10

National, social, and ethnic stereotypes were rampant among the prisoners and, despite their radicalization by the SS, they reflected predominant principal moral concepts of societies at the time. The concentration camp was not in that sense a reversed world but rather a distorted picture of reality (Suderland 2009: 230). Half a century earlier, Adler noted that the camp society “reflects the social forms of the surrounding society to a fantastic degree” (Adler 1958: 513). The taxonomy of prisoner categories was therefore a highly important factor governing relationships among prisoners. Group formations in the camp were often “continuations of previous group membership” (Abel 1951: 154): In general it might be said that the more clearly the purposes of a group were defined as or identified with the promotion of a social cause, the more likely its members were to band together into cooperative groups which, despite virtually insuperable obstacles, endeavored to organize activities in line with their interest. (Abel 1951: 154)

Social bonding as a survival resource Pawełczyńska emphasizes the importance of relationships with other prisoners, and especially “the extent of his social connections with other prisoners, the network of relationships connecting smaller and larger prisoner groups” (Pawełczyńska 1980: 130). The first moment for grouping occurred immediately after arrival: Different attitudes among the new arrivals were distinguishable relatively soon, even in the Zugangsbaracke, by the capacity shown for “Scheise-Franzose.” This was the word with which we were welcomed by the Germans, the Poles, and sometimes even the Russians. “You are dirty swines,” most of the Spanish said to us. “Traitors,” said the Czechs, and so many charges were put against us that the Yugoslavians hated us, too.

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cooperation. Prisoners from the same transport formed spontaneous “small groups,” fighting together for their lives; […] In this first stage, when most of the prisoners still had relative reserves of strength, the small group created chances for those who belonged to it: the more resourceful of the group might acquire a better sleeping place (on the wooden planks, not on the bricks), they might “organize” a straw mattress, some straw or a blanket to protect them all from the cold; they might manage to get an additional bowl of soup. The end of quarantine generally went together with the dispersal of these “small groups.” The mass of prisoners divided up into barracks and into work crews, had to seek support in new companions and once more get blanket, straw, and a place to sleep. (Pawełczyńska 1980: 62)

Similarly, in psychological studies, social bonding is often emphasized as a means of individuals learning to cope and adapt to the camp. Among other writing, Leo Eitinger’s works on Norwegian and Jewish survivors illustrate this point. In Eitinger’s sample, a majority of Jewish survivors without symptoms of survivor guilt mentioned that “their being together had been significant” for survival, in addition to whether “they were helped by the others who were with them or because they themselves had to think of the others […].” He concludes that such help often was “of a minimal and/or symbolic nature” but had considerable impact “towards the individual’s ability to retain part of his personality and self-respect” (Eitinger 1964: 79), whereas those “who tried to keep totally remote from it all, became unavoidably isolated” (Eitinger 1964: 80). Another project by Herbert A. Bloch, based on interviews with 547 female Jewish survivors from the Mauthausen branch camp Lenzing and French survivors from Ohrdruf, investigated mechanisms of social organization during and after imprisonment. Applying Moreno’s sociometry, Bloch distinguishes between prisoners in concentration camps and prisoners in other internment institutions insofar as collectivization and organization processes differed fundamentally: whereas in prisons centripetal forces were dominant, in concentration camps centrifugal forces of integration prevailed. In other words, in prisons, social bonding among the inmates was the rule and in camps it was an exception. Bloch therefore defines the concentration camps by the absence of circumstances which might otherwise allow for stability and cohesion. Behavior in concentration camps is reduced to activities that help toward survival: “Nationality and common language, political groupings, age, former community and economic status, sociocultural levels, and religious differences failed, in the face of the intense individualism, to produce groupings” (Bloch 1947: 337). Bloch observes

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a process of de-socialization leading to “modern feral communities” and resulting “in a primal state of human association” that is reminiscent of Des Pres’s interpretation of survival. Forms of communal life among the two groups in his study do, however, differ fundamentally: the French survivors of Ohrdruf, most of whom came from the Résistance, developed significantly better organizational patterns than the women of Lenzing, primarily by segregating themselves from other groups. The women of Lenzing, in contrast to the French, formed a quite heterogeneous group and demonstrated extreme apathy and pronounced individualization at the time of liberation, although social bonds did develop within a short time after liberation (Bloch 1947: 339). Bloch’s findings about the absence of social bonding, which reflect the difference between male political prisoners and female Jewish prisoners, can be complemented by Bondy’s research on a group of twenty young Jewish men who were deported together to Buchenwald in 1939 and who managed to maintain group cohesion within the camp. Bondy describes a pronounced group egotism which included the refusal of help to others in situations when “their own lives were endangered as a result” (Bondy 1943: 458). Homogeneity in the sense of a common national, cultural, or social background therefore seems to be an essential precondition to create or maintain social bonds in the camp. A common language was equally important and enabled closer communication with fellow prisoners. Larger groups, however, were not common as social links were destroyed in most cases by the death of group members or the ongoing transfer of prisoners to other camps. A more general theory on social bonding, developed by Elmar Luchterhand, leads to a similar conclusion. Luchterhand differentiates between four different patterns of interpersonal relationships among prisoners: (1) the “lone-wolf pattern,” with characteristically unstable pair relationships and ties to other individual prisoner groups; (2) “stable pairing,” as “persistent, friendly relations with one or more individual prisoners”; (3) small-group patterns including “participation in one or more groups of three to eight prisoners”; and (4) large-group patterns including relationships in groups of nine or more prisoners. Analysis of data collected in a 1950–1951 field study, including survivors of Mauthausen and Gusen, led him to the conclusion that “stable paring was the basic unit of survival” (Luchterhand 1980: 268). In summary, the concentration camp society can be explained, following Suderland, as a paradigmatic “extreme case of sociality.” Firstly, the social space of the camp is characterized by structures which resemble those of contemporary societies in the sense that they were brought to the camps by the

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prisoners in the form of “habitus.” Secondly, individual behavior was always social behavior and contributed to the construction of societal hierarchies. Thirdly, the principles of differentiation in the camps were similar to social mechanisms outside the camps, as such criteria for the definition of social positions were familiar to prisoners from their pre-camp life. Finally, human relationships were of great value for survival and as such analysis of social bonding cannot be restricted to large-group formation, for example, national groups or prisoner categories, but must also take smaller group units into consideration.

Conclusion The inner world of the concentration camps was characterized by multiple and often ambiguous relations between the various different individuals or actors. Such a view is in sharp contrast to the perception that continues to predominate a closed system of suppressors and suppressed, ultimately dividing the actors into active perpetrators and passive victims. Concentration camps were not primarily extermination camps. Internment, therefore, cannot be analyzed solely according to the aspects of death and survival, but rather any analysis must also examine experiences of everyday life. A strictly vertical, power-based approach to the camp society should therefore be replaced by a broader view of social life in the camps and an analysis of the mechanisms of social structures including prisoners, perpetrators, and “by-standers” (e.g., civilian workers). In our analysis, we have always to keep in mind the extremity of the situation in the concentration camps and the harsh conditions imposed by the SS. However, a closer analysis of survivors’ accounts reveals the (limited) possibilities prisoners did have to act. In contrast to interpretations of the camps as “laboratories of modernity” or “total institutions,” where the prisoners are reduced to “bare life,” the National Socialist concentration camps can rather be seen as an “extreme case of social life,” a distorted picture of societies at the time. Camp society was characterized by different languages, cultural, ethnic, and religious differences, as well as by the inmates’ political backgrounds. Prejudices and value systems at the time, including anti-Semitism, antiziganism, and perceived hierarchies between nations, had a profound effect on camp society. International solidarity between the prisoners was by no means a dominating feature of life in the camp. However, social relations between individuals and small groups of prisoners, and acts of mutual support existed to an astonishing extent, although social bonding tended to happen along national and ethnocultural lines. The camp society was thus perceived in

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a multitude of different ways according to each individual experience and might well be described as a polyphonic place of terror.

References Abel, Theodore F. (1951), “The Sociology of Concentration Camps,” Social Forces, 30(2): 150–5. Adler, Hans Günther (1958), “Ideas Toward a Sociology of the Concentration Camps,” American Journal of Sociology, 63(5): 513–22. Adler, Hans Günther (1960), “Selbstverwaltung und Widerstand in den Konzentrationslagern der SS” [Autonomy and Resistance in the SS Concentration Camps], Vierteljahreshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 8(8): 221–36. Agamben, Giorgio (1998), Homo Sacer. Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Arendt, Hannah (1958), The Origins of Totalitarianism, Cleveland: Meridian Books. Bauman, Zygmunt (2008), Modernity and the Holocaust, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bettelheim, Bruno (1943), “Individual and Mass Behavior in Extreme Situations,” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 38: 417–52. Bettelheim, Bruno (1960), The Informed Heart. Autonomy in a Mass Age, Glencoe: Free Press. Bettelheim, Bruno (1979), Surviving and Other Essays, New York: Knopf. Bloch, Herbert A. (1947), “The Personality of Inmates of Concentration Camps,” The American Journal of Sociology, 52(4): 335–41. Bondy, Curt (1943), “Problems of Internment Camps,” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 38(4): 453–75. Cohen, Elie A. (1954), Human Behaviour in the Concentration Camp, London: Jonathan Cape. Crew, Ben (2007), “The Sociology of Imprisonment,” in Yvonne Jewkes (ed.), Handbook on Prisons, 123–51, Cullompton: Willan. Des Pres, Terrence (1980), The Survivor. An Anatomy of Life in the Death Camps, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eitinger, Leo (1964), Concentration Camp Survivors in Norway and Israel, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Federn, Ernst (1948), “Terror as a System. The Concentration Camp (Buchenwald as it was),” Psychiatric Quarterly Supplements, 22: 52–86. Goffman, Erving (1961), Asylums. Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates, Garden City: Anchor Books. Hartung, Gerald (2007), “Das Lager als Matrix der Moderne? Kritische Reflexionen zum biopolitischen Paradigma” [The Camp as a Matrix of the Modern Age? Critical Reflections on the Biopolitical Paradigm], in Ludger Schwarte (ed.), Auszug aus dem Lager. Zur Überwindung des modernen Raumparadigmas in der politischen Philosophie [Retreat from the Camps.

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Overcoming the Modern Spatial Paradigm in Political Philosophy], 96–109, Bielefeld: transcript. Kautsky, Benedikt (1948), Teufel und Verdammte. Erfahrungen und Erkenntnisse aus sieben Jahren in deutschen Konzentrationslagern [Devils and the Damned. Experiences and Insights from Seven Years in German Concentration Camps], Wien: Verlag der Wiener Volksbuchhandlung. Kertész, Imre (2004), Fatelessness. A Novel, trans. Tim Wilkinson, New York: Vintage International. Kotek, Joël and Pierre Rigoulet (2000), Le siècle des camps. Détention, concentration, extermination. Cent ans de mal radical [The Century of the Camps. Detention, Concentration, Extermination. A Hundred Years of Radical Evil], Paris: Lattès. Laffitte, Jean (1947), Ceux qui vivent [Those Who Live], Paris: Éditions Hier et Aujourd’hui. Leys, Ruth (2007), From Guilt to Shame. Auschwitz and After, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lifton, Robert Jay (1980), “The Concept of the Survivor,” in Joel E. Dimsdale (ed.), Survivors, Victims, and Perpetrators: Essays on the Nazi Holocaust, 113–26, Washington: Hemisphere. Luchterhand, Elmer G. (1980), “Social Behavior of Concentration Camp Prisoners: Continuities and Discontinuities with Pre- and Postcamp Life,” in Joel E. Dimsdale (ed.), Survivors, Victims, and Perpetrators: Essays on the Nazi Holocaust, 259–82, Washington: Hemisphere. Maestro, Jakob (2002), Interview with Jakob Maestro. Interviewer: Keren Harazi, Mauthausen Memorial, MSDP, OH/ZP1/299. Neurath, Paul M. (1951/2004), Die Gesellschaft des Terrors. Innenansichten der Konzentrationslager Dachau und Buchenwald [The Society of Terror: An Internal View of the Concentration Camps Dachau and Buchenwald], eds. Christian Fleck and Nico Stehr, trans. Hella Beister, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Niederland, William G. (1980), Folgen der Verfolgung. Das ÜberlebendenSyndrom Seelenmord [Consequences of Persecution. The Murder of the Soul as a Syndrome of Survival], Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Orth, Karin and Michael Wildt (1995), “Die Ordnung der Lager. Über offene Fragen und frühe Antworten in der Forschung zu Konzentrationslagern” [The Order of the Camps. On Unanswered Questions and Early Answers in Research on the Concentration Camps], WerkstattGeschichte, 12: 51–6. Pawełczyńska, Anna (1980), Values and Violence in Auschwitz. A Sociological Analysis, trans. Catherine S. Leach, Berkeley: University of California Press. Pelt, Robert Jan van (2011), “Paradise/Hades, Purgatory, Hell/Gehenna. A Political Typology of the Camps,” in Jonathan C. Friedman (ed.), The Routledge History of the Holocaust, 191–202, London: Routledge. Pingel, Falk (1978), Häftlinge unter SS-Herrschaft. Widerstand, Selbstbehauptung und Vernichtung im Konzentrationslager [Prisoners in the SS Regime. Resistance, Self-Assertion and Annihilation in the Concentration Camp], Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe.

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Pollak, Michael (2000), L’expérience concentrationnaire. Essai sur le maintien de l’identité sociale [Experiences of the Concentration Camp. Essays on the Maintenance of Social Identity], Paris: Métailié. Rousset, David (1946), L’univers concentrationnaire [The Concentration Camp Universe], Paris: Editions du Pavois. Schwarte, Ludger, ed. (2007), Auszug aus dem Lager. Zur Überwindung des modernen Raumparadigmas in der politischen Philosophie [Retreat from the Concentration Camp. Overcoming the Modern Spatial Paradigm in Political Philosophy], Bielefeld: transcript. Sofsky, Wolfgang (1997), The Order of Terror: The Concentration Camp, trans. William Templer, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Suderland, Maja (2009), Ein Extremfall des Sozialen. Die Häftlingsgesellschaft in den nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslagern [An Extreme Case of the Social. The Society of Prisoners in the National Socialist Concentration Camps], Frankfurt: Campus. Sykes, Gresham M. (2007), The Society of Captives. A Study of Maximum Security Prison, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zakravsky, Katherina (2007), “Enthüllungen. Zur Kritik des ‘nackten Lebens’ ” [Revelations. On the Critical Reception of “Bare Life”], in Ludger Schwarte (ed.), Auszug aus dem Lager. Zur Überwindung des modernen Raumparadigmas in der politischen Philosophie [Retreat from the Concentration Camp. Overcoming the Modern Spatial Paradigm in Political Philosophy], 59–77, Bielefeld: transcript.

2

Translanguagers and the Concentrationary Universe David Gramling

Most histories of cultures find little place for uprooted intermediaries, who flicker around the chapter divisions as momentary and isolated figures. Intermediaries are accorded little history of their own. […] To say that intermediaries, like translators, have culture, or even have a special kind of culture—would perhaps be to contradict etymology. Anthony Pym, Methods in Translation History (1998: 18) Je suis obsédé par la structure survivante de chacun de ces bouts de papiers, de ces traces. Jacques Derrida, Interview with Daniel Ferrer (2001: 72)1 Over the past quarter-century, path-breaking studies on multilingualism in the National Socialist camp milieu (see Oschlies 1986, Jagoda, Kłodziński and Masłowski 1987, Taterka 1995, Aschenberg 2002) as well as on translation and interpreting in these contexts (Tryuk 2012, Wolf 2013a) have helped applied linguists, historians, political theorists, translators, and literary critics rediscover the complex impact that mutual linguistic incomprehensibility exerted on transnational Nazi Europe, and the ways it is remembered. This commitment to researching the Third Reich multilingually has begun to lay bare a host of endemic epistemological and methodological complications that, while evident and acutely felt in the immediate post-war era, were inevitably tabled as “luxury problems” amid the large-scale effort to communicate the informational truths of the Shoah internationally. In the absence of much scholarly conceptualization around For support in the completion of this manuscript, I am grateful to the Arts and Humanities Council of the United Kingdom and its “Translating Cultures” grant program. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine, as are their shortcomings. 1 I’m obsessed with the structure of survival of each of these bits of paper, these traces.

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multilingual experience on either side of the Atlantic before the 1960s, no discipline or discourse was quite equipped to offer an amenable harbor for inquiry into subjectivities that are now warmly greeted in education and applied linguistics as “translanguaging” (García 2009), and in cultural and literary studies as “translingual practice” (Liu 1995). The hybrid speech habits that former concentration camp prisoners maintained even decades after their release, for the purpose of “ma[king] sense of their multilingual worlds” (García 2009: 140), did not necessarily fall on unsympathetic ears among the immediate post-war publishers they encountered, but their writings did most often eventually fall—over the course of the publishing and translating process—into desperately assimilative hands. The political scientist and Eastern Europeanist Wolf Oschlies notes how post-war Polish press editors had “sat helpless over manuscripts of former inmates” in the 1950s (Oschlies 1986: 99),2 unable to reconcile their in-house style requirements with the general imperative to print “authentic” manuscripts about captives’ experiences for a desirous reading public. Bolstered by a suspicion that such “camp language” was both an effect and a reiteration of atrocity, and that a strong dose of monolingual stylistic hygiene could help repatriate survivor testimonies into the normal linguistic traffic of Europe’s de-Nazified national languages, most editors saw fit to err liberally on the side of intervention—if they could understand the manuscripts at all. As a consequence of renationalization politics, combined with the endemic constraints of the publishing industry, an adverse structural relationship arose in the early post-war period between the patent translinguality of camp experience on the one hand, and the monolingual demands of publishers eager to print camp testimonies on the other. This epistemological conflict of interest was however generally overlooked amid the mandate to bear witness to the greater moral unspeakability of the Shoah itself (Gramling 2012). Thus the body of published work about camp survival that we have available to read in hardcover and paperback, indeed in scores of renationalized European languages, bears the deep grooves of this underlying translingual conflict of interest in the “means of production” of Shoah memoir.

Translanguaging in extremis Coined as trawsieithu by the scholar of Welsh-medium education Cen Williams (1994), “translanguaging” sought to account for the dynamic cognitive, symbolic, and social processes that occur when “input” takes Verständnislos saßen sie über den Manuskripten ehemaliger KZ-Häftlinge, […].

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place in one language and “output” in another. Originally conceived for educational contexts, the term reemerged in the work of Ofelia García (2009), who employed it to augment and extend traditional understandings of code-switching and code-mixing in a range of social contexts. Wei, in contrast, traces the concept to psycholinguistic processes through which speakers “create […] a social space […] by bringing together different dimensions of their personal history, experience and environment, their attitude, belief and ideology, their cognitive and physical capacity into one coordinated and meaningful performance” (2011: 1223). The Italianborn Birkenau survivor Primo Levi offers an inverse account of such a translanguaging space, one characterized not by “bringing together different dimensions” but by withholding the very ground upon which those dimensions can be shared: Questo “non essere parlati a” aveva effetti rapidi e devastanti. A chi non ti parla, o ti si indirizza con urli che ti sembrano inarticolati, non osi rivolgere la parola. Se hai la fortuna di trovare accanto a te qualcuno con cui hai una lingua comune, buon per te, potrai scambiare le tue impressioni, consigliarti con lui, sfogarti; se non trovi nessuno, la lingua ti si secca in pochi giorni, e con la lingua il pensiero. […] La maggior parte di prigionieri che non conoscevano il tedesco, quindi quasi tutti gli italiani, sono morti nei primi dieci-quindici giorni dal loro arrivo: a prima vista, per fame, freddo, fatica, malattia; ad un esame più attento, per insufficienza d’informazione. (Levi 1986: 72)3

Levi was among the scores of canonical Holocaust survivor memoirists who found it of primary importance in their writings to intervene in structuralist presuppositions about what it means to use, not use, or be used by (a) language. In construing his experience of “not being spoken to” in such ecological, spatio-temporal, economic, translingual, and intersubjective terms above, Levi is doing more than merely “testifying to his experience” as a survivor of Nazi captivity. He is just as intensively engaged in theorizing

3

“Not being talked to” had rapid and devastating effects. To those who do not talk to you, or address you in screams that seem inarticulate to you, you do not dare speak. If you are fortunate enough to have next to you someone with whom you have a language in common, good for you, you’ll be able to exchange your impressions, seek counsel, let off steam, confide in him. If you don’t find anyone, your tongue dries up in a few days, and your thought with it. […] The greater part of the prisoners who did not understand German—that is, almost all the Italians—died during the first ten to fifteen days after their arrival: at first glance, from hunger, cold, fatigue, and disease, but after a more attentive examination, due to insufficient information. (Levi 1989: 72)

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language as such and, in doing so, questioning the prevailing “3I-linguistics” of his era, which held that language was internal (housed in speakers’ minds); instrumental (a tool for communication or thought-expression); and individual (i.e., a behavioral habit or a private mental faculty, Steffensen 2015: 106). In viewing language rather through a “4E-Cognition” model— as a web of phenomena that are always and only “Embedded, Enacted, Extended and Ecological” (Steffensen 2015: 107)—Steffensen and other proponents of what they call the Distributed Language Approach (cf. Cowley 2011) have venerable methodological allies in concentration camp survivors like Levi. I cite this one example above from among many of Levi’s interventions into linguistics (and arguably into translation studies) in order to suggest that the genre-label memoir may be too constrained a designation for the kinds of contributions he and his contemporaries have made. Levi’s I sommersi e i salvati (1986) is not only a work of personal testimony to be translated by translators for a multilingual range of readerships, it is also a work of theory by a multilingual translator offering his scholarly insights about language, translation, and multilingualism. In this, Levi’s memoirs are as much a work of critical theory as are, for instance, Jacques Derrida’s Monolinguisme de l’autre (1996), Pierre Bourdieu’s Esquise pour une auto-analyse (2004), or Julia Kristeva’s Étrangers à nous-mêmes (1991). Levi and other Shoah memoirists did also of course testify about the particular historical context of camps like Birkenau, Ravensbrück, Mauthausen, and Dachau, contexts which Hannah Arendt in 1948 described as a “skillfully manufactured unreality” (Arendt 1948: 750). What David Rousset called “l’univers concentrationnaire” of the camp (1946/1998) was also, in a sense, an inverse model—or black hole—of modern linguistics, constituted by and upon all of the illiberal things the 3I-model of linguistics hoped to exclude from its normative template for human speech: among them rudimentariness (Rosello 2011), symbolic violence (Bourdieu 1982), creolization and pidginization (Hymes 1974), acute bodily precarity (Butler 2009: I, Pratt 2012: 19), and—arguably also—multilingual subjectivity itself (Kramsch 2010). Put another way, a given camp was able to maintain its administrative stasis, amid the tumultuously multicultural daily influxes of new captives, not just by way of cudgels and cages, but through a sophisticated functionalization of adverse multilingualism: that is, through vastly attenuated economies of mutual comprehension, the absence or withholding of any common language, grossly amplified dynamics of interpellation and disinterpellation, dynamic and constantly mutating speech repertoires amid the introduction of newly detained speech communities, the compound effects of hunger,

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privation, and torture, and the ways all these features of survival coalesced into a normative habitus that endured long after liberation. Indeed, the claim that the camp universe was optimized around these anti-Liberal linguistic norms countervenes Giorgio Agamben’s superlative assertion that the camp was “the most absolute biopolitical space ever to have been realized, in which power confronts nothing but pure life, without any mediation” (Agamben 1998: 170–1). Levi indeed shows, in the passage above and throughout his work, how power’s relationship to the precarious body of the camp captive was fastidiously mediated by conditions of compulsory multilingual and (non)translative subjectification. By broadening his own experience of captivity into a general heuristic for understanding this camp-normative translingual habitus—aligned to the internal pragmatics of l’univers concentrationnaire—Levi sought to show the extent to which structuralist habits of thought about language, translation, comprehension, and self-expression had not applied there. Capacities taken for granted in common expressions like “shared language,” “interpreting for,” or “translating into,” communicating “one’s thoughts” voluntarily and selectively in “one’s dominant” or “nondominant” languages—each of these presumptive human activities was for Levi only readily at hand outside and beyond the camp space, in what Donatella Di Cesare (2003) has called the utopia del comprendere (utopia of comprehending).

Translanguaging as vocation If we take seriously the structuring power of the informal goods-andtrades market internal to camps like Birkenau, translanguagers in the concentrationary universe became members of an intercultural group with a de facto vocational responsibility and an attendant specialized vernacular lexicon. If they survived until 1945, their homecoming in the following years was often arduous, suspect, and ill-fated, as they indeed had become new kinds of speakers over the course of their years of internment. Theirs is thus a doubly obscured position in disciplinary historiography: often structurally excluded from the historical vocation of translation/interpreting due to their non-professional status, but also held at a distance by the various national communities that might have otherwise enfranchised them as “French translators” or “Greek translators” or the like. The position of concentrationary translators, that is, those who did translation work or labor in concentration camp captivity, is often a position that confounds the domestic/foreign designations that have shaped translation studies thought. Take for instance this encounter from Semprún’s Le Grand Voyage, as the

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Francophone narrator (freed decades prior from his captivity at Buchenwald) interacts in German with a young post-war German woman, who is puzzled about why this Francophone Spaniard knows her language: “Wo hast Du’s gelernt?” demande la fille. “Im Kazett.” Ce n’est pas vrai que j’ai appris l’allemand au camp, je le savais avant, mais enfin, j’ai envie d’embêter cette fille. “Wo denn?” dit-elle, surprise. Elle n’a visiblement pas compris. Elle ne sait visiblement pas que ces deux initiales, K, Z, désignaient les camps de concentration de son pays, que c’est comme ça que les désignaient les hommes de son pays qui y avaient passé dix ans, douze ans. Peut-être n’a-t-elle jamais entendu parler de tout ça. “Im Konzentrationslager. Schon davon gehört?” lui dis-je. (Semprún 1963: 141)4

The presumptive explanatory power of national deixis—here, there, my country, your language, etc.—is all but deranged in such recollected conversations, which abound in camp testimony. Almost twenty years after his release, Semprún’s Germanophone and multilingual Buchenwald is infinitely more “domestic” to him (culturally, linguistically, and morally), than it appears to be for the German with whom he speaks. In fact, it is he who, with the phrase “schon davon gehört” is compelled to, in Venuti’s terms (1995), domesticate the camp for her. Such translational predicaments—endemic to many concentrationaires’ linguistic habitus— yearn for an analytical vocabulary beyond culture, foreignness, nation, host, and target. Primo Levi puts this problem of propriety another way: “Ho capito abbastanza pronto che il mio scarsissimo Wortschatz era diventato un fattore di sopravvivenza essenziale. Wortschatz significa ‘patrimonio lessicale’, ma alla lettera ‘tesoro di parole’; mai termine è stato altrettanto appropriato. Sapere “Where did you learn it?” asks the girl. “In the KZ.” It’s not true that I learned German in the camp. I knew it before, but in the end I wanted to irritate this girl. “Where?” she said, surprised. She visibly had not understood. She visibly did not know that these two initials, K, Z, designated the concentration camps of her country, that that is how the men of her country who had spent ten, twelve years there designated them. Perhaps she’d never heard talk of all that. “In the concentration camp. Ever heard of it?” I said to her. [German in italics, French in non-italics] 4

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il tedesco era la vita” (Levi 1986: 74).5 Language, and specifically German language, was for both Levi and Sémprun a particularly valorized symbolic techne that they each partially appropriated, an exosomatic “treasure” that they could not possess, but also could not do without. Aschenberg clarifies the status of German as techne of survival in camp life, as follows: Die Kenntnis der für den Lageralltag wichtigen Begriffe und Befehle in deutscher Sprache war, wie Levi ausführt, insbesondere für den nichtdeutschen Internierten oft geradezu überlebensnotwendig. Nur wenn er diese Ausdrücke verstand, war er in der Lage, Zusammenhänge zu durchschauen, pragmatisch auf Anordnungen, Drohungen etc. zu reagieren, vielleicht sogar, wenn auch nur bruchstückhaft, sich selbst auf deutsch zu äußern. Die Kenntnis des deutschen Lagerjargons konnte es erleichtern, den Schlägen des Gummiknüppels zu entgehen, der im Jargon von Mauthausen bezeichnenderweise “der Dolmetscher” hieß, weil seine “Sprache” ausnahmslos von allen, auch den vielen nichtdeutschen Gefangenen, verstanden wurde. Die Verwendung deutscher Ausdrücke in von nicht deutschsprachigen Autoren verfaßten Texten zu Lager und Shoah ist somit zunächst denotativ begründet. Die Autoren können nicht auf in ihren Sprachen bereits verfügbare Äquivalente zurückgreifen, welche geeignet gewesen wären, die erlebte Wirklichkeit angemessen zu bezeichnen und für den Leser zu evozieren. (Aschenberg 1998: 143)6

For Levi, the camps functioned through a translanguaging ecology that made both monolingualism and translation rare phenomena to find in discrete form. Indeed, survivors provide many accounts of a multilingual camp milieu that relied at every moment on ephemeral, spontaneous translating, “I soon understood that my extremely meager Wortschatz had become an essential factor of survival. Wortschatz means ‘lexical patrimony,’ but literally, ‘treasure of words’; never was a term more appropriate. Knowing German meant life” (Levi 1989: 74). 6 Knowing concepts and commands in German that were important for the everyday life of the camp was, as Levi demonstrates, necessary for survival, in particular for non-German internees. Only by understanding these expressions was he able to penetrate contexts, react pragmatically to instructions and threats, and even to represent oneself in German, if only piecemeal. Knowing German camp jargon made it easier to avoid the strike of the baton, which itself was tellingly known in Mauthausen camp jargon as “the interpreter,” since its “language” would without exception be understood by all, including the many non-German captives. The use of German expressions in texts by non-Germanophone authors about the camps and the Shoah are thus denotatively justified. The authors cannot take recourse to equivalents already available in their own languages, which would be appropriate for indexing the experienced reality and evoking it for the reader. 5

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but was nonetheless impervious to the reach of translation or interpreting as we tend to idealize them. Borowski recalls from Auschwitz: Around us sit the Greeks, their jaws working greedily, like huge human insects. They munch on stale lumps of bread. They are restless, wondering what will happen next. The sign of the large beams and the stacks of rails has them worried. They dislike carrying heavy loads. “Was wir arbeiten?” They ask. “Niks. Transport kommen, alles Krematorium, compris?” “Alles verstehen,” they answer in crematorium Esperanto. All is well—they will not have to move the heavy rails or carry the beams. (Borowski 1976: 35)

Despite the preponderance of such moments in Shoah narrative, we still have relatively few disciplinary tools to acknowledge the kind of translingual sense-making that occurred en masse in these settings. Consider further Karl Rüder’s story from Dachau about his relationship with an imprisoned Czech poet, with whom he shared nothing but the most rudimentary common langage: Er hieß Slavoj. Es gelang mir bald, mit ihm in ein Gespräch zu kommen. Er sprach kaum deutsch, aber wir konnten uns hier gut miteinander verständigen. Wenn man lange mit Menschen zusammen ist, die eine andere Sprache sprechen, entwickelt sich eine Verständigungstechnik, mit der man ziemlich weit kommt. Slavoj beherrschte einige grammatikalische Regeln, und ich half mit den fehlenden Vokabeln aus. Das ging sehr gut. […] Er schrieb natürlich Tschechisch und las mir seine Erzeugnisse immer zuerst in seiner Muttersprache vor. Dann versuchte er zu übersetzen, und ich half ihm dabei, so gut ich konnte. (Rüder 1985: 193–6)7

Given this rudimentary and precarious setting, a further methodological problem arises in Gideon Toury’s hypothesis that translations are “facts of the culture which hosts them” (Toury 1995: 24). This line of thinking compels us His name was Slavoj. Soon, I’d succeeded at getting into a conversation with him. He hardly spoke German, but we were able to understand one another well. When one spends a great deal of time together with people who speak another language, a technique of understanding develops with which one can come quite far. Slavoj commanded some grammatical rules, and I helped with the missing vocabulary. That went quite well. […] He wrote Czech of course and read me his writings first in his mother tongue. Then he tried to translate, and I helped him as well as I could.

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to regard translating and interpreting as a teleological action, that is, that a translation is first a translation when it reaches a host culture. In the Third Reich and particularly the camp context, such staple concepts of translation normalcy as “reach,” “host,” “target,” and “culture” lose their intended denotative stability nearly entirely. Indeed, despite the well-documented ubiquity of translingual practice (in internment and extermination camps, transports, hideouts, clandestine presses, and counterintelligence efforts) hoping to reach a telos of legibility beyond Nazi dominion, this futureanterior of translatedness was often fated to remain either a futile errand or a spiritual smoke-signal. It is perhaps in this sense that the Francophone and Germanophone Spanish exile Jorge Semprún, formerly interned at Buchenwald in 1944 for his activities in the French Resistance, rejected langue altogether as an organizing principle for experience: En fin de compte, ma patrie n’ est pas la langue, ni la française ni l’ espagnole, ma patrie c’ est le langage. C’est-à-dire, un espace de communication sociale, d’invention linguistique, une possibilité de représentation de l’univers. De le modifier aussi, par les ouvres du langage, fût-ce de façon modeste, a la marge. (1995: 101–2)8

Only uneasily housed in any one European langue, given his experience of exile and Nazi captivity, Semprún finds himself socially at home in the translingual realm of meaning-making, astride of linguistic difference, in a translanguaging space (Wei 2011) with neither the guarantee nor the constraint of a shared linguistic system. The twin procedures of assimilation and comparativity in post-war editing effaced the ways in which survivors often had, over the course of their captivity, become otherwise than national, and the ways their own languages had mutated into a form opaque to the domestic readability presumed of them. Concentrationaires’ history of statutory statelessness at the hands of the Nazis thus became compounded by the “deNazifying” presumption that survivors’ linguistic hybridity was tantamount to a kind of languagelessness, less-languagedness, or language loss, in need of symbolic recuperation into Europe’s renationalized literate cultures. We may further consider Semprún’s translingual, transcivic position, during his 2003 speech to the German Bundestag, as he addressed the assembly in German: “Wenn Sie in diesem Jahr keinen Deutschen, sondern After all, my homeland is not la langue, whether French or Spanish; my homeland is le langage. That is to say, a space of social communication, of linguistic invention, a possibility of representing the universe. Of modifying it too, through the labors of langage, even if only in a modest way and at its margins.

8

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mich eingeladen haben, hängt das irgendwie damit zusammen, dass Sie mich vielleicht nicht für einen Fremden, für einen Ausländer halten. Und zweifelsohne haben Sie damit irgendwie recht” (2003).9 Like a specter returned from a netherworld past, Semprún announces his presence not as a foreign national or diplomatic representative, but a compatriot of his German audience. Neither host nor target, neither translator nor translated, his uncanny domesticity in the German Bundestag recalls and re-presents a transnational and translingual (dis)order that post-war states urgently sought to expunge.

Implications and potentials Holocaust or Shoah memoir (both in its published and occasional formats) has most often been conceived as testimony to a particular range of the human experience in extremis, giving voice to certain historical conditions of trauma and survival under genocidal oppression. In the main, however, memoirists have not been credited as making a contribution to translation or translation studies as such—whether translation as theory, practice, vocational identification, or human experience. And yet camp survivors bore one of the most daunting translative tasks conceivable: testifying for a postwar readership who, according to Hannah Arendt in 1948, could not but feel “a great temptation to explain away the intrinsically incredible by way of liberal rationalizations. […] We attempt to understand elements in present or recollected experience that simply surpass our powers of understanding. We attempt to classify as criminal a thing that, as we all feel, no such category was intended to cover” (Arendt 1948: 745). Fully aware of the challenge they would experience when communicating with every last individual they encountered, save those who had also lived through the camps themselves, survivors developed translative strategies that ranged from the ad hoc to the systematic. Levi describes his own testimonial habitus in translational terms as follows: “Nel bene o nel male, sapendolo o no, ho sempre teso a un trapasso dall’oscuro al chiaro, come […] potrebbe fare una pompa-filtro, che separa acqua torbida e la espelle decantata: magari sterile” (Gaeta 1983).10 If we indeed see fit to describe As you have not invited a German [to speak] this year, but me instead, that must have something to do with the fact that you don’t consider me a stranger, a foreigner. And without a doubt, you are somehow correct. 10 For better or worse, knowingly or not, I’ve always strived to pass from darkness into light  […] as a filtering pump might do, which sucks up turbid water and expels it decanted, possibly sterile. 9

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Levi’s work generally as always already translative, his account of his own writing as that of a “filtering pump” indeed aligns well with Lawrence Venuti’s heuristic of “domesticating” translation (1995), while complicating Benjamin’s translative ideal of “pure language” (1916/2002), and putting an urgent point on the pragmatism of skopos theory (Nord 1997). Still, translanguaging memoirists like Delbo, Rousset, Semprún, Kertész, and Levi have been acknowledged primarily as testifying to an external historical reality, not as generating knowledge through or about translation. Thomas Taterka hints at this omission, as he describes the predominating epistemic frame of Shoah memoir as follows: Wie selbstverständlich ist die Untersuchung von Lagerliteratur auf eine enge Beziehung zur Geschichte gestellt. Diese vorab zu unterstellende Referenz aber, ohne die sich ein Phänomen “Lagerliteratur” gar nicht konstituieren ließe, wird regelmäßig ebenso einseitig wie statisch aufgefaßt: nämlich so, als stünden die Realität der Konzentrationslager einerseits, der darauf bezogene Text andererseits wie zwei getrennte Entitäten unbewegt einander gegenüber und als sei es nun Aufgabe, die Beziehung beider Pole aufeinander unter dem Gesichtspunkt zu untersuchen, inwieweit der Text der Geschichte entspricht, die in diesem Verhältnis als Fixpunkt und vorab bekannt angesehen wird, so daß nun über Nähe oder Ferne des einzelnen Textes zu jenem Pol zu befinden wäre, um festzustellen, wie “authentisch” oder fiktiv der jeweilige Text sei. (Taterka 1999: 147)11

Researching the Shoah multilingually entails shifting focus from memoirists’ referential representations, toward the translational means and procedures by which these are furnished and made possible. At stake for translation studies in this context is whether, based on the evidence from language mediators under National Socialism, “[s]omething could possibly change if translation history were to be written in a slightly different way, with reference to a non-sedentary past” (Pym 1998: 17). It would be instructive, for instance, to develop for the Third Reich period what Anthony Pym calls “transfer maps,” Investigating camp literature is naturally disposed toward a narrow relation to history. This reference, which must be presumed in advance and without which the phenomenon of “camp literature” could not even be constituted, is regularly apprehended in a onesided and static manner. It is as if the reality of the concentration camp stood on one side and the text that treats of it stood on the other as two separated and unmoved entities, and as if the task were to investigate the relationship of both poles to one another in terms of how the text corresponds to the history—which in this relationship is seen ex ante as a fixed point—so that handing down judgment on the respective text’s distance or proximity from that pole determines how “authentic” or fictive the respective text is.

11

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that is, visualizations of the complex outlays of translational connectivity beyond mere host and target—marking out the various communities, subjects, intermediaries, detours, and obstacles that constituted translational action in these contexts. As Pym suggests, transfer maps might thus become a way of complementing all those maps that fill national spaces with colours. They could be logically anterior to the colour problem. Or more exactly, they could force relative homogeneity and systematicity to manifest themselves as modes of resistance to transfer. (Pym 1998: 93)

Such a visualization for the concentrationary context would need to incorporate a fourth, diachronic dimension in order to demonstrate how translational connectivity was made to adjust, evacuate, and rebound amid a rapidly transmogrified political landscape from 1933 to 1950. Such a transfer map would give voice to the efforts of ad hoc, professional, and compelled translators and interpreters, and would diagram what Bakhtin might call their “addressivity and answerability” for the period of fascist rule in Europe. Translanguaging in and from the concentrationary universe indeed gives new meaning to Bakhtin’s assertion that “[t]he word lives, as it were, on the boundary between its own context and another, alien, context” (Bakhtin 1981: 284). And yet, it may be just as important to create non-transfer maps, that is, representations of those circuits by which certain types of language were obfuscated, stopped in their tracks, left deliberately or strategically untranslated. Reflecting on translation practices in Iraq during the US invasion of 2003, Vincente Rafael asks, “Is there a way, though, that translation can also be nonproductive? Can the task of translating result in neither order nor meaning but in an ongoing suspension of both? What happens when translation arrives at its limit, overtaken by the return of that which remains untranslatable?” (Rafael 2007: 242). Indeed, Rafael’s concern about translating in war-time recalls the work of Jean Texcier in the French Resistance, whose 1940 pamphlet Conseils à l’occupé directed the French to abstain from translingual activity altogether: “Tu ne sais pas leur langue, ou tu l’as oubliée. Si l’un d’eux t’adresse la parole en allemande, fais un signe d’impuissance, et sans remords, poursuis ton chemin” (Texcier 1945: 9).12 A robust translation history of transnational fascist Europe would (I am grateful to David Divita for this reference.) You do not know their language, or you have forgotten it. If one of them addresses you in German, make a sign of incapacity, and follow your path without remorse.

12

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accordingly account not only for the labors of precaritized translators and translanguagers, but also for the non-translation tactics of resistors.

Conclusions The scholars mentioned at the outset of this chapter have made strides toward undoing, among other things, the notion that life under Nazi rule ever actually adhered to anything like a “monolingual paradigm” (Yildiz 2012), whether that paradigm is construed as one maintained through microlevel verbal hygiene in daily affairs (Cameron 2013), macro-level linguistic nationalism in Nazi language planning for a “new Europe” (Gramling 2015), or at the level of the purportedly successful Gleichschaltung of meaning in German society after February 28, 1933. Instead of presupposing that monolingualism lurked at the core of the Third Reich and its camp system, this body of interdisciplinary research has approached historical sociolinguistic and literary data anew to assess how the very grounds for meaning, space, and order in concentration camps were multilingual, multimodal, relational, and embodied—each in extreme measure. These accrued research insights into the widespread multilingual conditions of transnational Nazi Europe exert evidentiary pressure on broader scholarly agendas to rethink the generalizability of langue–parole/competence–performance binaries, and to question what is normatively allowed to count as “a language” for the purpose of translation, political recognition, and linguistic human rights in the modern period. Such questions are indeed perennial topics in applied linguistics (see for instance Makoni and Pennycook 2006), but they are most often pursued in that field from a presentist standpoint, without sustained recourse to historical data like that emerging from the Nazi period. First consolidated as a discipline amid the renationalized, comparatively sedentary structuralist landscape of 1960s and 1970s Europe, translation studies nonetheless continues to bear a historical debt to the transnational “state of emergency” of Nazi occupation. Yet our research agendas have not set themselves to the task of distilling evidence of translingual practice in Nazi Europe (both in camp contexts and at large) into general implications for translation history. Neither are case studies of “camp language,” localized as they tend to be upon this one genocidal chapter of the twentieth century, particularly well positioned to inspire a broader critical agenda regarding the terms, tenets, and debates in contemporary translation studies. Certainly, work on Levi, Klemperer, Delbo, Semprún, Rousset, and Borowski’s writings, to name only a few, have offered to philology, sociology, and cultural studies new corrective accounts of the human condition amid

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adverse multilingualism and violent oppression. Much work and many questions remain: What can the translanguaging practices these speakers routinely undertook in the “concentrationary universe”—faint and far afield from any “utopia of comprehending” and the affordances that it may grant— offer toward the principles, trajectories, and guiding questions that animate translation and interpreting studies today? How might these historical figures—both the survivors and the perished—serve as critical pedagogues for twenty-first-century endeavors around translingual practice and the “sociological turn” in translation studies (Angelleli 2013, Wolf 2013b)? And under what conceptual auspices might we reintroduce these translanguagers living under Nazi captivity into the general history of translation “as a unified area for the humanistic study of human translators and their social actions, both within and beyond their material translations” (Pym 1998: 4)? Scholars in the age of high-density globalized translation traffic have endeavored to revise what translation is allowed to encompass and exclude. We undertake such revisions, not simply to adequately countenance new multilingual assemblages and challenges (Blommaert, Pahta and Räisänen 2012, Jessner-Schmid and Kramsch 2015), but also because we increasingly discover that the paradigms that had defined translation throughout most of modernity served primarily the needs of nations and nation-building, needs which were always ultimately unlikely to “trickle down” to the linguistic subjectivities of camp survivors, refugees, stateless people, and multilinguals. Divesting methodologically from this national fallacy (Warner and Gramling 2011: 61) is thus not only a timely paradigm shift for scholarship on twentyfirst-century themes, it is also an overdue corrective for historical research on adverse translational settings that were always already the abject, expelled, or inverted refractions of one or another national project. Yet these contexts, concentration camps among them, often continue to be held at a distance— sometimes reverently, sometimes regretfully—when disciplines like translation studies endeavor to innovate or transform themselves for contemporary needs. We may consider the possibility of recognizing the translators, translanguagers, and non-translators of the concentrationary universe as colleagues in our current (inter)disciplinary conversations, and of “retrieving what remains dormant—the purchase or claim of their lives on the present—without committing further violence in [our] own act of narration” (Hartman 2008: 1).

References Agamben, Giorgio (1998), Homo Sacer. Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, Stanford: Stanford University Press.

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Angelleli, Claudia, ed. (2013), The Sociological Turn in Translation and Interpreting Studies, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Arendt, Hannah (1948), “The Concentration Camps,” Partisan Review, 15(7): 743–63. Aschenberg, Heidi (1998), “ ‘Il faut que je parle au nom des choses qui sont arrivés …’: Zur Übertragung von Konnotation und Aposiopese in Texten zu Lager und Shoah” [“I must speak in the name of the things as they came …”: On Transmitting Connotation and Aposiopesis in Texts from the Camp and Shoah], Jahrbuch Deutsch als Fremdsprache, 24: 137–58. Aschenberg, Heidi (2002), “Sprachterror. Kommunikation im nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager” [Language Terror: Communication in the National Socialist Concentration Camps], Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 118(4): 529–72. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. (1981), The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, Austin: University of Texas Press. Benjamin, Walter (1916/2002), “Über Sprache überhaupt und über die Sprache des Menschen” [On Language in General and on the Language of Humans], in Detlev Schöttker (ed.), Medienästhetische Schriften, 67–82, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Blommaert, Jan, Päivi Pahta and Tiina Räisänen (2012), Dangerous Multilingualism: Northern Perspectives on Order, Purity and Normality, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Borowski, Tadeusz (1976), This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen, trans. Barbara Vedder, New York: Penguin. Bourdieu, Pierre (1982), Ce que parler veut dire: L’ économie des échanges linguistiques [What Speaking Wants to Say: The Economy of Linguistic Exchanges], Paris: Éditions Fayard. Bourdieu, Pierre (2004), Esquise pour une auto-analyse [Sketch for an Autoanalysis], Paris: Raisons d’agir. Butler, Judith (2009), “Performativity, Precariety and Sexual Politics,” AIBR. Revista de Antropología Iberoamericana, 4(3): i–xiii. Cameron, Deborah (2013), “The One, the Many and the Other: Representing Multi- and Mono-lingualism in Post-9/11 Verbal Hygiene,” Critical Multilingualism Studies, 1(2): 59–77. Cowley, Stephen J., ed. (2011), Distributed Language, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Derrida, Jacques (1996), Le monolinguisme de l’autre [The Monolingualism of the Other], Paris: Éditions Galilée. Derrida, Jacques and Daniel Ferrer (2001), “ ‘Entre le corps écrivant et l’ écriture’: Entretien avec Daniel Ferrer” [“Between the Writing Body and Writing’: Interview with Daniel Ferrer], Genesis: Manuscrits, Recherche, Invention, 17: 59–72. Di Cesare, Donatella (2003), Utopia del comprendere [The Utopia of Comprehending], Genova: Il Nuovo Melangolo.

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Gaeta, Luciano (1983), “Così ho rivissuto Il processo di Kafka” [So I Relived Kafka’s The Trial], La Stampa [Torino], 9 April, n.p. García, Ofelia (2009), “Education, Multilingualism and Translanguaging in the 21st Century,” in Ajit Mohanty, Minati Panda, Robert Phillipson and Tove Skutnabb-Kangas (eds), Multilingual Education for Social Justice: Globalising the Local, 128–45, New Delhi: Orient Blackswan. Gramling, David (2012), “An Other Unspeakability: Levi and Lagerszpracha,” New German Critique, 39(3): 165–87. Gramling, David (2015), “Interculturality and Multilingualism on the Threshold of the Third Reich,” in Ulrike Jessner-Schmid and Claire Kramsch (eds), The Multilingual Challenge, 159–81, Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Hartman, Saidiya (2008), “Venus in Two Acts,” Small Axe, 12(2): 1–14. Hymes, Dell, ed. (1974), Pidiginization and Creolization of Languages, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jagoda, Zenon, Stanisław Kłodziński and Jan Masłowski (1987), “ ‘bauernfuss, goldzupa, himmelautostrada’. Zum ‘Krematoriumsesperanto’ der Sprache polnischer KZ-Häftlinge” [“peasantfoot, goldsoup, skyhighway”: On “Crematorium Esperanto,” the Language of Polish Concentration Camp Prisoners], trans. Jochen August, Die Auschwitz-Hefte, 2: 241–60. Jessner-Schmid, Ulrike and Claire Kramsch, eds (2015), The Multilingual Challenge, Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Kramsch, Claire (2010), The Multilingual Subject, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kristeva, Julia (1991), Étrangers à nous-mêmes [Strangers to Ourselves], Paris: Folio. Levi, Primo (1986), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, New York: Vintage. Liu, Lydia (1995), Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity in China 1900–1937, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Makoni, Sinfree and Alastair Pennycook (2006), Disinventing and Reconstituting Languages, Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Nord, Christiane (1997), Translating as a Purposeful Activity, Manchester: St Jerome. Oschlies, Wolf (1986), “Lagerszpracha: Soziolinguistische Bemerkungen zu KZ-Sprachkonventionen” [Camp Language: Sociolinguistic Remarks on Concentration Camp Language Conventions], Muttersprache, 96: 98–109. Pratt, Mary Louise (2012), “ ‘If English was Good Enough for Jesus’: Monolinguismo y mala fe,” Critical Multilingualism Studies, 1(1): 12–30. Pym, Anthony (1998), Methods in Translation History, Manchester: St Jerome. Rafael, Vincente (2007), “Translation in Wartime,” Public Culture, 19(2): 239–46. Rosello, Mireille (2011), “Rudimentariness as Home,” in Ali Behdad and Dominic Thomas (eds), A Companion to Comparative Literature, 312–31, London: Wiley-Blackwell.

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Rousset, David (1946/1998), L’univers concentrationnaire [The Concentrationary Universe], Paris: Hachette. Rüder, Karl (1985), Nachtwache: 10 Jahre KZ Dachau und Flossenbürg [Nightwatch: Ten Years of Concentration Camp Dachau and Flossenbürg], Wien: Böhlau. Semprún, Jorge (1963), Le Grand voyage [The Grand Voyage], Paris: Gaillimard. Semprún, Jorge (1995), Mal et modernité: suivi de “Vous avez une tombe au creux des nuages”: essai [Evil and Modernity: Followed by “You Have a Tomb in the Hollow of the Clouds”: Essay], Paris: Climats. Semprún, Jorge (2003), “Jorge Semprún über das deutsche Nationalbewusstsein Gedenkveranstaltung für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus 2003” [Jorge Semprún on German National Consciousness: Memorial for the Victims of National Socialism 2003]. Available online: https://www.bundestag.de /ausschuesse_video?id=1496618&offsetStart=90&contentArea=common& instance=m187&categorie=Sonderveranstaltungen&mask=search&action= search&downloadConfirm=true (accessed August 25, 2015). Steffensen, Sune Vork (2015), “Distributed Language and Dialogism: Notes on Non-locality, Sense-making and Interactivity,” Language Sciences 50: 105–19. Available online: http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.langsci.2015.01.004 (accessed August 25, 2015). Taterka, Thomas (1995), “Zur Sprachsituation im deutschen Konzentrationslager” [On the Language Situation in German Concentration Camps], Magazin für Literatur und Politik, 21: 37–54. Taterka, Thomas (1999), Dante Deutsch: Studien zur Lagerliteratur [Dante German: Studies on Concentration Camp Literature], Berlin: Erich Schmidt. Texcier, Jean (1945), Écrit dans la nuit [Writing in the Night], Paris: Nouvelle Édition. Toury, Gideon (1995), Descriptive Translations Studies and Beyond, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2012), “Ty nic nie mów, ja będę tłumaczył.” O etyce w tłumaczeniu ustnym [“Don’t Say Anything, I Will Interpret.” On Ethics in Oral Translation], Warszawa: Wyd. WLS. Venuti, Lawrence (1995), The Translator’s Invisibilty. A History of Translation, London: Routledge. Warner, Chantelle and David Gramling (2011), “Toward a Contact Pragmatics of Literature: Habitus, Text, and the Advanced L2 Classroom,” in Glenn S. Levine and Alison M. Phipps (eds), Critical and Intercultural Theory and Language Pedagogy, 57–75, Boston: AAUSC/Cengage. Wei, Li (2011), “Moment Analysis and Translanguaging Space: Discursive Construction of Identities by Multilingual Chinese Youth in Britain,” Journal of Pragmatics, 43: 1222–35. Williams, Cen (1994), “Arfarniad o Ddulliau Dysgu ac Addysgu yng Nghyddestun Addysg Uwchradd Ddwyieithog” [Learning and Teaching

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Assessment Methods in the Context of Bilingual Secondary Education], PhD diss., University of Wales Bangor, Bangor. Wolf, Michaela (2013a), “ ‘German Speakers, Step Forward!’ Surviving Through Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps,” Translation and Interpreting Studies, 8(1): 1–22. Wolf, Michaela (2013b), “The Sociology of Translation and its ‘Activist Turn,’ ” in Claudia Angelleli (ed.), The Sociological Turn in Translation and Interpreting Studies, 7–21, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Yildiz, Yasemin (2012), Beyond the Mother Tongue: The Postmonolingual Condition, New York: Fordham University Press.

Part Two

Language Diversity in the Camps

3

Linguistic Terror in Nazi Concentration Camps: Lucien and Gilbert— Portraits of Two “Interpreters” Heidi Aschenberg

The shut off world of Nazi concentration camps generated forms of social life never known before in the history of mankind. As Wolfgang Sofsky demonstrated in his perspicuous sociological study about concentration camp society, social life in the camps was subsumed by a system of “absolute power” and an “order of terror,” according to which elementary structures of human life and civilized societies were perverted: not just the relationships of individuals to the world around them but also their relationships to other individuals and to themselves: [Absolute power] forces its victims together to an aggregate, a mass; it stirs up differences and erects a social structure marked by extreme contrasts. It uses various procedures for total control—not for the development of individual self-discipline, but as instrument of quotidian harassment, of daily cruelty. Terror dissolves the link between transgressive and punitive sanction. It requires neither occasions nor reasons, and has no interest in obligating itself by threat. (Sofsky 1997: 17)

The main points of his analysis are summarized below: (1) Camp time was not “evolving” time; it was not “goal oriented” but shaped by “cyclical recurrence with endless duration and suddenness or abruptness” (Sofsky 1997: 73–4). (2) The camps were organized in such a way as to destroy the prisoners’ individuality and dignity; undernourished, they were exploited in deadly work processes. The teleology of work, the “productive meaning of work,” was extinguished (Sofsky 1997: 167–72).

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Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps (3) Social life in the camps was subjugated to the absolute control exercised by a precisely defined hierarchy of guards, employees, and functionaries (Sofsky 1997: 97–129). (4) In order to intimidate the prisoners and to create fear and panic, the Nazis invented a system of arbitrary punishments and acts of violence against the inmates, which were imposed indiscriminately (Sofsky 1997: 214–22).

The barbarous social situation is reflected in the depraved forms  of language used in the camps. Some of the questions that arise in connection with the language of the camps include: What do we know about communication in the camps? What can testimonial texts tell us about this topic? What exactly do we know about the so-called dolmetscher (“interpreters”1) and their role in communication processes? Before arriving at the main subject of this chapter—the “interpreters”—I shall present a brief overview of the linguistic situation in the camps.2

Under the order of terror: The linguistic situation in Nazi concentration camps Camp society was an extremely polyglot society, with prisoners in a single camp speaking up to forty different languages. The official language, or in sociolinguistic terms, the high variety, was German. It was used as the administrative language, as the language of the camp staff, and as the communicative link between the prisoners, regardless of their nationality. Like any historical language, the German language employed in the concentration camps was not homogeneous but displayed inner variation according to the respective social group to which individuals within the camp society belonged and to the situation of a given communicative exchange. Besides German, the national languages spoken by the inmates were restricted to the status of low varieties and as such they had no “public” function. Officially forbidden, they were spoken secretly and characteristically marked by numerous argotic expressions which made reference to the “new realities” of the camp.3 The term “interpreter” will appear in inverted commas throughout this chapter in order to indicate its divergent connotations in the context of the concentration camps, in contrast to its general linguistic use. 2 For a detailed treatment of this topic, see Aschenberg (2002); for the background of this chapter in a wider sense, see furthermore Aschenberg (2007, 2013), R. Aschenberg (2003), Parrau (1995). 3 Wolf Oschlies proposes a comprehensive sociolinguistic model of the language varieties used in the camps, which he considers an amplified diglossia model (1985: 4). 1

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Apart from administrative papers, such as letters and reports documenting the written “official language” of the camps, we do not possess any sources that would allow for a reliable linguistic reconstruction of authentic communication. Our sources are for the most part memoirs which, often hardly attributable to conventional literary genres and text types, bear witness to the life in the camps in completely varied forms (see Taterka 1999: 185). In these texts, we find metalinguistic descriptions and comments about language use or mimetic dialog, that is, written imitations of oral speech. These texts will also provide the basis for our analysis of the work of “interpreters” in the camps.

German as administrative and technical language In its function as an administrative and technical language, the German that was used revealed the typical features of an argot: grammar was maintained, but there were changes in the vocabulary which resulted primarily from two procedures of lexical innovation: The creation of new words denominating specific technical equipment and the procedures of the death machinery operative in the camps, such as Sonderbehandlung (special treatment), Gaskammer (gas chamber), Sonderkommando (special commando), Endlösung der Judenfrage (Final Solution to the Jewish Question). l Semantic changes to existing words which were imbued with new meanings: for instance, Effektenkammer (storeroom in which the inmates’ private clothes and personal effects were stored) or verbs, such as abdirigieren (to direct someone away), abziehen (to draw someone off), abtransportieren (to remove)—synonyms for “to kill.” l

These words circulated as technical terms; they were created in order to denominate the new procedures and the equipment of the death machinery. The technical language of the camps is a highly cryptic linguistic register. It was used in official documents, in communication among the members of the staff, and was comprehensible only to society in the camps and to those in Hitler’s government who were privy to the operations in the camps.

Communication with the prisoners A different register of the German language was practiced by the camp staff in their communication with the prisoners. Its main function consisted in subjecting the inmates to regulation and control and in destroying human

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dignity. Linguistic discrimination in the camps was, in terms of J. Baugh, overt discrimination: the staff as well as the prisoners were completely aware of its forms and effects (Baugh 1996: 709). Linguistic discrimination manifested itself immediately in the forms of address. The camp staff did not, of course, employ the polite forms of address that would have been conventional in civilized social life but called the inmates by the number tattooed on their bodies and by using obscene or demeaning expressions intended to deny the person being addressed any recognition as a member of the human species. In some cases, the linguistic contact between staff and inmates was even regulated by absurd rhetorical “standardizations” which were established in order to threaten the prisoners’ personal identity. Thus, it was usual, as Levi recounts, that the inmates during the roll call were called “pieces” by the SS officers; in some camps, the staff called the prisoners “dogs”; the prisoners, in turn, had to address the “dogs” as “ ‘Mr. Dog.” Here are some examples of linguistic discrimination against the inmates: La grosse Oberaufseherin, digne dans sa cape sombre, crie: “Dämliches Stück Scheise” [sic]. (Albert Rohmer, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 300)4 Con la assurda precisione a cui avremmo piú tardi dovuto abituarci, i tedeschi fecero l’appello. Alla fine,—Wieviel Stück?—domandò il maresciallo; e il caporale salutò di scatto, e ripose che i “pezzi” erano seicentocinquanta, […]. (Levi 1958/2011: 14)5 D’ où la scène habituelle: l’ Allemand SS, s’adressant à son chien et lui indiquant un prisonnier: Homme! Déchire ce chien! (“Mensch, zerreisse diesen Hund!”) Par ailleurs, un prisonnier était obligé de s’adresser au chien en le vouvoyant: Monsieur le Chien (“Herr Hund”). On rencontre cette coutume avec les mêmes locutions dans un grand nombre d’ endroits. (Borwicz 1973/1996: 199)6

The fat Oberaufseherin, looking formidable in her dark cape, shouts: “Dämliches Stück Scheise” [sic]. Here and throughout, all translations are by Florian Kubsch unless otherwise attributed. 5 With the absurd precision to which we later had to accustom ourselves, the Germans held the roll call. At the end, the officer asked, “Wieviel Stück?” The corporal saluted smartly and replied that there were six hundred and fifty “pieces” and that all was in order (Levi 1987: 22). 6 And then the usual scene: The German SS officer addresses his dog and points at an inmate: Man! Tear apart this dog! (“Mensch, zerreisse diesen Hund!”). Also, a prisoner was obliged to address the dog formally saying Mister Dog (“Herr Hund”). This custom can be observed in a series of places, always using the same expressions. 4

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The most frequent acts of speech directed at the inmates were orders, threats, and vituperations. On a lexical level, they reveal numerous terms of abuse and, as mentioned above, scatological expressions; on a syntactical level, we find a condensed and fragmentary sentence structure. This way of speaking is often described or imitated in written memoirs; the lexemes used to denominate this manner of speaking are verbs such as to shout, to cry, to yell, to roar, etc.: “Arbeit! Los!” crie le kapo; Los! Une syllabe avec un élan de langue repliée. De Los! en los! Les premiers datent de Paris, depuis de Fresnes. (Antelme 1957: 46–7)7 Les kapos des deux mines crient “Einhacken” [sic], les cinq de même rang se donnent le bras pour ne pas se perdre et: Links, zwo, drei, vier, links, au pas cadencé le “kommando Schacht Marie vierhunderteinundzwonzig Hâftlinge” [sic] défile devant le maître. (Albert Rohmer, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 299)8

The linguistic situation of the prisoners The prevailing polyglossic situation and the ensuing confusion of languages generated an impression of uncertainty, threat, and chaos in the inmate, especially at the moment of arrival in the camps, which has often been described with metaphorical reference to Babel. Primo Levi provides us with an intense graphical evocation of the inmates’ perception of the linguistic situation during what he terms the “initiation” procedure. In Se questo è un uomo, he writes: Ma da sopra, da sotto, da vicino, da lontano, da tutti gli angoli della baracca ormai buia, voci assonnate e iraconde mi gridano:—Ruhe, Ruhe! Capisco che mi si impone il silenzio, ma questa parola è per me nuova, e poiché non ne conosco il senso e le implicazioni, la mia inquietudine cresce. La confusione delle lingue è una componente fondamentale del modo di vivere di quaggiú; si è circondati da una perpetua Babele, in cui “Arbeit! Los!” the kapo shouts. […] “Los!”—a syllable expelled with a snap of the tongue. It was Los! after Los! The first ones date back to Paris; then after that Fresnes (Antelme 1992: 41). 8 The kapos of the two mines shout, “Einhacken”[sic], five of the same rank link arms so they won’t lose each other, and: Links, zwo, drei, vier, links, in lockstep, the “kommando Schacht Marie vierhunderteinundzwonzig Hâftlinge” [sic] parading in front of the master. 7

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The non-German-speaking prisoners were confronted with an extreme linguistic situation. Speaking German was not only the first criterion within Nazi linguistic ideology by which to distinguish members of the “genuine human species” from barbarous human beings; it was also a sine qua non for survival. Under the conditions of life in the camps, linguistic isolation could be lethal, as Levi describes in the following excerpt: L’isolamento linguistico, in quelle condizioni, era mortale. Sono morti quasi tutti gli italiani per questo. Perché fin dai primi giorni non capivano gli ordini, e questo non era ammesso, non era tollerato. Non capivano gli ordini e non potevano dirlo, non potevano farsi capire. Sentivano un urlo, perché i tedeschi, i tedeschi militari, urlano sempre […]. (Levi, quoted in Camon 1991: 30–1)10

Many prisoners died because they did not know German and were not able to react adequately to orders, threats, etc. (Levi 1986/2007: 70). In all the camps, without exception, the inmates had to use the barbarous language of the perpetrators, that is, the technical argotic terms which were used in reference to the conditions of life in the concentration camp as well as the depraved forms of communication practiced in everyday life. The acquisition of the German language under the order of terror was, of course, highly fragmentary and deficient. With regard to communication among the prisoners, we can distinguish two forms of argot that originated in the multilingual communication situations in the camps: a national argot used for communication within each

But from above and below, from nearby and from far away, from all corners of the nowdark hut, sleepy and angry voices shout at me: “Ruhe! Ruhe!” I understand that they are ordering me to be quiet, but the word is new to me, and since I do not know its meaning and implications, my inquietude increases. The confusion of languages is a fundamental component of the manner of living here: one is surrounded by a perpetual Babel, in which everyone shouts orders and threats in languages never heard before, and woe betide whoever fails to grasp the meaning. No one has time here, no one has patience, no one listens to you […] (Levi 1987: 44). 10 Under those conditions, the language barrier was fatal. Almost all the Italians died from it. Because from the very first days they didn’t understand the orders, and this wasn’t allowed, wasn’t tolerated. They didn’t understand the orders and couldn’t say so, they couldn’t make themselves understood. They heard a shout, because Germans, German soldiers, always shout […] (Levi, quoted in Camon 1989: 23). 9

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national group and an international lingua franca. In the French argot of the camps, we find expression, such as: raouster: verbal derivation of German “raus” which means “to throw so. out brutally”; repas froid: denotes a corpse on a bier; mouche à merde: translation of Germ. “Mistbiene.” designates a devitalized, dirty inmate.

The international lingua franca was rooted in German and used between prisoners of different nationalities. It manifests a rudimentary syntax and lexical elements borrowed from different languages, for example: avanti (italian); organisieren (translation of French organiser, signifies “to steel”); nix compris (French; nix is used as a contextually independent negation particle); nix camela, nix travacho (the Spanish elements are gamella and trabajo; the expression means: “no food, no work”) (see Cressot 1946, Esnault 1946, Max 1946, Aschenberg 2002: 547–55).

It is evident that the prevailing multilingual situation required the work of interpreters to enable elementary communication and with it the functioning of the inner organization of the camps. The unique existential and linguistic circumstances meant that interpreters had to adapt expressions in the target languages to a certain extent, depending on the respective situation, to the special forms of communication and terminology, or argot, that prevailed in the camps. As the interpreters themselves occupied a position in the social hierarchy of the camp, they were not free in the fulfillment of their function but strictly controlled by members of staff.

“Interpreters” in concentration camps: Testimonial statements What do we know about “interpreters” in concentration camps? What was their role as language mediators between the staff and the so-called camp aristocracy on the one hand and the inmates on the other? What was their actual job description in the strictly regulated hierarchy of functions? How can we describe their work and behavior against the background of the general linguistic situation in the camps? We find answers to some of these

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questions in statements about social status and the “interpreters’ ” work in various studies and testimonial texts. In the multilingual camp situation, the act of translating and interpreting was part and parcel of daily communication in all areas of life and at all times. It is therefore hardly surprising that the term dolmetscher had a special argotic meaning in Mauthausen, denoting a baton: “in questo Lager, ancora piú mistilingue di Auschwitz, il nerbo di gomma si chiamava ‘der Dolmetscher’, l’interprete: quello che si faceva capire da tutti” (Levi 1986/2007: 71).11 As mentioned above, it was a necessary condition of survival for the inmates to have at least rudimentary knowledge of the German language in its camp-specific usage. Levi relates that the French were “natural interpreters” (“interpreti naturali”) for the Italians at Auschwitz who tended not to know any German (Levi 1986/2007: 75). According to Levi, the French interpreted those orders for the Italians that were relevant to understanding the momentary circumstances and routines, such as “Get up!,” “Get your piece of bread,” or “Who has torn shoes?” (Levi 1986/2007: 75). Levi tells us, however, that this was not enough. In exchange for bread rations, he learned German from an Alsatian in a “private crash course” and this opened his eyes to the fact that the German spoken in the camp was interspersed with “obscenities and imprecations,” with hardly any resemblance to the German language he had encountered in chemistry textbooks and Heine’s poetry (see Levi 1986/2007: 76). Apart from the inmates who provided ad hoc translations, there were also “interpreters” in every camp who had been officially commissioned by the camp commanders. In order to provide for communication between the camp staff and the inmates, these “interpreters” were recruited from inmates more or less skillful in German. The German term dolmetscher was also taken up by non-German inmates. Testimonial texts frequently make use of the German denomination, apparently in order to emphasize the special connotations connected with this term. Being a dolmetscher gave the prisoner a privileged lower-level position in the hierarchy of the camp. As one of the prisoner-functionaries, the “interpreters” benefited from better nutrition, better clothing, and direct contact to the camp staff. Like other prisoner-functionaries, they were very closely controlled and absolutely dependent on their superiors. Sofsky defines this group as follows: “The prisoner-functionary elite stood between guard personal In this Lager, even more polyglot than Auschwitz, the rubber truncheon was called der Dolmetcher [sic] the interpreter: the one who made himself understood by everybody (Levi 1989: 71).

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and inmates: it fought for privileges and sought accessories for support” (Sofsky 1997: 131). Due to their special status, the “interpreters” formed an extremely heterogeneous group with regard to their social standing, their behavior toward fellow inmates, and of course with reference to their shared German language proficiency. There were “interpreters” who were professional academics prior to their deportation and really did have sufficient command of the German language, but there were also those who hardly knew any German but yet managed to attain one of the much-sought-after “interpreter” jobs. Some took advantage of their position to protect fellow prisoners; others adapted to the order of terror by humiliating and tyrannizing other inmates. We find these two positions documented in several memoirs. Georges Straka, professor of Romance Philology at the University of Strasburg and dolmetscher at Buchenwald, describes his contact with other “interpreters” as follows: Nous ne nous rappelions que trop le bienfait des bonnes paroles et des quelques conseils des interprètes, détenus tchèques, quand nous étions montés le 24 janvier jusqu’à eux, après toutes les formalités pleines d’humiliation que je viens de raconter. C’est là aussi que, pour notre plus grand bonheur, nous avons rencontré pour la première fois l’admirable Père Georges […]. Sa poignée de main, ainsi que celle des interprètes tchèques—officiers, professeurs, intellectuels—est la première que nous avons échangées après plusieurs semaines ou mois de traitement inhumains, où nous n’avions eu affaire qu’à des brutes allemandes pour lesquels nous n’ étions que du bétail. (Georges Straka, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 87)12

This positive description of the dolmetscher and their exemplary, protective attitude toward prisoners that Straka describes is not confirmed by many other authors. The reasons for the rather negative characterization of “interpreters” in other written recollections can be explained with reference to the unique social structures of the camps. Many inmates wanted to be “interpreters” in order to enjoy the advantages the job brought with it in everyday life in We remembered only too well the kindness, good words, and advice of the interpreters, Czech inmates, when we were assembled on January 24 after all the humiliating formalities that I have just recounted. It is there, too, to our great fortune, that we first met the admirable Père Georges […]. His handshake, just like the Czech interpreters— officers, professors, intellectuals—is the first one we exchanged after several weeks or months of inhuman treatment where we only had coarse Germans to deal with, to whom we were nothing but cattle.

12

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the camps. The problem, though, was that a considerable number of official “interpreters” had no mastery of the German language at all: Curieux interprète que Michelet: il ne savait pas l’allemand. Mais s’il était là, c’est que la direction occulte du camp l’y avait placé. Il y représentait la France. Magnifiquement. (Jean Lassus, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 140)13

The function of the dolmetscher was even purchasable: Comme partout ailleurs, l’arbitraire était la règle au chantier. Malheur à qui déplaisait au kapo ou au “vorarbeiter.” On pouvait acheter des postes d’interprètes avec la grande monnaie d’échange: le tabac. Dans le jargon du camp, cela s’appelait “pratiquer la camaraderie.” (Paul Hagenmuller, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 97)14

Under the order of terror, the tasks assigned to the dolmetscher reveal several particularities which distinguished their work entirely from that of interpreters in the “civilized” world. While the interpreter in the civilized world might have gone through rigorous training, which systematically taught him the techniques of interpreting both simultaneously and consecutively, the concentration camp “interpreter” was by no means prepared and had to fulfill his or her function under extreme existential conditions. Like the other prisoners, the “interpreter” was an “insider” in camp life and just like the others, he or she had to be familiar with the particular jargon in use at the camp and be able to react to the specific circumstances. The dolmetscher did not have to translate the original wording of a given speech, but first and foremost its pragmatic meaning according to the situation. He had to react rapidly, as he was primarily called when there were conflicts between the staff and the prisoners. In the examples or descriptions of interpreting in concentration camps we have, it is apparent that the dolmetscher’s manner of speaking was frequently as fragmentary and damaged as that of their superiors. In extreme cases, Michelet was a curious interpreter: he didn’t know German. But if he was there, it meant that the supernatural commanders of the camp had put him there. He represented France. Magnificently. 14 Like anywhere else, arbitrariness was the rule at the site. Woe to those whom the kapo or the “vorarbeiter” disliked. One could buy the position of an interpreter with the most popular means of exchange: tobacco. In camp jargon, this was called “practicing camaraderie.” 13

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under the constraints of a given situation, the “interpreter” might not even have translated the other people’s actual utterances but reacted immediately to the situation by anticipating what the staff might order and by imitating the superiors’ way of speaking. The following passage from a study on the women’s concentration camp at Ravensbrück describes a group of women shortly after their arrival at the camp and the behavior of an interpreter: C’est le plus effroyable cas de compression humaine que j’aie jamais vu. Sur le seuil, la policière demande une interprète, puis avec un fort accent slave, elle tient à peu près ce discours: “Vous êtes ici dans un camp de concentration. On se lève à trois heures et demie, on travaille douze heures, on se couche à sept heures du soir […].” Nous n’avons pas le temps de réaliser: coup de sirène, toutes les lumières s’ éteignent, cris, remous. La policière hurle: Ruhe! La sentinelle, dehors, cogne dans les carreaux et hurle: “Fenster zu!” L’interprète clame des ordres dans la tempête: il y a alerte, on doit observer un silence complet, et comme les femmes ne se taisent pas, il faut fermer les fenêtres sans quoi on tirera dedans. Par quels miracles, à la suite de quels pugilats, les fenêtres hautes, difficiles à atteindre, sont-elles enfin fermées? Le silence finit par s’ établir, épais, terrifiant. (Elisabeth Will, Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 1947: 350–1)15

In the chaotic situation of arrival at the camp, the interpreter is presented as someone who behaves like the other members of staff, shouting threats and orders. In the eyes of the inmates, this interpreter belongs to the staff, who terrorize and oppress them. This is one of the possible attitudes adopted by “interpreters” in the extremely constrained situation in the camps. Robert 15

This is the most frightening case of human degradation I have ever seen. On the doorstep, the policewoman calls for an interpreter, then with a strong Slavic accent, she makes more or less the following speech: “You are in a concentration camp here. You will get up at three-thirty, work for twelve hours, go to bed at seven at night” […]. We have no time to realize it: sirens howling, all the lights go out, screaming, stirring. The policewoman yells, Ruhe! The sentinel, outside, bangs on the window-pane and yells: Fenster zu! The interpreter shouts the orders in the storm: If there’s an alarm, you have to be completely silent, and since the women don’t keep quiet, the windows have to be shut, or else you will be shot from outside. By what miracle, after what kind of brawl, are the high windows, hard to reach, finally closed? Eventually, silence fell, thick, terrifying.

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Antelme describes an alternative attitude through the contrasting behavior of two dolmetscher in Gandersheim.

Lucien and Gilbert: Portraits of two “interpreters” Robert Antelme wrote L’espèce humaine, a testimony about daily life in the Gandersheim16 camp, a few months after his liberation. It was first published in 1957. This text is particularly relevant to the current study both with regard to its content and to its literary and linguistic qualities. It contains numerous passages in which the author attempts to imitate the damaged language used in the concentration camps. The dialogues between the characters portrayed in the text are partly multilingual (see Aschenberg 2006) and, with regard to the German language, very rudimentary. Although we do not, of course, have access to authentic linguistic material, the reader still gains an impression of how people communicated in the camps. Beyond that, the author provides portraits of various characters including two dolmetscher: Lucien and Gilbert. As Lucien is present throughout the text, the reader can follow his development from the beginning to the end. Lucien is a Pole who speaks German, French, and Russian in addition to his native tongue. When Lucien first appears, the author immediately highlights the privileged situation of the dolmetscher in the camp and the type of texts that Lucien has to translate: Il est dolmetcher [sic] (interprète). Il traduit les ordres des SS et des kapos; il ne travaille pas et touche la double gamelle. Bientôt il sera Vorarbeiter, c’ est-à-dire qu’il sera chargé, comme il le dit lui-même, de pousser le travail. (Antelme 1957: 52)17

Lucien succeeds in climbing the social ladder at the camp: Lucien est l’un des personnages importants du camp. Nous l’avons vu débuter, il était interprète; devenu vorarbeiter, avec zèle il poussait le travail. Ainsi, il est passé du côté des kapos et s’ est fait remarquer par les SS. Le jeu de Lucien consistait à crier lorsque le SS approchait, puis Gandersheim was a satellite camp associated with Buchenwald. He’s a Dolmetcher [sic]—an interpreter—he translates the SS’ and the kapos’s orders. He doesn’t work and he gets a double ration. Soon he’ll be a Vorarbeiter; that means, as he himself says, that it will be his job to push the work (Antelme 1992: 46–7).

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à bousculer les copains lorsque le SS était tout près, à sourire lorsque le SS lui-même frappait. Ainsi Lucien s’ est fait une réputation de bon fonctionnaire. (Antelme 1957: 162)18

The author shows Lucien at work as an interpreter in a scene where a prisoner is being punished: - Los! crie le SS immobile. - Grouille-toi, nom de Dieu! reprend Lucien. […] - Zaehlen! crie le SS. - Compte! gueule Lucien. (Antelme 1957: 190)19

Fritz s’adressa encore aux copains: - Celui qui dénonce ses camarades est un salaud et mérite la mort. Et il désignait Charlot, qui prit un autre coup de poing. Lucien traduisit et ajouta: - Vous entendez ce que dit un kapo allemand? Quelques types applaudirent et crièrent: - Bravo, Fritz! (Antelme 1957: 206)20 These citations suffice to show the type of dolmetscher Lucien represents. He is a dolmetscher-collaborator, who reflects his boss’s impatience, who behaves like him by reproducing his utterances not only according to their pragmatic meaning, but also phonetically, even adding comments of his own. Willingly behaving as if he belonged to the staff, or rather to the “aristocracy” of the camp, he confirms and upholds the order of terror imposed on the group of prisoners to which he had originally belonged. There were also other dolmetscher, though, who follow a different behavioral pattern, such as Gilbert, who manifests solidarity with the inmates and protects them. Gilbert’s character is not as clearly drawn and does not Lucien is a considerable personage in the camp. […] We saw him start out as an interpreter. When he became Vorarbeiter, he “moved the work forward” with zeal, thereby going over to the kapos’s side and attracting the notice of the SS. Lucien’s game consisted of shouting when an SS man approached, then of shoving the guys around when he was nearby; of smiling whenever the SS man was shouting himself or dealing out blows. Thus Lucien acquired the reputation of a serious, capable functionary (Antelme 1992: 156). 19 “Los!” shouts the motionless SS man. “Move it, for Christ’s sake!” says Lucien. […]“Zähle!” the SS man cries. “Count!” yells Lucien (Antelme 1992: 182–3). 20 Fritz addressed the guys again. “Anybody who denounces his friends is a bastard, and deserves to die.” And he pointed to Charlot, who received a further punch in the face. Lucien translated, then added, “Do you hear what a German kapo’s telling you?” A few guys applauded and cried, “Bravo Fritz!” (Antelme 1992: 199). 18

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feature as prominently as Lucien, but the following episode conveys a rather precise impression of his character and behavior: Dolmetcher? Was Dolmetcher? s’indigne le meister. Là-dessus, si le copain a de la chance, Gilbert arrive. Immédiatement, il parle en allemand au meister. Il le cloue. Avec son propre langage il l’attire à lui. Il fallait d’abord dégager le copain, c’est fait. Le copain n’est plus dans le coup. […]. Ainsi, Gilbert intervient d’un atelier à l’autre, et la langue allemande maniée lui sert de bouclier aux copains. (Antelme 1957: 63)21

Gilbert is presented as an “interpreter” with a real mastery of the German language to the extent that he is able to convince the meister and thus save his comrade from a dangerous and threatening situation. We do not know if the two dolmetscher described in L’espèce humaine correspond to real people whom Antelme met at the Gandersheim camp or if they only represent types of people and their behavior. Other testimonial texts about the camps certainly offer analogous statements about dolmetscher. How, though, are we to regard the work of “interpreters” or dolmetscher in the camps from a contemporary perspective? Did they challenge the order of terror in Nazi concentration camps? Or did they rather confirm and support it? In any case, the “interpreters’ ” actions were far from unambiguous. Collaboration with the perpetrators or solidarity with fellow prisoners denotes only the extreme points along a scale of possible behavioral patterns. According to Sofsky, both modes of behavior were practiced by prisoner-functionaries: on the one hand, Sofky mentions servility, unconditional obedience toward the governing body, and violence against fellow prisoners, all of which can be seen as modes of behavior that bring with them the promise of benefits and better prospects of survival. On the other hand, we find empathy and solidarity, which were very dangerous attitudes, associated with the risk of severe punishment or death (see Sofsky 1997: 140–1). Challenging or confirming the order of terror was not only a question of personal courage but was also dependent on the degree of danger that was present in a given situation.22 “Dolmetscher?” the Meister demands indignantly. “Was Dolmetscher?” Just then, if the guy is lucky, Gilbert arrives. He immediately starts talking to the Meister in German. He hooks him. He reels him with his own language. The first thing was to disengage the guy. That’s done. [T]he guy’s out of the picture. […]. In such a manner did Gilbert intervene in this shop and in that, and the German language, as handled by him, served the guys as a shield (Antelme 1992: 58). 22 I would like to thank Julia Hahn and Florian Kubsch for their help with the English version of this chapter. 21

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References Antelme, Robert (1957), L‘espèce humaine, rev. edn, Paris: Gallimard. Antelme, Robert (1992), The Human Race, trans. Jeffrey Haight and Annie Mahler, Marlboro: The Marlboro Press. Aschenberg, Heidi (2002), “Sprachterror. Kommunikation im nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager” [Language Terror: Communication in the National Socialist Concentration Camps], Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 118(4): 529–72. Aschenberg, Heidi (2006), “Polyglossie im Konzentrationslager. Literarische Reflexe in Texten zur Shoah” [Polyglossia in the Concentration Camp. Literary Reflexes in Texts on the Shoah], in Silke Segler-Mesner, Monika Neuhofer and Peter Kuon (eds), Vom Zeugnis zur Fiktion. Repräsentation und Lagerwirklichkeit in der französischen Literatur nach 1945 [From Testimony to Fiction. Representation and the Reality of the Camps in French Literature after 1945], 205–18, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Aschenberg, Heidi (2007), “La traduction comme transfert culturel? A propos des textes sur la Shoah” [Translation as Cultural Transfer? On the Subject of Texts About the Shoah], in Christine Lombez and Rotraud von Kulessa (eds), De la traduction et des transferts culturels [On Translation and Cultural Transfer], 25–35, Paris: L’Harmattan. Aschenberg, Heidi (2013), “ ‘No se han inventado palabras para describirlo’ … Texte zur Shoah und ihre Übersetzung” [“No se han inventado palabras para describirlo” … Texts on the Shoah and Their Translation], in Claudia Dathe, Renata Makarska and Schamma Schahadat (eds), Zwischentexte. Literarisches Übersetzen in Theorie und Praxis [Between Texts. Literary Translation in Theory and Practice], 197–214, Berlin: Frank & Timme. Aschenberg, Reinhold (2003), Ent-Subjektivierung des Menschen. Lager und Shoah in philosophischer Reflexion [De-subjectication of the Human Being. Philosophical Reflections on the Camps and the Shoah], Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann. Baugh, John (1996), “Linguistic Discrimination,” in Hans Goebl, Peter H. Nelle and Starý Zedeneěk (eds), Kontaktlinguistik/Contact Linguistics/Linguistique de contact, 709–14, Berlin: de Gruyter. Borwicz, Michel (1973/1996), Écrits des condamnés à mort sous l’occupation nazie (1939–1945) [Writings of Those Sentenced to Death Under Nazi Occupation (1939–1945)], Paris: Gallimard. Camon, Ferdinando (1989), Conversations with Primo Levi, trans. John Shepley, Marlboro: The Marlboro Press. Camon, Ferdinando (1991), Conversazione con Primo Levi, Milano: Garzanti. Cressot, Marcel (1946), “Le parler des déportés français à Neuengamme” [The Words of French Deportees in Neuengamme], Le Français Moderne, 14: 11–17. Esnault, Gaston (1946), “L’ argot des déportés en Allemagne. En marge de Neuengamme” [The Argot of Deportees in Germany. With Reference to Neuengamme], Le Français Moderne, 14: 165–67.

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Faculté des Lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg, ed. (1947), De l’Université aux Camps de Concentration [From Universities to the Concentration Camps], Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Levi, Primo (1958/2011), Se questo è un uomo, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1986/2007), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1987), If This Is a Man and the Truce, trans. Stuart Woolf, London: Abacus. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, London: Abacus. Max, F.-L. (1946), “Argots et sabirs des camps des déportés” [Argots and Sabirs in the Deportation Camps], Le Français Moderne, 14: 168–73. Oschlies, Wolf (1985), “ ‘Lagerszpracha’. Zur Theorie und Empirie einer KZspezifischen Soziolinguistik” [“Lagerszpracha.” On the Theory and Empirical Evidence of Sociolinguistics in Relation to the Concentration Camps], Zeitgeschichte, 13(1): 1–27. Parrau, Alain (1995), Ecrire les camps [Writing the Camps], Paris: Belin. Sofsky, Wolfgang (1997), The Order of Terror: The Concentration Camp, trans. William Templer, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Taterka, Thomas (1999), Dante Deutsch: Studien zur Lagerliteratur [Dante German: Studies on Concentration Camp Literature], Berlin: Erich Schmidt.

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Lagersprache through the Lens of Primo Levi’s Essay on Translation: “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” Zaia Alexander

Throughout his testimonies, Levi portrays translation as a matter of life and death, and he demonstrated that in order to survive the death camps in mind and body, he needed both to communicate with his multilingual fellow prisoners, and to decipher lethal Nazi euphemisms. The instinctive impulse to learn “sectorial languages” served the dual function of survival and resistance and the compulsion to decode remained with Levi for life. Whether glossing the “jargon” of prisoners and Kapos at Auschwitz, the universal language of scientists, the slang of factory workers in Torino, the Yiddish of Piedmontese Jews, or the sociolects of a variety of professions, Levi demonstrates that gaining access to foreign worlds depends on one’s ability to translate their specialized vocabulary. From his first memoir, published in 1947, to his final work, published in 1987, Primo Levi described daily life in Auschwitz as a battle of languages and, already in Survival in Auschwitz, he speculated that had the war and the Lager lasted longer, a “new harsh language would be born.” Four decades later, Levi described in detail the new idiom, or language indigenous to the concentration camps, calling it Lagerjargon. On nearly every page of his memoirs, he inserted a wide variety of translation strategies—literal, adaptive, foreignizing, domesticating—to decode that camp language for us, with the ultimate goal of preserving the sound and authenticity of the original expressions, drawn and distorted from many source languages, as they were used and developed in Auschwitz. It is almost as if we have a “glossary” of the language set out in his texts. Through a close reading of the essay “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” (Levi 1985) one can see, beyond a summation of Levi’s theoretical reflections on translation, that these reflections are clearly marked—without specifically referring to Auschwitz—by his experiences decoding Lagerszpracha in the camps.

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After finishing his anguished, indeed depression-inducing translation of Franz Kafka’s Der Prozeß (The Trial) for Einaudi in the early 1980s, Levi wrote a summation of his views on translation in 1985 and included it in L’ altrui mestiere.1 His witty, sardonic, and at times brutal essay contains few original insights into the craft of translation, but it does offer a concise description of several major points of concern expressed by translators and theorists of translation throughout the centuries. What makes this essay particularly interesting, however, is the compelling argument it contains for viewing Levi’s testimonial writing (and perhaps testimony in general) through the lens of translation and particularly through the lens of his experiences in Auschwitz (see also Alexander 2002). Levi begins his essay with a discussion of the “Babelian” curse, relating it to Man’s original sin and expulsion from paradise, and he concludes that “from earliest times linguistic difference had been considered a malediction” (Levi 2003: 13). Here, Levi follows a long tradition of writing on translation that seeks to understand the origin of difference in language,2 and indeed the original newspaper title for the essay in La Stampa in 1980 had been “Lasciapassare per Babele” (“Passport for Babel”). Of course, the word “Babel” initially had appeared in Levi’s first book, in 1947, where it served as a functional description of Auschwitz: “La confusione delle lingue è una componente fondamentale del modo di vivere di quaggiú: si è circondati da una perpetua Babele […]” (Levi 1958/2005: 33).3 The linguistic challenge of understanding one’s fellow prisoners, where in Buna alone “si parlano quindici o venti linguaggi” (Levi 1958/2005: 65),4 was exacerbated by the difficulty of translating into words traumatic experiences that had no precedent or terminology. Deciphering that world (with its multitude of languages, code of ethics, and rituals) was an essential component of the experience and later testimony, during and after the war. While translation theorists such as Walter Benjamin, José Ortega y

The essay is not included in the original English translation of L’ altrui mestiere, Other People’s Trades (1989b). It appeared for the first time in English in the LA Times Sunday Book Review as “On Translating and Being Translated,” trans. Zaia Alexander, March 30, 2003. See also Levi, in this volume. The essay was re-translated in 2015 and was first published in the Yale Review (Levi 2015). Though the essay itself is a maze to translate and offers a wide variety of interpretations, as do all originals and translations, interestingly few substantive differences in lexicon, style and syntax exist between the earlier translation of 2003 and the recently published version. 2 See, for example, Steiner (1975). 3 “The confusion of languages is a fundamental component of […] living here: one is surrounded by a perpetual Babel” (Levi 1960/1993: 39). 4 “fifteen to twenty languages are spoken” (Levi 1960/1993: 73). 1

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Gassett, and George Steiner5 see in Babel a touchstone for everything that is possible and impossible in man’s linguistic existence, Levi sees in it, beyond confusion of language, remnants of the ancient curse: La torre del Carburo, che sorge in mezzo alla Buna […] siamo noi che l’abbiamo costruita. I suoi mattoni sono stati chiamati Ziegel, briques, tegula, cegli, kamenny, bricks, téglak, e l’ odio li ha cementati; l’ odio e la discordia, come la Torre di Babele, e cosí noi la chiamiamo: Babelturm, Bobelturm; e odiamo in essa il sogno demente di grandezza dei nostri padroni, il loro disprezzo di Dio e degli uomini, di noi uomini. (Levi 1958/2005: 65)6

Levi’s pessimism on this score remains in “On Translating and Being Translated,” where he links the Babelian curse to our own time: “It continues to be a malediction to this day, as anyone knows who has had to live or, worse, work in a country where he did not know the language” (Levi 2003: 13).7 Levi knows firsthand the stakes of living and working as a foreigner and slave, and though much of the essay reflects on the humorous side of cultural and linguistic difference, the opening paragraphs reveal the somber origins of his musings: Furthermore, there are many people who believe, more or less consciously, that a person who speaks another language is an outsider by definition, a foreigner, strange, and hence, a potential enemy, or at least a barbarian that is, etymologically, a stutterer, a person who doesn’t know how to speak, almost a nonperson. In this way, linguistic friction tends to turn into racial and political friction, another of our maledictions. (Levi 2003: 13)

Levi probes the darkest side of the curse—the “friction” engendered by difference in language and race—allowing his readers to surmise where that erosion leads. In his later chapter “Communicating” (“Communicare”) in See samples in Venuti (2000). “The Carbide Tower, which rises in the middle of Buna […], was built by us. Its bricks were called briues, tegula, cegli, kamenny, mattoni, te’glak and they were cemented by hate; hate and discord, like the Tower of Babel, and it is this that we call it: Babelturm, Bobelturm; and in it we hate the insane dream of grandeur of our masters, their contempt for God and men, for us men” (Levi 1960/1993: 73). 7 This observation refers us to the narrative setting of The Wrench (La chiave a stella, 1978), which is, among other things, a narrative of the journeyman worker travelling away from his home country. 5 6

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The Drowned and the Saved (1989a) Levi returns to the idea that difference can lead to the murderous notion that the “other” is a barbarian or beast: Perciò, chi non capiva né parlava il tedesco era per definizione un barbaro; se si ostinava a cercare di esprimersi nella sua lingua, anzi, nella su non-lingua, bisognava farlo tacere a botte e rimetterlo al suo posto, a tirare, portare e spingere, poiché non era un Mensch, un essere umano (Levi 1986/2007: 71).8

Considering Levi’s observation that the purposeful turning of “the other” into a non-human was essential for murder, the ability to communicate with his oppressors “man to man” was a necessary strategy for survival. The Nazi’s deception in the form of euphemisms and outright lies added yet another layer of fragmentation and confusion to the experience, and since dissimulation made killing go more smoothly, decoding their opaque terminology was a matter of survival; tragically and ironically, “sapere il tedesco era la vita” (Levi 1986/2007: 74).9 In contrast to his memoirs of Auschwitz, which embed in the narrative definitions of Lagerjargon, idioms, and euphemisms, along with cues for their successful translation (regardless of the target language), “On Translating and Being Translated” is made up almost entirely of untranslatable, idiomatic expressions only native speakers could appreciate. Raising the stakes even higher, his word-plays, jokes, and idioms illustrate the pitfalls of translation, while simultaneously performing them. Despite some humorous examples of the baffled translator confronted by God’s cursed task, even here the Lager-driven origins of his earliest musings on the craft are not entirely forgotten. Beyond the clear references to Auschwitz of the first three paragraphs (Babel, the foreigner as beast, racial and political friction leading to crimes of hate, translator as slave laborer), the essay is dotted with phrases suited more to a linguistic parsing of the murderous camp experience than to a treatise on translation. Translation is like crossing a difficult, perilous border. It is “capricious,” deceptive, rooted in historical misunderstandings. Even seemingly harmless dictionaries “constitute a dangerous font of illusion,” where the meaning of terms continually “slip in a different direction” (Levi

Thus, whoever did not understand or speak German was a barbarian by definition; if he insisted on expressing himself in his own language, indeed, his non-language, he must be beaten into silence and put back in his place, pulling, carrying, and pushing, because he was not a Mensch, not a human being (Levi 1989a: 71). 9 knowing German meant life (Levi 1989a: 74). 8

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2003: 13). The process is depicted as a series of traumas inflicted not only upon text and author, but upon the unsuspecting translator who must negotiate his/her way through a virtual minefield of “pitfalls,” “traps,” and “snares lying in wait, invisible, but with their jaws wide open” (Levi 2003: 13). Significantly, Levi is both victim and oppressor in this unhappy marriage, playing each role—author and translator—in equal measure. Levi’s pained allusions virtually jump from the page, the layers of trauma encoded in the text. He compares “envie” in French to both Latin and Italian’s “invidia,” which contain “hatred,” “aversion,” stemming from “veder male” or “evil eye,” noting along the way the “discomfort we feel when looking at a person we ‘despise’ ” (Levi 2003: 13). In his next example, he traces the transformation of the word “chair” to “stool”; “Stuhl in German means chair, [but] through a chain of metonymic senses that would be easy to reconstruct, it came to mean ‘excrement’ as well” (Levi 2003: 13). Like Walter Benjamin, Levi argues that literal translation is impossible because all words contain an entire chain of culturally determined metonymic associations (Benjamin 1923/2000). However, where Benjamin chooses a rather commonplace word like the German Brot and French pain to illustrate his point (i.e., Brot/bread meaning something entirely different to a German than pain/bread means to a French person), the words Levi proffers, “hatred” and “excrement,” belong to the vocabulary associated with the extermination camp experience. Of course, bread was a crucial element of Levi’s account of the camps in Survival in Auschwitz— and of the prisoners’ survival there—and he used it also as a token of the multilinguistic confusion there: he uses the example of bread to capture the Babelic multilingualism of the place: “del pane-Brot-Broit-chleb-painlechem-kenyér, del sacro blocchetto grigio che sembra gigantesco in mano del tuo vicino, e piccolo da piangere in mano tua” (Levi 1958/2005: 34).10 Translation, then, is depicted in Levi’s essay as nothing short of “a superhuman task” (Levi 2003: 13), fraught with insurmountable risks and difficulties; and yet, in the end, Levi offers a way out of the treacherous maze, a fighting chance for survival. He writes that “the most potent weapon for a translator is a sensitivity for linguistics,” an ability that seems to have helped Levi to survive Auschwitz. Despite the rhetoric of impossibility, of “speaking the unspeakable,” Levi firmly believed in the power of communication, which he considered not a choice, but a moral obligation. “Whoever practices the trade of translation or acts as an interpreter ought to be honored for striving “bread-Brot-Broid-chleb-pain-lechem-keyne’r, the holy grey slab which seems gigantic in your neighbor’s hand, and in your own hand so small as to make you cry” (Levi 1960/1993: 39).

10

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to limit the damage caused by the curse of Babel” (Levi 2003: 13). His vision of the translator as hero is suggestive (even if there is neither recognition nor compensation to be gained in that singularly altruistic act), and it sheds an important light on his relentless quest to communicate experiences many deemed untranslatable. Drawing a line between the extermination camps and our own world was important to Levi, and though he insisted on its incommensurability, he continually sought ways to bring Auschwitz into meaningful dialogue with us. He could not afford to alienate his readers to the point of incomprehensibility (as, in his view, was the experience of readers of the poetry of fellow survivor Paul Celan),11 yet domesticating the experience, making it too accessible, would distort and trivialize its reality. Levi’s intent was to find a balance that would bring the camps closer to his readers without trivializing or betraying the experience. As many survivors aver, if we can understand what happened, they failed to convey the true horror.

References Alexander, Zaia (2002), “Beyond Babel: Translating the Holocaust at Century’s End,” PhD diss., UCLA, Los Angeles. Benjamin, Walter (1923/2000), “The Task of the Translator,” trans. Harry Zohn, in Lawrence Venuti (ed.), The Translation Studies Reader, 15–23, London: Routledge. Levi, Primo (1958/2005), Se questo è un uomo, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1960/1993), Survival in Auschwitz. The Nazi Assault on Humanity, trans. Stuart Woolf, New York: Collier Books. Levi, Primo (1978/1987), The Wrench, trans. William Weaver, London: Joseph. Levi, Primo (1985), “Tradurre ed essere tradotti” [Translating and Being Translated], in Primo Levi, L’ altrui mestiere, 109–14, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1986/2007), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1989a), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, New York: Vintage International. Levi, Primo (1989b), Other People’s Trades, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, New York: Summit Books. Levi, Primo (1989c), “On Obscure Writing,” in Primo Levi (ed.), Other People’s Trades, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, 169–75, New York: Summit Books. Levi, Primo (2001), The Voice of Memory: Interviews 1961–1987, ed. Marco Melpoliti, trans. Robert Gordon, New York: The New York Press. See “On Obscure Writing” (1989c) and The Voice of Memory (2001: 42).

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Levi, Primo (2003), “On Translating and Being Translated,” trans. Zaia Alexander, Los Angeles Times Sunday Book Review, 30 March: 12–13. Available online: http://articles.latimes.com/2003/mar/30/books/bk-levi30 (accessed August 25, 2015). Levi, Primo (2015), “To Translate and Be Translated,” trans. Anthony Shugaar, Yale Review 103(3): 1–6. Steiner, George (1975), After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation, London: Oxford University Press. Venuti, Lawrence, ed. (2000), The Translation Studies Reader, London: Routledge.

5

On Translating and Being Translated Primo Levi

Genesis tells us that the first men had only one language: This made them so ambitious and skillful that they began to construct a tower that reached the sky. God was offended by their audacity and punished them subtly: not by striking them with lightning but by confusing their tongues, thus making it impossible for them to carry on with their blasphemous work. It is certainly no coincidence that the story directly preceding this one tells of man’s original sin and punishment by expulsion from paradise. We might conclude that from earliest times linguistic difference had been considered a malediction. It continues to be a malediction to this day, as anyone knows who has had to live or, worse, work in a country where he did not know the language. Or who has had to cram a foreign language into his brain as an adult, once that mysterious material upon which memories are engraved becomes more refractory. Furthermore, there are many people who believe, more or less consciously, that a person who speaks another language is an outsider by definition, a foreigner, strange, a stranger and, hence, a potential enemy, or at least a barbarian; that is, etymologically, a stutterer, a person who doesn’t know how to speak, almost a non-person. In this way, linguistic friction tends to turn into racial and political friction, another of our maledictions. It should follow that whoever practices the craft of translation or acts as an interpreter ought to be honored for striving to limit the damage caused by the curse of Babel, but this does not usually happen. Since translation is a difficult job, the outcome is often inferior. This gives birth to a vicious circle: Translators are paid poorly and those who are good at it look for a betterpaying profession. Translating is difficult because the barriers between languages are greater than is commonly believed. Dictionaries, particularly the pocket-sized “Tradurre ed essere tradotti,” published in Primo Levi (1985), L’ altrui mestiere, 110–15, Torino: Einaudi.

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ones used by tourists, may be useful for basic needs, but they constitute a dangerous font of illusion. The same can be said of the computerized, multilingual translators that have been available on the market for some time now. There is almost never any true equivalence between an expression in the source language and its corresponding one in the target language. The respective meanings may overlap in part, but it is rare for them to match, even between languages that are structurally close and historically related. Invidia (envy) in Italian has a more specialized meaning than envie in French, which also signifies desire, or the Latin invidia, which contains hatred, aversion, as can be seen in the Italian adjective inviso (disliked). It is probable that the origin of this family of words goes back to veder male, which either means to give somebody the evil eye or denotes the discomfort we feel when looking at a person we despise, which is expressed by non possiamo vederla (we can’t stand the sight of her). But then, in each language, the meaning of the term slips off in a different direction. There do not appear to be languages with a wider or narrower sphere: The phenomenon is capricious. Fregare (rub, scrub, polish, strike, deceive, swipe, etc.) in Italian covers at least seven meanings; “to get” in English is practically infinite; Stuhl in German and “stool” in English mean chair but, through a chain of metonymic senses, it would be easy to reconstruct how it came to mean excrement as well. Only Italian seems to be concerned with distinguishing between the words “feather” and “down”: French, English, and German don’t care about the difference, and Feder in German signifies four distinct objects—down, a quill, a pen to write with, and any kind of spring. Other traps for translators are the so-called false friends. For remote historical reasons (which would be amusing to investigate case by case) or because of a single misunderstanding, certain terms in one language acquire a totally different meaning, neither kindred nor contiguous with that of the other language. In German stipendium (cf. Italian stipendio, “salary”) means scholarship; statist (cf. Italian statista, “statesman”) is an extra in the theater; kantine (cf. Italian cantina, “wine cellar”) is a canteen; kapelle (cf. Italian capella, “chapel”) is an orchestra; konkurs (cf. Italian concurso “competition”) is bankrupt; konzept (cf. Italian concetto, “concept”) is a rough draft; and konfetti (cf. Italian confetti, “sugar-coated almond”) is confetti. Macarons in French are not macaroni but rather macaroon cookies. “Aperitive,” “sensible,” “delusion,” “ejaculation,” and “compass” do not mean in English what they might seem at first sight to us [Italians]. To an Italian they mean: purgative, sensitive, illusion, exclamation, an instrument for describing circles. “Second mate” is the third in command. “Engineer” is not only an engineer in our sense [as we understand it in Italian] but also one who works with motors

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(“engines”). These “false friends” are said to have cost more than translators dear: After the War, a young aristocrat from our south found herself married to an American train engineer on the basis of a declaration made in good faith but wrongly interpreted. I do not have the fortune of knowing Romanian, a language loved passionately by linguists, but it must be teeming with false friends and represents a true minefield for translators, especially if friptura (cf. Italian frittura, “fried foods”) is roasted meat; suflet (cf. Italian suffle, “soufflé”) is soul; dezmierda (cf. Italian di merda) means to caress; and underwear is indispensabili. Each of the terms listed is a snare for inattentive or inexpert translators, and it is amusing to think that the trap goes in both ways: A German runs the risk of mixing up our statista (statesman) with an extra in the theater (cf. statist in German). Other traps for the translator are idiomatic expressions, which are present in all languages but specific to each one. Some of them are easy to decipher, or they are so bizarre that even an inexperienced translator will notice them. I don’t think anybody would write lightheartedly that it really rains “cats and dogs” in Great Britain. At other times the phrase looks more innocent, and it can get confused with plain discourse. The risk of translating word for word, as in the example of a novel in which the wellknown benefactor is described as having a skeleton in his closet, is possible though not common. A writer who does not want to embarrass his translator should abstain from using idiomatic expressions, but this would be difficult, because each one of us, whether speaking or writing, uses idioms without being aware of it. There is nothing more natural than for an Italian to say siamo a posto (we’re OK), fare fiasco (to fail), farsi vivo (to show up), prendere un granchio (to make a mistake), the above cited example non posso vederlo, and hundreds of other similar expressions, but they make no sense to a foreigner, and not all of them are explained in bilingual dictionaries. Even Quanti anni hai? (literally, “How many years do you have?”) is an idiomatic phrase: an English or German would say the equivalent of Quanto vecchio sei? (“How old are you?”), which to us [Italians] sounds ridiculous, especially if the question is addressed to a child. Other difficulties arise from the use of local terms, common in all languages. Every Italian knows that Juventus is the name of a soccer team, and every reader of Italian newspapers knows what is being alluded to with il Quirinale [residence of the president of the Republic], la Farnesina [foreign ministry], Piazza del Gesu [headquarters of the Christian Democrats], and via delle Botteghe Oscure [headquarters of the Communist Party]. But if the translator has not been immersed in the culture for a long time, he will be

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perplexed and no dictionary can help. He will be helped by a sensitivity to linguistics, which is the most potent weapon for a translator but which is not taught in schools, just as the virtue of writing verse or composing music is not taught. This ability enables him to take on the personality of the author he is translating, to identify with him. It serves him when something in the text doesn’t quite add up, doesn’t work, sounds out of tune, makes no sense, seems superfluous or confused. When this happens, it may be the fault of the author, but more often it is a signal that some of the pitfalls described are present, invisible, but with their jaws wide open. Yet avoiding the snares does not automatically make one a good translator. It is more arduous than that. It has to do with transferring the expressive force of a text from one language to another, and this is a superhuman task. Indeed, certain famous translations (such as the “Odyssey” in Latin and the Bible in German) have signaled a new direction in the history of our civilization. Nevertheless, since a literary work is born from a profound interaction between the creativity of the author and the language in which he expresses himself, there is an inevitable loss in translation, comparable to the loss when one exchanges currency. This reduction in value is variable, large or small, according to the ability of the translator and the nature of the original text. It is usually minimal with technical or scientific texts (though here, in addition to having a command of the two languages, the translator needs to understand what he is translating and must therefore have a third competence as well) and maximal with poetry (what is left of e vegno in parte ove non e che luca, “and I come to a place where nothing has light,” if it is reduced and translated to giungo in un luogo buio, “I arrive in a dark place”?). All these “cons” might be intimidating and discouraging for aspiring translators, but some weight can be added to the “pro” side. Translation is more than a work of civilization and peace; it is uniquely gratifying: The translator is the only one who truly reads a text and reads it in its profundity, in all its layers, weighing and appraising every word and every image and perhaps even discovering its empty and false passages. When he is able to find or even invent the solution to a knot, he feels sicut deus [like god] without having to bear the burden of responsibility that weighs on the author’s back. In this sense, the joys and fatigues of translating are related to the process of creative writing as those of grandparents are to parents. Many ancient and modern writers (Catullus, Foscolo, Baudelaire, Pavese) have translated literary works they felt attracted to, deriving joy for themselves and their readers, and finding a certain release in them, much like a person who takes a day off from his job and devotes himself to doing something different.

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One word about the condition of a writer who finds himself being translated. Being translated is a job neither for weekdays nor holidays; in fact, it is not a job at all. It is a semi-passive state similar to that of the patient under the surgeon’s knife or being on the psychiatrist’s couch, rich in violent and contrasting emotions. The author who sees himself on a translated page in a language that he knows feels at one time or another flattered, betrayed, ennobled, X-rayed, castrated, planed, raped, adorned, or murdered. It is rare for him to remain indifferent toward a person, whether he knows him or not, who has stuck his nose and his fingers in his entrails: He would gladly send him (one after another or all together) his own heart properly wrapped, a check, a laurel wreath, or “godfathers.” Translated into English by Zaia Alexander and published for the first time in the UCLA dissertation Beyond Babel: Translating the Holocaust at Century’s End (2002) by Zaia Alexander. Also published in the Los Angeles Times Sunday Book Review, March 30, 2003, 12–13.

Part Three

Interpreting in the Camps

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“Someone whispered the translation in 100 languages, like a Babel …”: Interpreting in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp Michaela Wolf

Introduction Primo Levi has taught us that knowledge of German was vital for surviving the concentration camp. My claim is that interpreting was equally vital for the inmates to stay alive in the network of terror—but that the interpreting activity played a tremendously ambiguous role. Against the background of more general considerations of communication in concentration camps, this chapter focuses on the camp of Mauthausen. The central questions underlying my research are: What was the role of interpreting in day-today life in concentration camps? How did knowledge of languages and, accordingly, certain communication skills contribute or not to the survival of camp inmates? And how can the study of communication mechanisms in concentration camps enhance our understanding of the ambiguous role of translation and interpreting in more general terms?

Translating in the “grey zone” As the societies of the camps became more and more international—in many camps, especially larger ones such as Mauthausen, there were prisoners of up to forty different nationalities—more differentiated mechanisms of communication were required, and could only partially be managed by creating a camp lingua franca, often called lagerszpracha, lagerjargon, or, with bitter irony, crematorium Esperanto. In most concentration camps, German was not merely the official language but the only code that the Nazis recognized as language at all, which meant that without having very basic skills in German, one’s life was even

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more in danger. Yet command of the German language was ambivalent. On the one hand, as the “language of the murderers and torturers,” it was not one a prisoner would learn voluntarily. On the other, for obvious reasons, many prisoners did tend to learn German, at least selectively and limited to the existential necessities—they quickly understood that some basic knowledge of German could increase their own and their fellow inmates’ chances of survival. This is recalled by many concentration camp survivors in their memoirs. A case in point is the following passage, from Pio Passarin’s Da Verona a Mauthausen via Fossoli e ritorno (1995), which shows that those who could speak or understand German held an advantage in the battle to survive: Per mia fortuna, riuscendo ad esprimermi un poco nella lingua tedesca, mi fu dato l’incarico di porta ordini, senza peraltro essere del tutto esonerato dal lavoro. Mi chiamavano con ironia il Dolmetscher (l’interprete), ed io credo che questo incarico sia stato la causa principale della mia sopravvivenza nella deportazione a Mauthausen. (Passarin 1995: 20)1

Conceptually positioning the interpreting activity within the concentration camp society is not an easy task, if only because of the interpreter’s ambiguous role. The notion of the “zona grigia” (grey zone) set out by Primo Levi might be one way of locating the interpreter within the camp’s topography of malevolent uncertainty. Levi wrote that the concentrationary system provoked a “moral collapse” which blurred the dividing line between “victims” and “perpetrators.” The struggle for survival brought about the people of the “grey zone,” those “prigionieri che in qualche misura, magari a fin di bene, hanno collaborato con l’autorità […]” (Levi 1986/2007: 11).2 According to Levi, the grey zone was the outcome of guilt, terror, torture, weakness, and the desire for power, and in it collaboration between inmates and Nazis became almost the only way to survive.3 Such a zone is exemplified by the case of interpreters in the camp system. Interpreting by prisoners, as a process of mediating both among Luckily, I had a basic knowledge of German, and because of that was assigned the task of a messenger, without however being totally freed from work. They called me, with irony, the Dolmetscher (interpreter), and I believe that this task was the principal cause of my survival of Mauthausen. Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed. 2 “Prisoners who in some measure, perhaps with good intentions, collaborated with the authority” (Levi 1989: 9). 3 For further remarks on the “grey zone” in the context of translation, see Wolf (2013: 4). 1

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prisoners and between the SS and the inmates, was a crucial or even existential task, as was indicated by Passarin’s words. At the same time, the ferocious circumstances under which it took place gave it the ambivalence and potential violence that typify Levi’s grey zone. How does this climate of ferocity and cruelty find expression in survivors’ memoirs from Mauthausen? What insights into the ambiguous role of the interpreter can be gained from researching the mechanisms of communication in the camp in general and interpreting in particular? And how, specifically, did interpreting activities shape daily life in the concentrationary system of Mauthausen?

The concentrationary system of Mauthausen The concentration camp of Mauthausen was established in August 1938, when a group of prisoners were transferred to the site from Dachau and forced to build the granite fortress-prison of the main camp, mostly with their bare hands. Prisoners were deported to Mauthausen from all over Europe and some countries outside Europe, a total of forty-one nations, on the basis of racism, the prisoners’ political or religious convictions, or their homosexuality, or as prisoners of war. For many of them, deportation to Mauthausen meant arriving at a death camp. It was the only camp in “category III,” which meant “extermination through labor.” For the duration of the camp’s existence, prisoners had only very small chances of survival due to the terrible conditions: constant cruelty and mistreatment, inadequate food, horrendous hygiene, and a lack of medical attention. Many people were tortured to death in Mauthausen’s rock quarry and in the tunnels of Mauthausen-Gusen and Ebensee, the two most infamous of the sub-camps. Those who did not fall victim to the camp conditions or executions could find themselves deemed arbeitsunfähig (incapable of working) by SS doctors and murdered with phenol or air injections (KZ-Gedenkstätte Mauthausen 2015a). In autumn 1941, work began on building a gas chamber, with the aim of killing prisoners who fell ill or were arbeitsunfähig, as well as for larger numbers of executions. To facilitate the exploitation of the prisoners in the armaments industry, forty-nine sub-camps were established (Lamprecht n.d.). The total number of Mauthausen prisoners is estimated to have been 195,000; about 100,000 of them had been killed by the end of the war. The liberation of Mauthausen main camp on May 5, 1945, by the US Army was the last liberation by Allied soldiers (Mauthausen Komitee Österreich 2015).

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Interpreting in Mauthausen The activity of interpreting is mentioned in most survivor accounts. The preliminary results of a research project on communication strategies in Mauthausen and its sub-camps4 reveal that interpreting, in its manifold forms, was a recurring concern for many inmates. Drawing on monographs, articles, written interviews, and other textual material, mostly consulted in the Mauthausen Archives in Vienna and in the collection “KZ-memoria scripta” at the University of Salzburg, it was possible to retrace a great variety of interpreting situations that testify to the multiple attempts to tackle communication problems in the camp. Out of approximately 350 texts consulted, adding up to approximately 70,000 pages, 268 texts (242 books and 26 articles, interviews, and reports) in the languages listed in Table 6.1 contain passages which describe situations involving interpreting. The great majority of these accounts were written by people deported for political reasons, such as Spanish and Catalan Republicans; Yugoslavian partisans; Italian and French members of the Resistenza/Résistance; German, Polish, and Czech political activists Table 6.1  Languages of survivor accounts in the concentrationary system of

Mauthausen Language Catalan

Number of accounts 6

English

5

French

92

German

38

Italian

86

Polish

12

Russian

6

Spanish

23

Total

268

The project “Mauthausen: The role of interpreting in the ‘order of terror’ ” was initially financed by the Future Fund of the Republic of Austria (P13-1490). The Fund subsidizes “scientific and pedagogical projects which foster tolerance and mutual understanding on the basis of a close examination of the sufferings caused by the Nazi regime on the territory of present-day Austria” (Zukunftsfonds der Republik Österreich 2015). I would like to thank the project staff Sabine Messner, Iris Topolovec and Andreas Wagner for their invaluable help in retrieving the data.

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(mostly communists); and Russian prisoners of war. Jewish authors constitute a very small minority. For the project, most memoirs were consulted in their original languages and only a few, due to availability, in translation.

Types of interpreting In most accounts, the activity of interpreting is not depicted as central— however, the multitude of different circumstances in which the mediation activity took place evinces its great or even imperative importance. Several types of interpreters can be distinguished,5 but it is noteworthy that in Mauthausen, unlike in Auschwitz, for example (Tryuk 2011), there were no “official interpreters.” Although interpreting was usually carried out by inmates, one group of interpreters consisted of SS staff, often Volksdeutsche6 who were fluent in Polish or Czech and were called on for language mediation mainly in prisoner interrogations. Others came from countries under fascist rule, such as Italy. Several Mauthausen memoirs mention Mario Parisi, calling him an “ex-interpreter of the SS.” Born in Triest in 1908, Parisi was deported to Mauthausen in December 1944, where he was put to death—apparently by other inmates—on March 17, 1945 (Vasari 1945/2010: 203). His sinister yet pitiable role becomes evident in the following scene: Invece, durante la seconda uscita dal carro, una maledetta spia che si trovava fra noi—Parisi di Trieste, ex interprete delle SS—denunziò il tentativo d’evasione sperando in qualche ricompensa. (Magini 1993: 149)7

Another group were the ex officio interpreters, “prisoner-functionaries” whose tasks sometimes included policing duties. They could expect some slight privileges compared to their co-inmates, such as an additional portion of watery soup or a pullover in winter, and according to their function and their personal choice, if it is possible to speak of choice at all, they tended either to serve the SS personnel or to help their fellow inmates—the latter For types of interpreters, see also Aschenberg in this volume. The term refers to people whom the Nazis regarded as “ethnic Germans,” or Germans living beyond the borders of the German Reich (as long as they were not of Jewish origin). 7 But while the second cart was being driven out, a damned spy who was part of our group—Parisi from Triest, ex-interpreter of the SS—betrayed the plan to escape, hoping for some recompense. 5 6

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certainly at the risk of their life. Some of these interpreters worked in sections such as the Schreibstube (secretariat) or the Erkennungsdienst (photographic section). Drahomir Bárta (1921–1998), for instance, an activist in a Czech resistance movement, worked as an interpreter as part of his duties in the Schreibstube: Il y a, à la Schreibstube un jeune communiste tchèque du nom de Barta [sic] qui occupe un poste éminent dans l’administration intérieure. […] Barta, un étudiant âgé de vingt et un ans, doué d’une grande culture, parle couramment les langues slaves, le français, l’allemand et un peu l’espagnol. (Bernadac 1976: 250)8

Bárta’s language competence in general and interpreting skills in particular are mentioned in numerous accounts.9 In the Mauthausen sub-camp of Ebensee, he placed his intellectual capacities and humane attitude at the service of his fellow inmates, both by helping many of them to switch to less dangerous work squads and by consistently fostering the structures of the Mauthausen Resistance Committee, in which he soon became a leading figure, together with his comrades Jean Laffitte and Hrvoje Macanović (Tibaldi 1991: 12). Bárta’s knowledge of foreign languages and ability to easily switch between them helped the committee to make contact with civilian foreign forced laborers outside the camp, who supplied information on the course of the war and set up contact with a resistance group among the guards (Freund 2006: 357). In this sense, he not only prepared for the liberation phase of the camp, but also decisively contributed to maintaining the prisoners’ will to live and moral integrity. This dimension of language mediation is often reflected in the memoirs of camp inmates. Schreiber (camp registrar) were central figures in the camp administrative structure, as it was in the Schreibstube that decisions were taken on the allocation of prisoners to particular work; the type of work squad could impact vitally on an inmate’s survival. Consequently, the Schreiber could potentially ease the situation of many prisoners, or even free them from an unbearable situation. The example of Otto Michael Popper (1915–1944) illustrates this very important function, which is frequently described in survivor accounts. In the Schreibstube, there is a young Czech communist named Bárta who occupies an important post in the camp administration. […] Bárta is a student age 21 and is a very cultured person; he is fluent in the Slavic languages, French, German, and a bit of Spanish. 9 Further examples in Laffitte (1950) and Tibaldi (1991). For more detail on Bárta, see http://nazarovilya.alnaz.ru/konzlager/barta.html. 8

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Popper was born in Vienna as what the Nuremberg Race Laws called a “half-Jew,” and completed his degree in law at Vienna University in 1938. In 1940, he fled to Milan to escape Nazi persecution, but was taken from Fossoli to Mauthausen, where he was registered in the arrivals list as a “Dolmetscher” (interpreter) (Kniefacz and Posch 2015). In the sub-camp Linz III, he became a Hilfsschreiber (assistant clerk) and, through his language skills, helped to ease the living conditions of many fellow inmates, as described by his friend Enea Fergnani: I suoi [di Popper] ordini son dati sempre in forma di preghiera o di invito cortese. “Faccia presto, la prego,” l’ho udito dire più volte in francese, in tedesco, in italiano a coloro contro i quali egli, secondo le regole del campo, non avrebbe dovuto rivolgere neppure la parola ma usare soltanto il bastone. (Fergnani 1945: 284–5)10

Other interpreter-functionaries alleviated the agony of their fellow captives through their work in the hospital barracks, both by providing medicines and by lending them a polyglot ear to comfort and reassure them (see, e.g., Lacaze 1978: 238), while interpreters in contact with civilians in the camp mediated between prisoners and civilian foremen. Jean Gavard, for instance, was made Schreiber in the factory of the sub-camp of Steyr due to his knowledge of German, and was recompensed with two extra ladles of soup, of which he gave one to his comrades (Bernadac 1975: 65). Gavard is also mentioned in various survivor accounts for having insisted on repeating his comrades’ prisoner numbers again and again until they could pronounce them smoothly in German (see Gavard 2007, Fontanel 2009). The large majority of interpreters were self-proclaimed, ad hoc language mediators who participated in the communication between prisoners and in most cases tried to ease their hardships. More often than not, the situations in which these mediation processes took place were characterized by extreme violence. The perspective from which such scenes are described in the accounts studied covers a continuum between (alleged) absolute neutrality and direct involvement. The “welcome speech” by the camp commander, delivered to the exhausted and frightened members of a “transport” upon their arrival in the camp, is a His [Popper’s] orders were always given in the form of a request or a polite invitation. “Hurry up, Sir, please,” I heard him saying several times in French, in German, in Italian to those to whom, according to the camp’s rules, he ought to have refused to talk at all but only used his stick.

10

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recurrent theme in the survivor memoirs. Fermín Arce, for example, in La colina de la muerte, tells us: [E]l jefe del Campo habló con el intérprete que, dirigiéndose a nosotros nos dijo:—Os encontráis en el Campo de Concentración de Mauthausen, donde la obediencia debe ser inmediata para cumplir las órdenes que os den. (Arce 2003: 104)11

The reason for the inclusion of such narratives, which seems almost mechanical in the memoirs, may be found both in the concern of many exinmates to act as chroniclers, especially in the first pages of their account, and in their attempt to convey the camp’s atmosphere of total terror. As mentioned, the grey zone as conceptualized by Primo Levi was characterized by an uncertainty which made it difficult to distinguish between victims and perpetrators; interpreting activities in this zone were often loaded with collaborationism. Ramón Bargueño (1916–2003) depicts such a scene in the Steyr sub-camp when he noticed that his boots were missing their soles: Una mañana fui a ponerme las botas y al meter el pie noté que les faltaban las suelas: ¡me las habian cambiado! Llamé al secretario y le dije lo que me había pasado. Este comenzó a insultarme […], hasta que al comprobar que no le estaba entendiendo nada llamó al intérprete español, que al instante comenzó a gritarme también. […] En ese momento se presentó el jefe de barraca, un prisionero político, para ver qué estaba pasando; el intérprete comenzó a acusarme en voz alta al tiempo que me arreó un soberbio tortazo. (Bargueño and Hernandez 1991: 97)12

To the detriment of the prisoner who had denounced the theft of his boots, this interpreter was obviously trying to please those of his co-inmates who, due to their functionary duties (Schreiber and Blockältester—block senior), could potentially be of some importance to him. The camp commander talked to the interpreter who, turning to us, told us:—You are here in the concentration camp of Mauthausen, where you have to immediately obey the orders you are given. 12 One morning when I put on my boots I realized that the soles were missing. My shoes had been exchanged with others! I called the camp registrar and I told him what had happened. He began to insult me […] until he realized that I did not understand him. He called the Spanish interpreter, who immediately began to shout at me, too. […] At that moment the block senior of the barrack showed up, a political prisoner, to see what was happening. The interpreter began to accuse me in a loud voice, and simultaneously gave me a considerable slap. 11

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There was also a cynical way of describing the “interpreter” in many survivor accounts: one related to punishment in extremely violent situations. Many Kapos were armed with a rubber truncheon, which was often called the “interpreter” by both inmates and functionaries: “Io sono un criminale condannato per ben quattro rapine e un omicidio. Ebbene, a comandare qui son io. Il mondo è capovolto, lo capite? o il Dolmetscher—l’interprete—volete?” E mostrava il bastone e li colpiva. (Albertinelli 1994: 170)13

Most interpreting situations described in the survivor accounts, however, depict an environment of help and solidarity which often stood in sharp contrast to the general communication system in the concentration camps. The mediation of language between the camps’ multiple nationalities certainly contributed to shaping the most existential social constants in the camp, such as dominance and subordination; labor and exploitation; privilege and discrimination; satiety and hunger; corruption, denunciation, theft, and bodily harm—and also mutual help, solidarity, subversion, and resistance (Pätzold 2005: 111). A great variety of examples illustrate this atmosphere. Here is one: [I]l professor Přemyzl Dobias, allora “Lager-Schreiber III,” […] mi affidò a un kommando composto in prevalenza di antifascisti spagnoli. […] Fingendo di non conoscermi, Dobias si avvicinò a me ordinandomi, in tedesco, di tornare al mio block.—“Quale?”—gli chiesi spaventato, ed egli mi sussurrò in francese:—“Quello!” […] allora capii che ero salvo. (Panizza 1984: 9)14

The ambiguous space created by Dobias between him and the author, Giandomenico Panizza, contrasts with Levi’s grey zone, where guilt, terror, and the desire for power dominate in the struggle for survival. Instead, it opens up a space of negotiation where language, and also multilingualism, impacts crucially on the experience of everyday life in the camp. “I am a criminal sentenced for four robberies and a murder. Well, I am the one who commands here. The world is upside down, do you understand? Or do you want the Dolmetscher—the interpreter?” And he showed them the truncheon and hit them. 14 Prof. Přemyzl Dobias, then “camp registrar III,” […] assigned me to a kommando primarily made up of Spanish antifascists. […] Pretending not to know me, Dobias approached me and ordered me in German to go back to my block.—“Which one?”—I asked him frightened, and he whispered to me in French:—“This one!” […] Then I realized that I was safe. 13

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To sum up, the typology of interpreters in Mauthausen has shown that all four types—“official,” ex officio, ad hoc, and “metaphorical” interpreters— share as a common feature the extreme violence under which most of their interpreting activities took place. The space left for solidarity and mutual assistance was consequently small, but it was fully exploited by many inmates. To be sure, an analysis of this kind of language mediation must bear in mind that the bias in descriptions of interpreting situations cannot be fully detected due to the idiosyncrasy of the available survivor memoirs. However, the cautious conclusion can be drawn that the various types of interpreting depicted by the survivors in their accounts all indicate the activity’s vital importance in shaping life in the concentration camp—both in an encouraging and in a harmful way.

Modes of interpreting There is a particularly rich research literature on the different working modes of interpreting practiced in the past and present (see Alexieva 2002, Pöchhacker 2004: 18–22). The modes of delivery include simultaneous interpreting, consecutive interpreting, chuchotage or whispering, and liaison interpreting. In concentration camps, the variety of modes was very limited. Furthermore, most texts do not specify the kinds of interpreting employed by the various inmates, and one can often only deduce from the context which mode was used. It seems, however, that the most common mode, regardless of the type of interpreting situation, was consecutive interpreting. Roughly speaking, about 80 percent of all interpreting situations recounted in the texts under investigation took place in this mode. It also recurs in the arrival situation at Mauthausen, whether the central camp or the sub-camps, when the commander delivered his “welcome speech” in front of the newly arrived deportees, and on the Appellplatz (roll call square), especially on specific occasions such as the announcement of a severe punishment or even the hanging of an inmate. Some memoirs depict the consecutive mode in more detail, describing this kind of language transmission in various ways: “L’interprète traduit, phrase par phrase” (Charlet 1955: 15), “Si fa avanti un trentino che ci traduce il discorsetto, frase per frase” (Caleffi 1960: 121), or “Un interprète traduisit au fur et à mesure” (Guédon 1997: 144) are few examples.15 Other texts refer The interpreter translates, sentence by sentence. A man from Trento steps forward and translates us the little speech, sentence by sentence. An interpreter translated bit by bit. 15

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to the speaking rate, an important feature in the consecutive mode, and ascribe it a special role in the speech act: “Finalmente, Ganz [Anton Ganz, commander of Ebensee], con aire contrariado, eligiendo con dificultad las palabras (Macanovic traducía con la misma lentitud), dijo que si no queríamos ir a las galerías […]” (Etkind 2001: 9).16 Another revealing detail in portrayals of this kind of interpreting is the position of the interpreters during the mediation activity. In the sub-camp of Bretstein, for instance, several interpreters are said to have taken up their position one by one on a platform about two meters high in front of the SS officer (see Dios Amill 1995: 132, among others). The mention of the interpreter’s position during his mediation activity in a survivor account indicates that – at times – a pivotal role is given to both the interpreting act and the figure of the interpreter. The multitude of languages in the camp often required an expansion of the consecutive mode toward relay interpreting, that is, indirect interpreting via a third language, which links up the performance of two or more interpreters (Pöchhacker 2004: 21). This kind of mediation created some problems in terms of the time factor. The following example, from the subcamp of Amstetten, illustrates how a prisoner-functionary could come under pressure when language problems in conveying the foreman’s technical instructions delayed the work procedure: Je suis Kapo et j’ai un besoin absolu d’interprète. Heureusement, l’un des Grecs, professeur de mathématiques, parle bien français, il est donc mon truchement obligé. Mais la double traduction ralentit la transmission des consignes. (Saint Macary 2004: 42)17

The diversity of the consecutive mode used in the Mauthausen camp system is also reflected in the existence of other methods, for example summarizing the information given by a Kapo or any other prisoner-functionary (as a case in point, see Laffitte 1983: 269–73), or—very frequently—in an allegedly neutral, mechanical, or staccato way of interpreting (see, e.g., Amat-Piniella 1963: 33). Various situations in the concentration camp required simultaneous interpreting in whispering mode. This generally implies that the interpreter speaks in a low voice and is positioned physically close to the recipient (Alexieva 2002: 223). Few examples of this interpreting mode can be found Finally, Ganz, in a disgruntled manner and searching for words with difficulty (Macanovic translated equally slowly), said that if we did not want to go to the tunnel […]. 17 I am a Kapo and I desperately need an interpreter. Fortunately, one of the Greeks, a professor of mathematics, speaks good French, so he is obliged to be my interpreter. But the double translation slows down the transmission of the instructions. 16

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in the survivor accounts, one of them being in Iakovos Kambanellis’s book Mauthausen. The Greek poet, playwright, screenwriter, and novelist Kambanellis (1922–2011), author of Mauthausen Cantata with music by Mikis Theodorakis, was deported to Mauthausen in summer 1943. He depicts the confusion of his arrival at the concentration camp as follows: Während wir das Tor passieren, hören wir jemand rufen: “Arbeit macht frei!” Wir versuchen zu übersetzen. All jene, die verstehen, was der Satz aussagt, flüstern dies ihrem Nachbarn zu: “Arbeit” heißt δουλειά, “macht” heißt κάνει, “frei” heißt ελεύθερος. […] Was soll das jedoch bedeuten? Ist es ein deutscher Ritus? Eine Benachrichtigung? Ein Versprechen? (Kambanellis 1963/2010: 47)18

Interpreting competence From the material, it remains unclear whether there were professional interpreters or translators among the prisoners. This seems unlikely to have been the case. As mentioned above, Otto Michael Popper appeared as “Dolmetscher” in the arrivals list even though it is known that before his deportation he was a lawyer and not an interpreter. It seems he chose to name a profession that he hoped would bring him more privileges in the camp. Given the probable lack of trained professionals, the activity of large numbers of—mostly self-proclaimed—interpreters in Mauthausen prompts the question of their language competence: How did they know languages other than their mother tongue? Where did they learn those languages? And do we know anything about the quality of their interpreting activity? The survivor accounts from the Mauthausen camp system tell us that many interpreters were bilingual because they were part of a language minority or lived at the border between two states (see, e.g., Iotti and Masoni 1955: 56). The language competence of these interpreters was mostly taken for granted by both SS officers and fellow inmates. In contrast, prisoners whose language skills had been acquired through higher schooling were very much appreciated by both sides. Some of the interpreters had lived in other countries than their home country for various lengths of time and reasons, and had there learned the languages that they were now able to practice (see, e.g., Mata 1997: 215). Similarly, several camp inmates had learned languages during military service, or at the French Foreign Legion (Dios While we pass the entrance gate, we hear somebody shouting: “Work brings freedom!” We try to translate. Those who understand what the sentence means whisper to their neighbors: “Work” means δουλειά, “brings” means κάνει, “free” means ελεύθερος. […]. But what does it mean? Is it a German ritual? A message? A promise?

18

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Amill 1995:  145), in prison, in exile (Lacaze 1978: 224) or fighting in the Republican international brigades in the Spanish Civil War (Tonussi 1991: 148). Not surprisingly, many inmates acquired language skills during their stay in Mauthausen and in the various sub-camps. Francesco Foglia (1912– 2007), for instance, an Italian priest and partisan, already spoke French and Spanish when he was deported; in the camp he additionally learned German, English, and Russian (Bezić 2000: 115; see also Josilevič 1964: 23; Kambanellis 1963/2010: 188). Although dictionaries were forbidden in the concentration camp for obvious reasons, their use is attested by many survivor memoirs (see, e.g., Sorrentino 1978: 42, Pavlenko 1989: 90, 167).19 The dictionaries’ owners were particularly proud to possess them, and circulated them among the prisoners, helping to create the illusion of “normal life” for many. Some memoirs even give evidence of discussions on the quality of the interpreting activity. Many of them highly praise the interpreters’ skill (“Cet interrogatoire se déroule dans la schreibstube. Il aura lieu par l’intermédiaire de Lekromski, excellent interprète,” Collette 1946: 97);20 others recall the interpreter’s promotion to the status of “prominent prisoner,” who would receive certain privileges such as better sleeping facilities or “richer” food.21 Conversely, other prisoners with extensive language competence concealed their knowledge, like Mariano Constante (1920–2010), a Spanish Republican and leading member of the International Prisoners’ Committee after the war: [The SS officer asks:] - ¿Dónde trabajas tú ahora?—me preguntó. - Soy ayudante del escribiente del block número doce. - Hablas el español, el alemán y el francés. ¿No es verdad? - Contesté afirmativamente callándome que también comprendía el ruso. (Constante 1976: 285)22

The reason for his reticence may have been that he did not want to be accused by the SS of colluding with the Russian inmates, who, among the prisoners, The dictionary used by Mariano Constante is part of the permanent exhibition at the Memorial of Mauthausen (KZ-Gedenkstätte Mauthausen 2015b). 20 The interrogation takes place in the schreibstube. It will take place through the intermediary Lekromski, excellent interpreter. 21 The Polish intellectual Odrobvne is a striking example of this type of interpreter (Gavard 2007: 82). 22 Where do you work now? I am an assistant clerk in block number 12. You speak Spanish, German, and French. Is that right? I answered in the affirmative, concealing the fact that I also understood Russian. See also the example of Juan de Diego, who initially refused to interpret for moral reasons, in Laffitte (1983: 26). 19

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were oppressed almost as severely as the Jews (in fact, he probably was working with the Russian prisoners).

Interpreting skopos An issue worth investigating is the skopos of the various interpreting activities in Mauthausen. According to Hans Vermeer, the concept of skopos, as a controlling principle of translational activity that “determines the strategy for reaching the intended goal” (Vermeer 1996: 15), can give insights into the nature of translation and interpreting as a purposeful activity. The skopos is primarily defined by the communicative needs, and perhaps expectations, of the “target audience” and by its social and cultural environment. Although in a concentration camp these circumstances may be barely possible to comprehend for those who never lived in a camp, we might cautiously formulate some questions to help identify the nature of the interpreting situations in Mauthausen: Why did the (mostly ad hoc) interpreters embrace their mediation activities? What were the reasons for their willingness—or unwillingness—to interpret? The main skopos of interpreting was, unsurprisingly, mutual help. In the following example, the description of the “first interpreter” of the sub-camp Melk, a philosophy professor from Paris, covers the whole spectrum of features related to camp interpreters: mutual assistance, solidarity, and altruism: [C]e professeur de philosophie d’un lycée parisien […] fut désigné comme interprète-chef du camp. […] Au risque de perdre sa place, au risque même de s’attirer des punitions, il fut toujours prêt à aider ses confrères de malheur, à les conseiller, à intervenir même auprès des autorités allemandes pour leur éviter des services. (Pottier 1946: 208)23

Another important skopos of interpreting to be detected in the survivor accounts is the gathering and transfer of information, which mainly served to raise morale by disseminating news on the advance of the Allied Forces or of the Soviet Union—regarding information on the Allied invasion of Normandy in June 1944, for example, see Carpi (1971: 56) or Gavard (2007: 76). Another aspect of this skopos was promoting resistance inside the concentration camp (e.g., with the help of political activists such as Serge This philosophy teacher at a high school in Paris […] was nominated chief interpreter of the camp. […] At the risk of losing his post, and even being punished, he was always ready to help his fellow unfortunates, to give them advice, and even to intervene with a German authority in order to spare them certain tasks.

23

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Choumoff, Mariano Constante, Giuliano Pajetta, or Juri Piljar, among many others), with the ultimate goal of being ready and prepared once liberation approached. The organization of clandestine meetings in the concentration camp is often mentioned in the memoirs of those inmates deported for political reasons, and in this setting such activist interpreting was vital for establishing and cultivating contact among the inmates involved (see, e.g., Breton 1986: 184, Pappalettera 2006: 33, 223). On the other hand, some prisoners exploited their position as an interpreter and deployed language mediation as a means to their own advantage. These interpreter-functionaries are the ones that Primo Levi locates in the grey zone, the place where the two groups of “masters and slaves” converged and diverged. “[Q]uanto piú è dura l’oppressione, tanto piú è diffusa tra gli oppressi la disponibilità a collaborare col potere” (Levi 1986/2007: 30),24 and this is particularly true for interpreters. The privileges to be expected from their way of interpreting would not be long in coming once the relevant SS officer noticed an interpreter’s support. The following scene portrays such a situation, and tellingly includes a reference to the SS officer’s acknowledgment of the interpreter’s help: [Il] giovane altoatesino assunse subito il tono minaccioso del tedesco che lo guardò compiaciuto di avere trovato un fedele traduttore. Per quanto sapevo di tedesco potevo capire molto di quello che l’SS diceva e la traduzione del nostro altoatesino non solo ne riportava fedelmente le dure parole ma vi aggiungeva del suo rincarando la dose. (Massignan 1999: 19)25

Conclusion Irrespective of the interpreting mode or the skopos, the interpreting work done by the prisoners in Mauthausen was characterized by three main features: it was forced labor, thus on an involuntary basis; it was [T]he harsher the oppression, the more widespread among the oppressed is the willingness to collaborate with the power (Levi 1989: 28). 25 The young man from South Tyrol immediately adopted the threatening tone of the German, who looked at him with satisfaction at having found a faithful translator. From the German I knew, I could understand a lot of what the SS said, and the translation of our South Tyrolean not only faithfully reproduced the harsh words, but even added his own, increasing the dosage. This opportunistic attitude was sometimes expanded by interpreter-functionaries, who used their language skills to spy on their comrades and report them to the SS; see, e.g., Le Caër (2002: 78) in the sub-camp of Redl-Zipf. 24

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completely unprepared, thus unprofessional; and it usually took place in life-threatening conditions. Given all this, the impact of the mechanisms of the grey zone on interpreting activity should not be underestimated. Daily situations of extreme terror contributed to blurring the boundaries between the victims and the perpetrators, and the interpreters could not easily avoid positioning themselves on the “threshold of indistinction,” as Giorgio Agamben (1998: 174) has called it. The grey zone is thus certainly the zone of survival. Moreover, the longer their stay in the camp, the more the interpreters—increasingly acquiring the habitus of the grey zone— slightly shifted away from exploring options for constructing a space of tolerance, a temporary margin of survival, and toward reinscribing the overwhelming discourses of violence that dominated the social arena of the camp. To illustrate this shift, let me recall the “interpreter” in the shape of a brutal weapon of wood and rubber entailing torture and anguish. The interpreter is here associated with the loss of dignity, agency, and respect. Such an image of interpreting is deeply permeated by the potential for coercion and betrayal. Exploring in more detail the reasons for such transgressions might be particularly productive as a way of sharpening Levi’s concept of the grey zone, with all its ambiguities, and more comprehensively understanding the contribution of interpreting to the everyday life of prisoners in the camp.

References Agamben, Giorgio (1998), Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Albertinelli, Lorenzo (1994), I Lager. Poema storico in sette canti [The Lager. Historical Poem in Seven Cantos], Firenze: Giuntina. Alexieva, Bistra (2002), “A Typology of Interpreter-mediated Events,” in Franz Pöchhacker and Miriam Shlesinger (eds), The Interpreting Studies Reader, 219–33, London: Routledge. Amat-Piniella, Joaquim (1963), K.L. Reich. Miles de españoles en los campos de Hitler [K.L. Reich. Thousands of Spaniards in the Camps of Hitler], trans. Baltasar Porcel, Barcelona: Seix Barral. Arce, Fermín (2003), La colina de la muerte [The Hill of Death], ed. Oscar Luengo, Lejona: n.pub. Bargueño, Ramón and Pedro Hernandez (1991), Mauthausen. ¡¡Nunca mas!! Memorias del deportado N° 3.183 [Mauthausen. Never Again! Memoirs of Deportee N° 3.183], n.p.: n.pub. Bernadac, Christian (1975), Le neuvième cercle. Mauthausen [The Ninth Circle. Mauthausen], Paris: France-Empire.

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Bernadac, Christian (1976), Des Jours sans fin. Mauthausen III [Days That Would Not End. Mauthausen III], Paris: Éditions France-Empire. Bezić, Živan (2000), Una storia nella Storia e altre storie. Franco Foglia sacerdote [A Story Within History and Other Stories], eds. Chiara Sasso and Massimo Molinero, Condove: Morra. Breton, Louis (1986), Mes bagnes de la Loire au Danube [My Baths from the Loire to the Danube], Orléans: n.pub. Caleffi, Piero (1960), Si fa presto a dire fame [People Are Quick to Speak of Hunger], Milano: Avanti. Carpi, Aldo (1971), Diario di Gusen. Lettere a Maria [Diary from Gusen. Letters to Maria], Milano: Garzanti. Charlet, Gaston G. (1955), Karawanken. Le bagne dans la neige [Karawanken. The Bath in the Snow], Limoges: Rougerie. Collette, Paul (1946), J’ai tiré sur Laval [I Shot Laval], Caen: Ozane. Constante, Mariano (1976), Yo fui ordenanza de los SS [I Was an SS Messenger], Barcelona: Martínez Roca. Dios Amill, José de (1995), La verdad sobre Mauthausen [The Truth on Mauthausen], Barcelona: Sírius edicions. Etkind, Yefim (2001), Ebensee, manuscript, Salzburg: KZ-memoria scripta. Fergnani, Enea (1945), Un uomo e tre numeri [A Man and Three Numbers], Milano: Speroni. Fontanel, Béatrice, ed. (2009), L’homme barbelé. Roman [The Barbed Man. Novel], Paris: Grasset. Freund, Florian (2006), “Ebensee,” in Wolfgang Benz and Barbara Distel (eds), Der Ort des Terrors. Geschichte der nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager Band IV. Flossenbürg, Mauthausen, Ravensbrück [The Place of Terror: History of National Socialist Concentration Camps. Volume IV. Flossenbürg, Mauthausen, Ravensbrück], 354–60, München: Beck. Gavard, Jean (2007), Une jeunesse confisquée. 1940–1945 [A Confiscated Youth. 1940–1945], Paris: L’Harmattan. Guédon, Lucien (1997), Sous l’aile de la mort. Mauthausen [Under the Wing of Death. Mauthausen], Ruffec: La Péruse. Iotti, Piero and Tullio Masoni (1955), Sono dov’è il mio corpo. Memoria di un ex deportato a Mauthausen [I Am Where My Body Is. Memoirs of an ExDeportee to Mauthausen], Firenze: Giuntina. Josilevič, Aleksandr (1964), Pobedili smert’. Zapiski byvšego uznika gitlerovskogo konclagerja [We Have Defeated Death. Records of an Ex-Prisoner in a Hitlerian Concentration Camp], Char’kov: Izdatel’stvo Prapor. Kambanellis, Iakovos (1963/2010), Die Freiheit kam im Mai [Freedom Came in May], trans. Elena Strubakis, Wien: Ephelant. Kniefacz, Katharina and Herbert Posch (2015), “Memorial Book for the Victims of National Socialism at the University of Vienna in 1938.” Available online: http://gedenkbuch.univie.ac.at/index.php?id=435&no_cache=1&L=2& person_single_id=5396&person_name=&person_geburtstag_tag=

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not_selected&person_geburtstag_monat=not_selected&person_geburtstag _jahr=not_selected&person_fakultaet=not_selected&person_kategorie= not_selected&person_volltextsuche=&search_person.x=1&result_page=97 (accessed August 25, 2015). KZ-Gedenkstätte Mauthausen (2015a), “Geschichte des Konzentrationslagers Mauthausen” [History of the Concentration Camp Mauthausen]. Available online: http://www.mauthausen-memorial.at/index_open.php (accessed August 25, 2015). KZ-Gedenkstätte Mauthausen (2015b), “Die Objekte der Ausstellungen” [The Exhibitions’ Objects]. Available online: http://www.mauthausen-memorial .at/db/admin/de/index_main.php?cbereich=12&cthema=50242 (accessed August 25, 2015). KZ-memoria scripta. Available online: http://www.kz-memoria.net/ (accessed August 25, 2015). Lacaze, André (1978), Le tunnel. Récit [The Tunnel. A Record], Paris: Julliard. Laffitte, Jean (1950), Die Lebenden [The Living], trans. Maria Arnold, Berlin: Dietz. Laffitte, Jean (1983), La pendaison [The Hanging], Paris: France Loisirs. Lamprecht, Gerald (n.d.), “Das Konzentrationslager Mauthausen und seine Befreiung” [The Concentration Camp Mauthausen and Its Liberation]. Available online: www.erinnern.at/bundeslaender/oesterreich/gedenktage /gedenktag-5-mai/5-mai-gedenktag-neu/mauthausen_und_befreiung.pdf (accessed August 25, 2015). Le Caër, Paul (2002), Ein junger Europäer in Mauthausen 1943–1945 [A Young European in Mauthausen 1943–1945], trans. Günther E. Sturm, Wien: Bundesministerium für Inneres. Levi, Primo (1986/2007), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, London: Abacus. Magini, Manlio (1993), Un itinerario per il lager [A Route Through the Lager], Firenze: Polistampa. Massignan, Luigi (1999), 115609 IT. Ricordi di Mauthausen [115609 IT. Memoirs from Mauthausen], Padova: n.pub. Mata, Nacianceno (1997), Un canario en Mauthausen. Memorias de un superviviente del holocausto nazi [A Canarian in Mauthausen. Memoirs of a Survivor of the Nazi Holocaust], Tenerife: Centro de la cultura popular canaria. Mauthausen Komitee Österreich, ed. (2015), “Die Geschichte des KZ Mauthausen” [The History of the Concentration Camp Mauthausen]. Available online: http://www.mkoe.at/en/service/history-mauthausen -concentration-camp (accessed August 25, 2015). Panizza, Giandomenico (1984), “A Mauthausen ho conosciuto un vero amico” [In Mauthausen I Found a True Friend], Triangolo rosso, 5(6): 8–9.

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Pappalettera, Vincenzo (2006), Tu passerai per il camino. Vita e morte a Mauthausen [You Will Pass Through the Chimney. Life and Death in Mauthausen], Milano: Mursia. Passarin, Pio (1995), Da Verona a Mauthausen via Fossoli e ritorno [From Verona to Mauthausen Via Fossoli and Back], Verona: Cierre. Pätzold, Kurt (2005), “Häftlingsgesellschaft” [Prisoners’ Society], in Wolfgang Benz and Barbara Distel (eds), Der Ort des Terrors. Geschichte der nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager. Band I. Die Organisation des Terrors [The Place of Terror: History of National Socialist Concentration Camps. Volume I. The Organization of Terror], 110–25, München: Beck. Pavlenko, Viktor (1989), Volja k žizni [Will to Live], Frunze: Kyrgyzstan. Pöchhacker, Franz (2004), Introducing Interpreting Studies, London: Routledge. Pottier, René (1946), Au seuil de l’enfer [At the Threshold of Hell], Paris: Nouvelles Éd. Latines. Saint Macary, Pierre (2004), Mauthausen: percer l’oubli. Mauthausen, Melk, Ebensee [Mauthausen: Piercing Oblivion. Mauthausen, Melk, Ebensee], Paris: L’Harmattan. Sorrentino, Lamberti (1978), Sognare a Mauthausen. Quarant’anni dopo una controverità sul lager [Dreaming of Mauthausen. Forty Years Later: A Counter-Truth About the Lager], Milano: Bompiani. Tibaldi, Italo (1991), “Ad aprile ci eravamo quasi rassegnati. La testimonianza di Italo Tibaldi” [In April We Had Nearly Given Up. The Testimony of Italo Tibaldi], Triangolo Rosso 5(6): 10–15. Tonussi, Antonio (1991), Ivo, una vita di parte [Ivo, A Life Apart], Treviso: Matteo. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2011), “ ‘You Say Noting; I Will Interpret’: Interpreting in the Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp,” in Dimitris Asimakoulas and Margaret Rogers (eds), Translation and Opposition, 223–43, Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Vasari, Bruno (1945/2010), Milano—Mauthausen e ritorno [Milan— Mauthausen and Back], Firenze: Giuntina. Vermeer, Hans J. (1996), A Skopos Theory of Translation [Some Arguments for and Against], Heidelberg: Textcontext Wissenschaft. Wolf, Michaela (2013), “ ‘German Speakers, Step Forward!’ Surviving Through Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps,” Translation and Interpreting Studies, 8(1): 1–22. Zukunftsfonds der Republik Österreich (2015), Available online: http://www .zukunftsfonds-austria.at/ (accessed August 25, 2015).

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Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944) Małgorzata Tryuk

Ethics and interpretation In his latest book on ethics in translation and interpreting, Anthony Pym wrote: “We should translate in certain circumstances only, investing variable effort, in order to promote long-term cooperation between cultures. In all other cases, it would probably be better not to translate” (2012: 12). The author tends to investigate why people translate and then, proceeding from the why, he tries to deduce how they execute their translation tasks. In my paper, I will concentrate not only on the question of why but also on the circumstances in which a translator or an interpreter has to provide linguistic mediation. With reference to wars or armed conflicts, to the period of the Second World War and particularly to the world of terror, where Nazi concentration camps constituted indescribable and unspeakable examples of the conditions of an individual’s fate, the issues of ethics in translation and interpreting gain a different meaning. As numerous testimonies and recollections of former inmates of concentration camps have shown, the prisoners who acted as interpreters asked themselves not only, “Why should I translate?” “Under what conditions?” “In what circumstances?” as Pym suggests, but also and above all, “What if I choose not to translate?” “What will the consequences of my decision entail? For me, for other inmates, for my relatives?” These are questions which should be considered not only from the perspective of translation and interpreting studies but also from sociological and historical standpoints. In previous works, I have tried to highlight these aspects of interpreting in extreme settings such as concentration camps, where a person has no choice but to interpret (see Tryuk 2010, 2011, 2012). My aim was to discuss such problems as: what it meant to carry out the activity of interpreting; whether it was profitable for the interpreter; or, to the contrary, whether it exposed the

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interpreter or other inmates to danger; how the interpreter was perceived and assessed by other participants of the communication act, by other inmates or by camp guards; and finally, what the interpreter actually did. In circumstances of war or conflict, the tasks undertaken by an interpreter or indeed any other mediator significantly exceed the basic scope of merely transmitting messages from one language into another. Furthermore, it is often the case that the interpreter who takes on his or her duties is not necessarily aware of all the possible consequences of his or her activities. There is a commonly known discrepancy between the principles of alleged neutrality, impartiality, and non-commitment on the one hand, that is, factors that constitute what is generally termed “professionalism” as laid down in codes of professional ethics, and the actual activities of the interpreter in conflict situations, in war, in prisons, in courtrooms, or during refugee interviews on the other. Such situations have been described in a number of publications and have become research topics in their own right in the contemporary field of translation and interpreting studies (see Gaiba 1998, Morris 1998, Pöllabauer 2004, Tryuk 2004, Hale 2007). Ethical issues, which were once hidden behind a screen of rules formulated in professional codes, are now some of the central issues addressed by translation and interpreting studies. As various different articles have shown (see, e.g., Aschenberg or Wolf, in this volume), the generally accepted norms for interpreting in various settings were not applicable to concentration camps, as there were no norms or standards of human behavior that were applicable to such circumstances.

Communication in concentration camps Nazi concentration camps can be compared to a linguistic conglomerate of a particular kind, where issues pertaining to interpreting and translating lead the researcher to questions such as: What languages were used in different concentration camps, in each different block or Kommando? Was it the language of the predominant group of inmates? Was it German, the language of the oppressors? If so, what kind of German? Was it the German of insults, of vulgarities, an obscene and non-human German used by the guards? In many Nazi concentration camps the inmates represented 35 to 40 different national or ethnic groups, each group with its own language. All of the inmates lived under extreme conditions and the German language was continuously present. The concentration camp can be viewed as a peculiar tower of Babel, where “communication” between the SS or the guards and the inmates was limited to barking out orders in way that was designed

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  117 to demean and debase the prisoners, and speech acts had a very limited function. The confusion of the inmates’ languages has been described on various different occasions, particularly by Primo Levi (1958, 1986), and constitutes one of the most significant aspects of communication in the camps. Although the inmates used a special jargon dubbed lagerszpracha among themselves, the official language of the camps was German, which was ubiquitous and understanding the language necessary in order to survive. If there was any communication with German guards or with the Kapos, who in most camps were primarily German prisoners and in many cases criminals, it had to be in German. If any postal services were allowed, everything had to be written in German. In the barracks and work blocks, all rules, orders, and instructions were delivered in German. In the concentration camp of Majdanek—the main topic of my paper—the use of the inmates’ native languages was forbidden, as numerous memoirs testify. For example, Suren K. Barutczew, a Soviet doctor and prisoner of war in KL Majdanek, notes in his recollections: W kancelariach pól obozowych istniały tabliczki z napisem: “Tu należy mówić tylko po niemiecku.” Gestapowcy, którzy znali inne języki obce wykorzystywali je do podsłuchiwania więźniów. (Barutczew 2011: 116)1

He goes on: “W obozie dominował język niemiecki” (Barutczew 2011: 116).2 Each inmate was required to memorize some basic phrases in German: his detention number, the number of his barracks, and the texts of songs the prisoners were forced to sing for the guards’ amusement. In KL Majdanek, only very few signs were posted in both Polish and German, as on the bilingual inscription in Figure 7.1, which prohibited entry to the camp’s storerooms. As mentioned above, the linguistic confusion led to the creation of a camp jargon known as lagerszpracha, which was in use in all the concentration camps. As numerous publications have shown, this was the only way for the inmates to express what was unspeakable in any other human language (Gramling 2012). It was also a means of communication with the other linguistically diverse inmates. Some of the German-speaking prisoner There were signs attached to the registrars at the camp with the inscription “Here you must only speak in German.” The Gestapo men who knew foreign languages used them to eavesdrop on what the inmates said. Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed. 2 The dominating language in the camp was German. 1

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Figure 7.1  Bilingual inscription at KL Majdanek. Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek.

functionaries and even the SS troops adopted some of the lagerszpracha expressions. Lagerszpracha was created out of Polish, Yiddish, Hungarian, Silesian dialects, and other languages spoken in a given camp (see Wesołowska 1996, Gunia 2006). Levi recounts that there were different varieties of lagerszpracha, not only in different camps, but that there was also a different jargon in use in the men’s and women’s camps (Levi 1989: 77). In spite of orders to use the German language as the exclusive official means of communication and the existence of the lagerszpracha used between the inmates, translation and interpreting were inevitable in all of the concentration camps. However, this kind of linguistic mediation was necessarily unique. Primo Levi (1958: 28–30) gave us the most meaningful portrait of an interpreter in his Se questo è un uomo (Is This a Man, 1987), in his recollection of the interpreter Flesch, who was unable to translate the requests addressed by the Italian inmates to the SS functionaries into German. Flesch was ordered to interpret into Italian what the German officer, the master of the situation, the master of the inmates’ life and death, had said, but he was forbidden to translate from Italian, the inmates’ language, into German. The situation might have been different in each of the different multilingual blocks or Kommandos at the camp. Levi recalls that, in his

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  119 block, the “official” language in which all communication was possible was Polish, as the majority of inmates were of Polish nationality. He writes: Ancora oggi io ricordo come si enunciava in polacco non il mio numero di matricola, ma quello del prigioniero che mi precedeva nel ruolino di una certa baracca: un groviglio di suoni che terminava armoniosamente, come le indecifrabili contine dei bambini, in qualcosa come “stergísci stèri” (oggi so che queste due parole vogliono dire “quarantaquattro”). Infatti, in quella baracca erano polacchi il distributore della zuppa e la maggior parte dei prigionieri, e il polacco era la lingua ufficiale; quando si veniva chiamati, bisognava stare pronti con la gamella tesa per non perdere il turno, e perciò, per non essere colti di sorpresa, era bene scattare quando era chiamato il compagno col numero di matricola immediatamente precedente. Quello “stergísci stèri” funzionava anzi come il campanello che condizionava i cani di Pavlov: provocava una subitanea secrezione di saliva. (Levi 1986: 73)3

Thomas Geve, a young Jewish boy from Berlin who was sent to Auschwitz in 1943 when he was only thirteen years old, knew German but had no knowledge of other languages. He remembers his first moments in the concentration camp: [N]ous montâmes à l’ étage de la baraque d’ en face, un bâtiment en briques sur lequel était écrit à l’entrée “Block 2a.” […] Nous eûmes droit à l’inévitable discours du doyen de block, qui s’ adressa à nous dans sa langue maternelle, le polonais, […]. Lorsqu’il eut fini, quelqu’un se porta volontaire pour traduire ses instructions en russe. La même chose aurait pu être faite en allemand, mais comme c’ était la langue des SS, personne ne voulait la parler. […] Nous avions tant de mal à comprendre nos supérieurs, que certains détenus, restant fidèles à l’allemand, songèrent même d’aller se plaindre aux SS. Ils en furent empêchés et nous 3



To this day I remember how one pronounced in Polish not my registration number but that of the prisoner who preceded me on the roster of a certain hut: a tangle of sounds that ended harmoniously, like the indecipherable counting jingles of children, in something like: “stergishi steri” (today I know that these two words mean “forty-four”). As a matter of fact, in that hut, the soup dispenser and the greater part of the prisoners were Polish, and Polish was the official language: when you were called, you had to be there ready, holding out your bowl so as not to miss your turn and to avoid being caught by surprise, it was a good idea to jump when the companion with the immediately preceding registration number was called. In fact, that “stergishi steri” functioned like the bell that conditioned Pavlov’s dogs: it stimulated an immediate secretion of saliva. (Levi 1989: 73)

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décidâmes d’apprendre les langues slaves, en particulier le polonais, langue du pays où nous nous trouvions. (Geve 2011: 99)4

For many prisoners, survival in the concentration camp without some basic knowledge of German was practically impossible and there are many testimonies which illustrate that this was a common fact, which is evident not only in the work of Primo Levi (1989: 71, 73) but also in the recollections of other former inmates in their memoirs or letters they sent home from the concentration camps. Witold Tryuk, who was imprisoned in 1940 in KL Dachau and transferred three years later to KL Flossenbürg, where he remained until the liberation of the camp on May 2, 1945, explained in a personal account that knowledge of German for him was not only a means of survival, as was the case for many other inmates, but also of expressing himself autonomously, in spite of the censorship in the camps. In a letter sent from KL Flossenbürg to his parents and his sister dated January 18, 1943, he wrote: “Liebe Krysia wie meinst du, ob ich was gelernt habe in diesen drei Jahre, daß kann ich schon ganz selbständig deutsch schreiben u. lesen” (see Figure 7.2).5 It is notable that his letters became more personal from that moment on. They contained not only laconic information about his health or state of mind, which officially were always good, and the usual greetings or thanks for the letters and parcels he received at the camp, but also other clues about other inmates or sometimes even personal observations on the war, which were concealed behind commonly used words. As in any other multilingual setting, interpreters were in high demand in the concentration camps. As a rule, Schreiber (camp registrars) or Läufer (messengers) were employed as translators and interpreters. In some concentration camps there was also a distinct group of inmates who were officially appointed as “camp interpreters.” They wore an armband with the inscription “Dolmetscher” on their striped prison uniform (Tryuk 2011: 62). While camp interpreters were equally necessary in KL Auschwitz-Birkenau and in other concentration camps, there were differences between the camps in terms of when the position of camp interpreter was established. In Dachau, [W]e entered a brick building with the inscription “Block 2a” […] We were given the inevitable speech by the Blockältester who addressed us in his mother tongue, in Polish […]. When he finished, somebody translated his instructions into Russian. It should have been done in German too, but as it was the language of the SS, nobody wanted to speak. […] It was so difficult for us to understand our guards that some of us, faithful to the German language, thought to go and complain to the SS. But they were forbidden to do so, and we decided to learn some Slavic languages, in particular Polish, the language of the country we were in. 5 Dear Krysia, do you think I have learnt something during these three years. I can write and read in German perfectly by myself. 4

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Figure 7.2  Letter by Witold Tryuk from KL Flossenbürg, January 18, 1943. Personal archives.6

for example, the position of interpreter was only established in 1942, while in Majdanek, which was first intended as a concentration camp for Russian POWs, the need for interpreters and translators was evident from the very beginning.

KL Majdanek The concentration camp in Majdanek (October 1941–July 1944) was located in the south-eastern suburbs of Lublin, in the vicinity of the road to Zamość and Lvov in the occupied Polish territories which the Nazis named The full text of the letter reads: Euren Brief von 4.1 hab’ich heute erhalten, auch alle viere Pakete, zwei letzte hab’ich schon hier erhalten alles waren in guten Ordnung. Ich danke Euch herzlich, besonders für Pulower und Socken, aber die Wäsche schickt mich keine mehr. Kümmert Ihr nicht so viel um mir, bei mir ist alles beim Alten, bin gesund, trotzt dem, daß bin ich jetzt in anderer Lager. Liebe Krysia wie meinst du, ob ich was gelernt habe in diesen drei Jahre, daß kann ich schon ganz selbständig deutsch schreiben u. lesen. Ich küsse u. grüsse Euch alle besonders meine liebe Mutti. Eurer Sohn. Toluś

6

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Generalgouvernement. It was first conceived as a Kriegsgefangenenlager der Waffen SS Lublin, a camp for 25,000–50,000 Soviet prisoners to be employed in SS and Police factory halls and used for construction jobs. The location reflected the political and economic plans of the Germans in relation to the region of Lublin. It was also the easternmost camp.7 Initially, the camp was called a concentration camp, that is, Konzentrationslager Lublin (KL Lublin). The name was then changed and until February 1943 it was called “camp for the POWs” (KGL Lublin), commonly known as Russenlager (camp for the Russians). During the winter of 1943, the original name Konzentrationslager Lublin was reinstalled (see Figure 7.3). The name in use throughout the camp’s existence was KL Majdanek, which came from the name of the suburbs of the town Majdan Tatarski, where it was located (see Marszałek 1987, Wiśniewska and Rajca 1997).

Figure 7.3  Letter from Hermann Florstedt, commandant of KL Majdanek, dated February 23, 1943, announcing the change of the official name of the camp from “Kriegsgefangenenlager der Waffen-SS Lublin” to “Konzentrationslager Lublin.” Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek.

The death camps of Sobibór and Bełżec were also situated in the eastern part of occupied Poland. They were closed in 1943.

7

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  123 The camp was liberated on July 23, 1944, when the Red Army entered the city of Lublin. Soon after, a Soviet NKVD8 camp was established on the grounds of KL Majdanek for members of the Polish Secret State. For some time, German soldiers were also imprisoned in the barracks of the former camp. The first trial of four SS functionaries and two Kapos from the camp also took place on the grounds of KL Majdanek from November 27 to December 2, 1944. It was the first trial of Nazi criminals, notable for the fact that it was held before the end of the Second World War. It was also the first multilingual trial, where skilled interpretation from and into three languages (Polish, Russian, and German) was required (see Tryuk forthcoming). The camp in Majdanek was initially run by the Concentration Camps Inspectorate (Inspektion der Konzentrationslager), and then from March 1942 by the Economics and Administrative Department of the SS (SSWirtschafts- und Verwaltungshauptamt). The camp was administered by a commandant supported by a garrison of up to 1,200 people. The function of commandant was performed by Karl Koch, Max Koegel, Hermann Florstedt, Martin Weiß, and Arthur Liebehenschel (see Marszałek 1987, Wiśniewska and Rajca 1997). The camp grew to be larger than anticipated in the original plans, in a number of stages which saw both the expansion of the physical area of the camp and an increase in the number of prisoners. The so-called general plan to build KL Majdanek was authorized on March 23, 1942, with the intention of establishing a camp to hold up to 150,000 inmates and prisoners of war. KL Majdanek was to become the largest camp in occupied Europe. However, economic difficulties and failures on the eastern front prevented the implementation of these plans. Konzentrationslager Lublin played an important role in the realization of the Endlösung or “Final Solution of the Jewish Question.” The most tragic moment in the history of the camp took place on November 3, 1943, when 18,000 Jews, including men, women, and children, were executed by a firing squad. This horrific massacre became known as Operation Harvest Festival, or Aktion Erntefest in German. The camp was divided into so-called fields (pole in Polish) which were rectangles covering about 6 hectares, with twenty-four blocks in two rows and a square for the roll call with gallows in the middle. Each field was surrounded by a double barbed wire fence. The first Soviet prisoners were brought to Majdanek from a camp in the town of Chełm on October 7, 1941. Other transports carrying Soviet NKVD Affairs (Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del), The People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, was a branch of the Soviet secret police responsible for mass deportations and political assassinations, which was notorious for its political repression.

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POWs came in repeatedly throughout the camp’s history. In Field II, there was a Lazarett or Revier (hospital) that was intended primarily for Soviet invalids who, after being captured, joined the German side (see SiwekCiupak 2001). Among the Soviet POWs, there were many high-ranking officers, generals, and military theoreticians such as General Dimitr Karbyshev, who carried the title Hero of the Soviet Union and was later assassinated at KL Mauthausen, Timofiei Novikov, and Georgij Zusmanovitch, as well as medical doctors such as Suren Konstantynowitch Barutczew, Larik Michalovski, Nadia Pavlenko, and Vlodimir Degtiariev (see Siwek-Ciupak 2001, Grudzińska 2011). Apart from Russian prisoners of war, there were representatives of more than thirty different nationalities, whereby Jews from Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Soviet Union constituted the largest groups of inmates. At the turn of 1941/42, KL Majdanek became a detention center for Jews from the region of Lublin. The transportation of Slovak and Czech Jews commenced in April 1942 on a massive scale and was followed by transports from Austria, Germany, France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. From mid-1942 to mid1943, most of the transports came from occupied Poland, particularly from the ghettos in Lublin, Warsaw (after the Warsaw ghetto uprising in the spring of 1943), and from Białystok. Thus KL Lublin had the simultaneous function as a camp for POWs, a concentration camp, and an extermination camp. Furthermore, KL Lublin was also used as a penal and transit camp for the rural Polish population from the Lublin district (see Marszałek 1987, Wiśniewska and Rajca 1997).

Interpretation in KL Majdanek As in any other multilingual settings, interpreters were required in all of the concentration camps. KL Majdanek was no different in this respect. It is noteworthy that the position of lagerdolmetscher was introduced in the different camps in various different ways. In KL Auschwitz, the function of camp interpreter was created at the outset when the camp opened in 1940. In KL Dachau, camp interpreters were only appointed after 1942 (see Malak 1961, Musioł 1971, Dobosiewicz 2000), when a huge number of prisoners were sent to the camp from all over Europe. There is no record of any camp interpreter at KL Stutthof near Gdańsk (Danzig), where 110,000 men, women, and children, citizens of twenty-eight countries and over thirty nationalities, were imprisoned. In contrast, there is a significant number of recollections of the camp interpreters in Majdanek concentration camp as

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  125 recorded by Tadeusz Muszkat (APMM VII–135: 251), Edward Karabanik (APMM VII–245: 15), and Tadeusz Kosibowicz (1980: 45). From the beginning of the camp in Majdanek in November 1941, transports brought groups of prisoners from other concentration camps such as Dachau, Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald, Dora, Neuengamme, Mauthausen, and Groß-Rosen. Until the autumn of 1943, these groups were small and included physicians, translators, and interpreters. As a result of the initial plans to create a camp for Soviet POWs, interpreters from German into Russian were particularly required in the camp. Most of these interpreters were Germans and Poles. The first interpreters were sent to Majdanek from other concentration camps during the winter of 1941/1942, as recorded by Grzegorz Plewik: Już w pierwszej fazie organizowania obozu, tj. od listopada 1941 roku, przywieziono na Majdanek kilku i kilkunastoosobowe grupy więźniów z innych obozów koncentracyjnych, takich jak Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald, Mauthausen, Gusen, Neuengamme oraz Gross Rosen. Skierowani w tych grupach na Majdanek byli lekarzami, sanitariuszami, jak także osobami znającymi język niemiecki i rosyjski. Byli wśród nich kryminaliści niemieccy i więźniowie polityczni. (Plewik 2001: 34)9

A former inmate, Edward Karabanik (APMM, VII–245: 15, also quoted in Plewik 2001: 13), recalls: Blok nasz zaczął się powoli zapełniać. Przyjeżdżali tłumacze przysłani z innych obozów, przeważnie Polacy władający językiem niemieckim.10

He also lists the names of this first group of translators and interpreters with some rough descriptions of those he remembers (APMM, VII–245: 15): l

Michał Gumiński—age 54. Before the war, he was executive director of an arms factory in Radom and Starachowice

During the first phase of the organization of the Lublin camp, that is, from November 1941, groups of dozens of prisoners from other concentration camps from Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald, Mauthausen, Gusen, Neuengamme, and Gross Rosen were sent to Majdanek. They were doctors and those who knew German and Russian. They became the prisoner-functionaries in the newly established camp. The large majority was selected among German criminals and political prisoners. 10 Our block gradually began to fill up with inmates. Then came the translators and interpreters from different camps, mainly Poles with some knowledge of German. 9

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l l l l

Krzysztof Radziwiłł—an aristocrat, landowner, politician, and MP Jerzy Bargielski—age 40, a solicitor Brzezowski—age 40 Janusz Wolski—age 28, very nervous but “good-hearted” chap Żurawski—age 40, small, a very vulgar person Juliusz Lang—pretended to have worked in Rotterdam in a diamond shop, with a little command of French l Honig—a German with a green triangle, he knew Polish very well and considered himself to be a Pole; he refused to join the German block; an amiable and honest man l Stanisław Grześlak—ex-police, very clever at “organizing” anything. l l

Apart from the Polish inmates, Karabanik (APMM, VII–245: 15) also cites the names of: Nadelkow—a Bulgarian political prisoner with a red triangle. He fought in Spain during the Civil War; although he had very poor knowledge of German, he joined the Germans in their block.11 l Iwan Bielski—a White Russian who had lived in Germany; he had very poor knowledge of German and was an uneducated person. l

Krzysztof Radziwiłł’s name is also mentioned by Romuald Sztaba (2011: 17) in his memoirs, where he writes: W baraku zastaliśmy kilku kolegów, lekarzy z innych obozów. Byli też tak zwani tłumacze—dolmeczerzy. Jednym z nich był Krzysztof Radziwiłł.12

As related by Tadeusz Kosibowicz (1980: 45), Krzysztof Radziwiłł had a perfect command of German, Russian, French, and Spanish. In the Field II, there was a Lazarett or “hospital” meant predominantly for Soviet POWs invalids. In her article on the camp Revier, Siwek-Ciupak writes (2001: 9): W październiku 1941 r. do obozu zapędzono pierwszą grupę liczącą ok. 2000 jeńców, skrajnie wyczerpanych pobytem w obozie w Chełmie […]. Do listopada 1941 r. stan liczebny jeńców zmniejszył się do 1500 osób, a w ciągu następnych 3 tygodni do około 100 osób. Prawdopodobnie According to Krzysztof Radziwiłł (APMM, VII–629: 27), Nadelkow was in fact a Romanian. 12 In the barracks we met some colleagues, doctors from other camps. There were also the so-called dolmeczer—interpreters. One of them was Krzysztof Radziwiłł. 11

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  127 wśród tych 100 ocalałych narodził się pomysł ratowania się ucieczką zrealizowany 14 lipca 1942 r. Wzięło w niej udział 86 jeńców, spośród których 2 zostało zastrzelonych podczas ucieczki, pozostałym udało się zbiec.13

According to the author, the registrars, doctors, interpreters, and inmates working in the kitchen of this “hospital” were primarily Polish political prisoners such as Bargelski, Iwan Bielski, Brzezowski, Michał Gumiński, Krzysztof Radziwiłł, Janusz Wolski, and Żurawski (2001: 12–13). In addition to his function as an interpreter, Krzysztof Radziwiłł also acted as Blockschreiber in Field II. Beata Siwek-Ciupak (2001: 12–13) also mentions other prisoner-interpreters: Leon Bochenek—a secondary school teacher from Lvov. He managed, in complete secrecy, to organize an English language course for the inmates l Jan Bosyk l Zygmunt Flitter, an engineer l Henryk Gacki, a lawyer from Warsaw l Kazimierz Gałczyński l Piotr Gdula l Czesław Kulesza—a lawyer from Warsaw l Piotr Makowski—who was sent on to Auschwitz and then to Buchenwald l Józef Olech—a lawyer from Lvov l Andrzej Pilar—a Czech born in Russia l Stanisław Poniatowski—professor of ethnography at the University of Warsaw l Wiesław Stecki l Henryk Pasternak l Jerzy Nowak l Otto Hett, a German political prisoner and the Revierkapo of Field II. l

The Lazarett was independently regulated and the Zählappell (roll call) was only held once a day. In each of the barracks, the interpreters submitted daily reports to the Kapos. Polish and Russian doctors were meant to look after

The first group of 2,000 Soviet POWs arrived in the camp in October 1941 […]. In November 1941, there were no more than 1,500. During the next three weeks, the number diminished to 100 people. Probably among those 100 men, 86 decided to escape from the camp on 14th of July 1942. Two inmates were caught and shot dead and the others managed to escape.

13

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the sick prisoners and the translators had to interpret their diagnosis into German to the camp authorities, as Siwek-Ciupak (2001: 18) recounts: Obowiązki pisarzy, lekarzy, tłumaczy, zaopatrzeniowców i kucharzy pełnili więźniowie polityczni, głównie Polacy, […]. Stanowili oni specjalne komanda, które tu pracowało i mieszkało, ale administracyjnie zależne było od pola III. Znalazło się w nim około 30 więźniów znających języki obce. Książę Krzysztof Radziwiłł został kierownikiem kancelarii II Pola, pisarzami i tłumaczami byli m.in. Leon Bochenek.14

In the recollections of former Russian prisoners, we find numerous traces of the interpreters, such as in the memoirs of Nikołaj P. Byrgazow (2011: 176): W naszym baraku był Polak, tłumacz języka rosyjskiego, nazywał się Kulesza. Pomógł nam bardzo dużo. Zdobył pilniki, przy pomocy których robiliśmy z manierek papierośnice. W zamian otrzymywaliśmy chleb, kiełbasę i to wszystko było za sprawą pana Kuleszy. Był uważany za więźnia politycznego z nadzorującego komanda, w skład którego wchodzili lekarze, sanitariusze, pisarze blokowi. Mieszkali na naszym polu w pierwszym baraku.15

As in other camps, one of the interpreters’ main tasks was to translate the “welcome speech” of the commandant of the camp, as Andrzej Stanisławski recalls in his memoirs Pole śmierci (1969: 38). The words spoken by the commandant were translated by an interpreter: Jesteście w obozie koncentracyjnym Majdanek. Przyzwoity więzień (anständiger Häftling) nie żyje tu dłużej jak trzy tygodnie, a do domu idzie tylko przez komin krematorium.16 The duties of the registrars, the interpreters and the cooks were mainly [carried out by] the political prisoners, mostly Polish […]. They constituted a special commando of about thirty inmates who knew foreign languages. Prince Krzysztof Radziwiłł was the head registrar of the Field II, others were registrars and translators, like for example Leon Bochenek. 15 In our barracks lived a Polish prisoner, an interpreter from Russian. His name was Kulesza. He helped us a lot. He “organized” some tools to make cigarette cases or other things. In exchange, we got some bread and sausages, and all this was due to Mr. Kulesza. He was a political prisoner from a commando composed of doctors, registrars and so on. The commando lived in our Field in the Block no 1. 16 You are here in the concentration camp Majdanek. An honest prisoner (anständiger Häftling) lives no longer than three weeks, and then he goes back home through the chimney of the crematorium. 14

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  129 Another function was to maintain order in the block as remembered by Antoni Wolf, interpreter and Blockschreiber in his barracks: 18.01.1943 […] około godz. 21 drzwi gwałtownie otwierały się i w nich ukazały się cztery postacie męskie z ręcznymi latarkami elektrycznymi i pejczami. Byli to kapowie Schmuck i Wyderka, ubrani w czerwone spodnie w butach oraz kurtki granatowe z szamerowaniem a la kawaleria węgierska. Przyszli w towarzystwie około 10-letniego chłopca, rzekomego tłumacza, nazwanego później pospolicie “Bubi.” Przyszli podpici, aby ogłosić regulamin obozu, którego jednak na piśmie nigdy nie widziałem. Na żądanie “dać tlumacza,” […] po pierwszym źle przetłumaczonym zdaniu został uderzony w twarz i aż usiadł, a Schmuck krzyczał: “Za takie tłumaczenie ja cię wyślę na tamtem świat” i zażądał innego tłumacza. […] “Ja będę tłumaczył.” […]. Wysilałem się, aby jak najprościej i najbardziej zrozumiale przetłumaczyć tym bardziej, że tylko najbliżej stojący przy drzwiach i przy kapo więźniowie orientowali się w sytuacji. […] spokojnie, ale mocnym głosem przedstawiłem naszych “Panów życia i śmierci” oraz podałem w wielkim skrócie postanowienia regulaminu. Na zarzut, dlaczego tak krótko mówię po polsku, rezolutnie odpowiedziałem, że nam Polakom nie trzeba długo tłumaczyć, w lot pojmujemy, w jakiej znaleźliśmy się sytuacji i mniemamy, że się do niej przystosujemy. Ta moja odpowiedź została mile przyjęta przez kapo Schmucka więc zapowiedział: “Ty będziesz tutaj dolmeczerem” będziesz odpowiadał za porządek. (Wolf 2011: 76)17

Another task assigned to the translators at KL Majdanek was to work at the camp post office which commenced operations in 1943. A Polish translator was transferred there to censor letters and control parcels delivered mainly 17

On January 18, 1943 […] at about 9 p.m. the door would open suddenly and four male figures with torches and whips rushed into. They were the kapos Schmuck and Wyderka accompanied by a small boy, the so called interpreter known by the name of Bubi. They were boozed up. They came to announce the rules and regulations to be followed in the camp. They requested the interpreter […], who, after the first incorrectly interpreted sentence, was slapped in the face, and warned: “I’ll knock you into the next world for such interpretation.” Then they requested another interpreter. […] “I will interpret,” I declared in German. […] I put a lot of effort into interpreting as simply and comprehensibly as possible […]. I presented our “Lords of life and death” and summarized the provisions of the rules and regulations. They accused me of making the sentences shorter than they actually were in German but I answered them that we, the Poles, do not need long explanations, we are quick to understand our situation and automatically adapt to the prevailing conditions. The kapo Schmuck liked my answer and announced, “You will be a dolmeczer [interpreter] here and responsible for the order in the block.”

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to Polish inmates through the Polish Red Cross and Central Welfare Council. The scope of the post office activities expanded gradually. From the end of November 1943 to April 1944, there were five translators who were employed as censors in the camp post office, as demonstrated by the document in Figure 7.4:

Figure 7.4  Notice for a Polish translator in the camp post office, January 7, 1943. Courtesy of the Archives of the State Museum at Majdanek.

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  131

Conclusion In this chapter, I briefly outlined how interpreting can be understood under conditions where terror and an aggressively monolingual environment prevail and how this stands in opposition to the common view of interpreting as something that facilitates cooperation between cultures and nations where interpreting norms are observed. The recollections of some former concentration camp inmates illustrate the complex role a camp interpreter had to assume, in the face of tasks which went far beyond the allegedly neutral transfer of information from one language to another. In the camps, interpreting became a means of survival. The duties of translators and interpreters in KL Majdanek were no different in comparison to a Dolmetscher’s work in any of the other Nazi concentration camps in this respect. The prisoner-interpreters’ role included working as registrars and messengers as well as being responsible for the order in a particular block or Kommando. It has been stressed that surviving in the concentration camp without any knowledge of German was practically impossible, as communication and information were crucial in order to obtain—illegally— the bare necessities, such as food and clothing, as well as to avoid illness, overwork, and the brutality of SS guards. KL Majdanek, located in occupied Poland, was planned as a camp for Soviet POWs. For this reason, the Nazi administration recognized the necessity of interpreting and translating from German into Russian from the very beginning, when the camp was established. For this purpose, groups of Polish political prisoners were transported from other concentration camps to Majdanek as early as November 1941. They became a group of prisoner-interpreters and worked in each of the different fields at the camp. As in other concentration camps, the interpreter was a highly important figure at KL Majdanek. He had access to information which could be used to help other inmates or POWs in the camp, yet the task brought hardly any “privileges” with it, nor did it lead to exemption from other work. Interpreters were required not only to translate camp orders, rules, and regulations, but also to interpret at hearings and when new prisoners arrived at the camp. As the examples demonstrate, there were some cases where they could use their knowledge to soften the hardship for their fellow inmates. These reflections on the figure of the camp interpreter cast a new light on the complexities of interpreting and the dilemmas that the interpreters had to face.

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References APMM. The Majdanek State Museum Archives. Statements. Vol. VII–135, VII–245, VII–629. Barutczew, Suren K. [Barutchev Suren K.] (2011), “Jeńcy radzieccy” [Soviet POWs], in Marta Grudzińska (ed.), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w relacjach więźniów i świadków [Majdanek. The Concentration Camp in the Stories of Prisoners and Witnesses], 109–19, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Byrgazow, Nikołaj P. [Byrgasov Nikolai P.] (2011), “Listopadowa tragedia” [The Tragedy in November], in Marta Grudzińska (ed.), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w relacjach więźniów i świadków [Majdanek. The Concentration Camp in the Stories of Prisoners and Witnesses], 174–6, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Dobosiewicz, Stanisław (2000), W obronie życia i godności ludzkiej [In the Defense of Human Life and the Dignity], Warszawa: Wyd. Bellona. Gaiba, Francesca (1998), The Origins of Simultaneous Interpretation: The Nuremberg Trial, Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press. Geve, Thomas (2011), Un survivant d’Auschwitz [A Survivor of Auschwitz], Paris: Jean-Claude Gawsewitch. Gramling, David (2012), “An Other Unspeakability: Levi and Lagerszpracha,” New German Critique, 39(3): 165–87. Grudzińska, Marta, ed. (2011), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w relacjach więźniów i świadków [Majdanek. The Concentration Camp in the Stories of Prisoners and Witnesses], Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Gunia, Agnieszka (2006), “Język obozów koncentracyjnych” [Language in the Concentration Camps], Języki Specjalistyczne, 6: 50–60. Hale, Sandra (2007), Community Interpreting, Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Kosibowicz, Tadeusz (1980), “Lekarze w pasiakach” [Doctors in Stripes], in Anna Wiśniewska and Czesław Rajca (eds), Przeżyli Majdanek. Wspomnienia byłych więźniów obozu koncentracyjnego na Majdanku [They Survived Majdanek. Memoirs of Former Prisoners of the Concentration Camp in Majdanek], 39–48, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Levi, Primo (1958), Se questo è un uomo, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1986), I sommersi e i salvati, Torino: Einaudi. Levi, Primo (1987), If This Is a Man and The Truce, trans. Stuart Woolf, London: Abacus. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, London: Abacus. Malak, Henryk M. (1961), Klechy w obozie śmierci [Priests in a Death Camp], London: Veritas. Marszałek, Józef (1987), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w Lublinie [Majdanek. Concentration Camp in Lublin], Warszawa: Wyd. Interpress.

Interpreters in the Concentration Camp of Majdanek (1941–1944)  133 Morris, Ruth (1998), “Justice in Jerusalem: Interpreting in Israeli Legal Proceedings,” Meta, 43(1): 110–18. Musioł, Teodor (1971), Dachau 1939–1945. Katowice: Wyd. Śląsk. Plewik, Grzegorz (2001), “Więźniowie funkcyjni w obozie koncentracyjnym na Majdanku” [Prisoner Functionaries at Majdanek Concentration Camp], Zeszyty Majdanka, 21: 29–67. Pöllabauer, Sonia (2004), “Interpreting in Asylum Hearings. Issues of Role, Responsibility and Power,” Interpreting, 6(2): 143–75. Pym, Anthony (2012), On Translator Ethics. Principles for Mediation Between Cultures, Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Siwek-Ciupak, Beata (2001), “Lazaret dla inwalidów—byłych radzieckich jeńców wojennych na Majdanku w latach 1943–1944” [The Invalids’ Hospital for Former Soviet Prisoners of War at Majdanek 1943–1944], Zeszyty Majdanka, 21: 7–28. Stanisławki, Andrzej (1969), Pole śmierci [Fields of Death], Lublin: Wyd. Lubelskie. Sztaba, Romuald (2011), “Rewir” [Revier], in Marta Grudzińska (ed.), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w relacjach więźniów i świadków [Majdanek. The Concentration Camp in the Stories of Prisoners and Witnesses], 16–20, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2004), L’interprétation communautaire. Des normes et des rôles dans l’interprétation [Community Interpreting. On Norms and Roles in Interpreting], Warszawa: Wyd. TEPIS. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2010), “Interpreting in Nazi Concentration Camps During World War II,” Interpreting, 12(2): 125–45. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2011), “ ‘You say nothing. I will interpret.’ Interpreting in the Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp,” in Dimitri Asimakoulas and Margaret Rogers (eds), Translation and Opposition, 223–43, Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2012), “Ty nic nie mów, ja będę tłumaczył.” O etyce w tłumaczeniu ustnym [“Don’t Say Anything, I Will Interpret.” On Ethics in Oral Translation], Warszawa: Wyd. WLS. Tryuk, Małgorzata (2016), “Interpretation at the Trials of Nazi Criminals in Poland after WW II. The Case of the Supreme National Tribunal in Poland (1946–1948),” in Larisa Schippel, Julia Richter and Dörte Andres (eds), Translation und das “Dritte Reich” [Translation and the “Third Reich”], Berlin: Frank & Timme. Wesołowska, Danuta (1996), Słowa z piekła rodem. Lagerszpracha [The Words From Hell. The Lagerszpracha], Kraków: Oficyna Wydawnicza Impuls. Wiśniewska, Anna and Czesław Rajca (1997), Majdanek. The Concentration Camp of Lublin, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku. Wolf, Antoni (2011), “Więźniowie funkcyjni” [Prisoner Functionaries], in Marta Grudzińska (ed.), Majdanek. Obóz koncentracyjny w relacjach więźniów i świadków [Majdanek. The Concentration Camp in the Stories of Prisoners and Witnesses], 76–81, Lublin: Państwowe Muzeum na Majdanku.

8

“Deaf Holocaust”: Deaf Jews and Their “True” Communication in the Nazi Concentration Camps Mark Zaurov

Introduction Research on Deaf Jews1 in concentration camps is still in its infancy due to both a lack of interest and a lack of awareness. The latest estimate on the number of Deaf Jews in Europe before the Second World War lies between 6,000 and 25,000 (Vo 2007). This figure can only be narrowed down when the institutions responsible include key tags in their databases in order to facilitate research. According to SS selection criteria in the concentration camps, Deaf Jews were labeled arbeitsunfähig (incapable of working) since they were considered unworthy of life (lebensunwert) and as a consequence, they had no chance of survival. This label was adopted from the Nazi Laws of 1933 regarding disabled people. Deafness in general, and hereditary Deafness in particular, were categorized as disabilities. The infamous equation of deafness and mental retardation became a rule in the Nazi era. It had however always been present and even continues to be in effect today. Deaf people, however, do not consider themselves to be disabled. They rather identify as a linguistic and cultural minority. They have always been developing adaptive behaviors and skills necessary for day-to-day life that, for many, made a “normal” biography, that is, a “hearing” biography, possible. The few concentration camp memoirs and testimonies of Deaf Jewish people that we have illustrate their acute struggle for survival in the concentration camps, where the smallest hint of an individual’s deafness The distinction between “deaf ” and “Deaf ” is related to their respective meanings. While “deaf ” reflects the physical condition with reference to medical pathology and is rejected by the Deaf community, “Deaf ” reflects a cultural view of a linguistic minority group with its own history and heritage.

1

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meant immediate extinction. For example, Deaf people could not use sign language for communication but had to react properly at roll call. As a case in point, one Deaf Jew who survived wrote the number given to him by the camp authorities on the ground near his shoes at roll call and asked his neighbor to let him know when the number was called; after he had shown his hand, he simply rubbed the number out on the ground with his shoes. The number of Deaf Jews who survived the “Third Reich” and the way in which they managed to survive differs radically from the survival trajectories of both hearing Jews and non-Jewish prisoners. In this chapter, I will present some examples that serve to illustrate how Deaf people survived in an “oral” manner or with the help of hearing companions who served as “interpreters.” In general, Deaf Jews had family members “interpret” for them, primarily because they grew up together and thus knew the specific Deaf person’s means of communication. Today, it is common in various countries that the government provides for professional sign language interpreters with university degrees. This was also established in the wording of the UN Convention of the Rights of People with Disabilities (UN-CRPD 2006), which recognizes sign languages as the languages of the Deaf communities. The aim is to provide barrier-free access and communication for Deaf people. The current situation gives Deaf people the opportunity to demonstrate their knowledge and competence in society on a basis of equality. In many countries, however, where sign language interpreting is not provided for by law, language barriers continue to exist. Since the legislature is new and costly to apply, authorities nonetheless still cling to their old ways of tackling the communication problems they face when dealing with Deaf people, and they often use non-professional interpreters. However, unprofessional interpreters are often detrimental to communication between the hearing and the Deaf participants, who are forced to rely on an interpretation in which some of the utterances are falsified, blurred, or left out. The ongoing misunderstandings that ensue trigger a discriminatory chain of events, often concluding in a lasting impression of Deaf people as “dumb” and “mute.” “Deaf-mute” is a label Deaf people reject because they are neither one nor the other, considering that they do communicate using their sign language. This derogatory label furthermore connotes mental deprivation. In the context of the concentration camps, it was also connected with the term arbeitsunfähig. Today, the Deaf Jewish community is a double cultural minority, insofar as it remains in itself a transnational hybrid imagined community. The basic language of Deaf people is, as mentioned above, sign language. This language modality means that Deaf people have their own language culture, which

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differs depending on where they live. As their lives are intertwined with the country they live in, they can be seen as hybrid subjects: Deaf Jews have two “own” cultural worlds and are therefore, to cite Homi Bhabha (1994), settled in a kind of “third space” which incorporates both worlds. Furthermore, this space also hosts the Jewry. Some are atheists, others are orthodox, but they relate naturally to one another as Jews. In a similar way, this can also be applied to Deaf people: some have grown up as “oralists” (i.e., they do not use sign language but use lip-reading, etc.), while others have grown up with sign language, especially within Deaf families. Those who prefer lipreading do so because sign language and Deaf culture are historically seen as occupying a lower social status in both Jewish and non-Jewish communities. Deaf people face audism:2 compared to hearing people; they are generally considered to have a lower human status in society (Bauman 2004: 239). Deaf Jews are furthermore often confronted with anti-Semitism in the Deaf community. This also explains their status as a double cultural minority, both in the past and today (Zaurov 2003: 73–101). Since Deaf Jews were neither welcome in the Jewish, nor in the Deaf communities, they established their own organizations and national associations in Germany, Austria, Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Lithuania, Latvia, etc., before the Nazis came to power and began their systematic destruction (Ben-Rafael et al. 2009, Zaurov 2013). The members of these once flourishing communities felt a sense of belonging that, in many cases, was much stronger than the ties to their own families. This bond constituted their transnational and “imagined communities.”

Historical background of the term arbeitsunfähig The term arbeitsfähig (capable of work) is closely connected to the fate of Deaf people in the Nazi era. In the “Third Reich,” it was an ultima ratio definition. Everyone—including Deaf people—who was not arbeitsfähig was looked upon as a useless part of society and deemed unworthy of life (lebensunwert). Deaf people were lebensunwert, therefore arbeitsunfähig, and were to be “removed” from the “useful” members of society. Against this background, the “Law for the Prevention of Genetically Diseased Offspring” was enacted in 1933. Several groups of people were listed and forced to be sterilized, among them “hereditary Deaf.” The idea of sterilization did not originate in the “Third Reich,” but had been developed in the nineteenth century in the discourse pertaining to the eugenics discussion in the USA, The term audism was coined by Tom Humphries (1975).

2

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which resulted in the sterilization laws in the state of Indiana in 1917. The Great Depression had contributed to the idea of sterilizing disabled people. The scope of the law in Germany with regard to disabled people was significantly broader than the scope of the compulsory sterilization laws in the USA. In order to uphold a discussion on the new planned legislation on sterilization, and in order to save Deaf people from its awful consequences, the German Deaf association, known under the acronym REGEDE (Reichsverband der Gehörlosen Deutschlands), was established in 1927 (Zaurov 2009c: 182). Fritz Albreghs was elected as their first president. He retired at the end of 1928, after physically and verbally attacking a Deaf Jewish board member, Willy Oppenheimer (2009c: 180). Deaf Jews were among the founders of REGEDE and were also board members from the association’s beginning. REGEDE produced an all-Deaf movie called Verkannte Menschen (Misjudged People) in 1932. In this forceful film, Deaf people were shown arbeitsfähig. The Jewish school for Deaf children in Berlin, known as ITA (Israelitische Taubstummen-Anstalt in Berlin-Weißensee 1873–1942), was presented as an example of academically ambitious education for Deaf children (2009c: 180). In 1933, however, after Adolf Hitler and the NSDAP seized power, their Deaf member and leader of the NSDAP-office for the Deaf in Berlin, Fritz Albreghs, became the president of the newly reorganized NS-REGEDE. He had been the representative for Deaf NSDAPmembers in Berlin since 1931 (2009c: 182). As a consequence, Deaf Jewish members were excluded both from REGEDE and from the non-Jewish Deaf community and their sterilization was promoted as a due and “positive” contribution to national progress. The widely spread agitation slogan for sterilization announced this measure as a “sacrifice for the fatherland.” Since Deaf people were spared from the sacrifice of joining the Wehrmacht (Biesold 1988: 98), they were expected to concede their fertility. To date, my research has revealed that only Deaf Halbjuden (“half Jews”) were sterilized, but Deaf Jews without additional disabilities were not. There were, however, some voluntary Deaf soldiers such as members of the “Organisation Todt” (Zaurov Interview Drese 2004), as well as Deaf SAtroops in several cities. The fact that the slogan for sterilization was used by officials who were Deaf themselves demonstrates that “the Deaf community is not immune to ideologies of oppression,” as Bauman points out (2008: 11). Furthermore, while some of the Deaf Germans who supported the National Socialist ideology had themselves sterilized voluntarily (Biesold 1988: 102), their Jewish peers with whom they had been socializing at the Deaf associations not long before then were deported to concentration camps.

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Stories of Deaf Jewish survivors Several survivors describe how they saved their lives by concealing the fact that they were Deaf Jews—for example by not signing in public—since they knew that they would have been shot or selected for the gas chambers if they were spotted. The nexus between signing and death warrant was clearly illustrated with reference to Morris Field’s story in a lecture by Simon J.  Carmel (Vo 2007). According to Carmel, Field had learned that staying away from other openly signing Deaf inmates at the camp would save his life. The group who had been signing disappeared one day after Field noticed them, whereas he survived five concentration camps. To the Germans, his awkward voice blended with the foreign voices of many other inmates and his deafness went unnoticed.3 Another Deaf inmate, Klara Erdosis, was told “to separate herself from the other three deaf women” by her hearing sister and similarly never saw them again (Schuchman 2002: 194). Other survivors did not speak, knowing that their Deaf voices would have been easy to identify. One mother who had dressed her Deaf boy as a girl in order to hide the fact that he was circumcised from German soldiers also told her son not to open his mouth in order to conceal his voice (Teger 1987).4 Peter Farrago was ten years old at the time of Nazi occupation of Hungary. He was in the Orosháza ghetto with his mother waiting to be deported. Upon arrival at the Bergen-Belsen-camp in Germany, he was separated from his mother. His signing was noticed by Pavel, another boy in the camp who was a hearing child of Deaf parents, who “cautioned [Farrago] to be quiet and stop the gestures” (Schuchman 2002: 176). They only communicated with gestures and signs at night. Although Farrago could not understand the reason, Pavel did not allow him to “sign openly” (2002: 176). The boys stuck together until they were liberated by Allied troops. In the following section, I will present three examples from interviews I conducted over the course of several years and at the Sixth DHI Conference in Berlin 2006. Jacob (Ferenc) Ehrenfeld (Zaurov 2004c, 2006, 2008, 2015) was a Hungarian Deaf Jew from the same strictly oral school as Peter Farrago. At the age of eleven, he was deported along with his mother and sister from the Ghetto in Debrecen to a transit camp, where a farmer happened to be looking for forty laborers. According to his account, this saved his life. He assumed that the others were taken to a concentration camp. After the See also Anna Vos-van Dam below. Deaf Mosaic is an American TV-broadcast from the 1980s and 1990s. See Gallaudet University (2013).

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harvest they were transported to Vienna, Austria. Following the arrival of the Allied troops, they were relocated, again on foot, from Vienna along the river Danube to the KZ Mauthausen (Zaurov interview 2004, 2008, 2015 and panel 2006 in Zaurov 2009a, 2010). Ehrenfeld communicated with his mother and sister using lip reading, speaking, “home signs,” and with the help of the two-handed sign system. His mother taught him some German words such as “bitte,” “danke,” “Wasser,” and “Brot” so that he could speak properly. He would use his skills to scavenge for bread in a Viennese bakery where he exposed the “Deafmute” writing that his mother had sewn onto his armband while concealing the yellow star. By the time they arrived at the Mauthausen death camp,5 his mother had fallen fatally ill and Ehrenfeld was left to fend for himself. However, he did not need an interpreter to survive the camp. As the only Deaf son of non-signing hearing parents, and having enjoyed an excellent oral-based education in Hungarian and German, he had learned to pass as hearing and to keep his wits about him. Moses Blatt (Zaurov Interview 2004a) was born in 1919 in a small village near Łódź, where his parents owned a factory. He shared his experiences with me in his native language, which was German sign language with a Łódź accent. The accent was particularly evident in his hand shapes. Blatt was imprisoned at Auschwitz, where he had to wear not just one, but two Stars of David—one on his chest and another on his back—according to the rules at Auschwitz. He recalled how he was once supposed to join other prisoners in a line that was designated for the gas chambers. He survived by not raising his hand. Consequently, he was the only one in the group who was spared from a certain death. He is convinced that God had intervened in time to prevent him from raising his hand when his name was called. Blatt does not explain his survival with the reasoning that not hearing the order is what saved his life. He rather identifies with Moses, whose hand, according to the Old Testament, was led by God to grab the coal instead of reaching for the gold and diamonds. This proved to the Pharaoh that Moses was not going to take his throne, so God’s intervention, sending the angel Gabriel to guide the child’s hand, saved Moses’ life but harmed his tongue and caused his speech defect. So, by avoiding sign language communication, Moses Blatt was able to survive Auschwitz. The last story I will refer to is that of Anna Vos-van Dam (Zaurov Interview 2004d and panel 2006 in Zaurov 2009b, 2010), who worked as a forced laborer in Leipzig, and survived both the concentration camps of Ravensbrück and Auschwitz and the Death March at the end of the War. There were no selection procedures in the death camp Mauthausen when he arrived.

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She was born in 1926 in Antwerp. During the Nazi occupation, her family tried to escape to London via Calais but were hindered by the German troops. The family fled from Antwerp to Brussels because of Anna’s health problems. Anna was suffering from having to hide in the basement and from social isolation, as she could not meet with other Deaf people as usual. She had to leave the Deaf school without a graduation certificate because she was Jewish. In Brussels, she had the opportunity to meet other people and to find work using false identification cards. One day, while she was staying with other Jewish families, she was arrested and dragged to a basement where she was held for three days before being sent to the transit camp Mechelen. Anna had a Deaf nephew and communicated with him in sign language; a guard was watching them and asked if they were Deaf. When they nodded, they were given a badge saying Taubstumm (Deafmute). One might assume that this was a helpful gesture since the badge avoided misunderstandings. If commands were not followed, there was an immediate and visible explanation that they could not hear and they would not be punished for disobedience. Eventually, however, the badge would mean severe punishment or death. Later, Anna and her family were deported to Auschwitz. After the train had arrived at Auschwitz, they were separated and divided into several groups: her parents and her little sister were put in one group and her hearing niece remained with her in another group. A prisoner unloading luggage off the train noticed her badge and looked around to see if anyone was looking. Then he begged Anna to remove the badge. She clutched her badge and shook her head, afraid that she would be shot. The man insisted desperately and implored her to take it off. As her hearing niece advised her to follow him, she finally obeyed and removed it. Then Anna saw her deaf nephew walking away, and she waved her arm to draw his attention. She frenetically signed, “Badge off! Badge off!” He turned to blow a kiss to her, signing, “Good-bye.” She shook her head and signed again for him to remove the badge but he waved good-bye once again and blew kisses, and then he was gone—forever. At the concentration camp, she was assigned the job of carrying train tracks. Anna was also beaten on her back with a stick. Being Deaf, she was mostly unable to understand the orders of the SS. She had not told anyone that she was Deaf and behaved like a hearing person, with her niece as her “interpreter.” Once the German commander gave a command with his fingers to run. She misunderstood and ran in the wrong direction; as a consequence, she was punished with beatings. The prisoners saw the beatings and covered their faces with their hands, as they knew she was Deaf. The beatings were agonizing and exhausted her, injuring her so severely that she felt their effects until her death in 2014, and suffered persistent pain in her back and legs.

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I asked her if her voice had ever been recognized. She replied that there were many Jews from different countries and the Nazis thought that her voice was an accent of some kind.

Deaf Holocaust Both the Deaf Jews of Europe who miraculously managed to survive the Nazi concentration camps and those who perished during the Second World War represent the Deaf Holocaust. The term does not, however, refer to the disabled Germans who were ruthlessly killed under the enactment of the T4 program, nor to the victims of forced sterilization. “Forced Sterilization” only pertains to the 1933 law against hereditary disability. It has nothing to do with the Holocaust, which was about killing and burning the Jews in the gas chambers. The original meaning of the term Holocaust relates to sacrificial burning. The word Holokaust comes from the Greek Holokauston, signifying complete burning. The term has also been used to refer to complete destruction or consumption by fire, or to a large-scale massacre, Louis VII’s “a holocaust of 1300 people in a burned church” (Oxford English Dictionary 2014).6 In the Nazi concentration camps, the bodies of murdered Jews were burned until they were reduced to dust and ashes. Today, the word is mostly used in connection with the mass extermination of Jews. Seventy years after the end of the Second World War, we have learned how very dangerous it was for a hearing Jew to be on a guarded train heading for the death camps. Since communication between Deaf and hearing family members tends to be superficial and cumbersome, Deaf Jews could not even turn to the close family members they were with for orientation or solace. It is almost impossible to imagine the desperation of the Deaf Jews, whether they were children or adults. It is utterly impossible to overestimate the effects of having no understanding at all of how to behave during deportation, of being obliged to hide one’s identity as a Deaf person and, especially, of having to hide one’s awkward voice and yet find some way of communicating with the “others.” However, this does not mean that they could not survive without interpreters. Some survived by acting as if they could hear, but compared to their hearing camp mates, the struggle of the Deaf Jews for survival in the camps entailed tremendous additional challenges.7 For this reason, I would like to introduce the term According to the Oxford English Dictionary (2014), the citation comes from Leith Ritchie’s Wanderings by the Loire (1833). 7 See also the conclusion in Schuchman (2002: 193). 6

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“Deaf Holocaust” in order to help grasp the dramatic circumstances to which Deaf Jews were exposed in the Holocaust (Zaurov 2009c: 173–97). Categorized as arbeitsunfähig, most Deaf Jews were probably killed immediately after the selection procedures in the concentration camps. They were supposed to wear signs to immediately demonstrate their deafness, which would expose them as lebensunwert, in addition to the Star of David. The survival stories of Deaf Jews and their post-war memories are delivered to us in their testimonies which enable us to discuss them within the framework of the Deaf Holocaust and as part of Deaf history. However, these biographies also contain precious information for Holocaust studies in general. An interdisciplinary discussion beyond the scope of Deaf and disability studies would, I believe, contribute to modernizing the history of the Holocaust in a broader sense. It is also time to listen to insiders and experts from Deaf communities to provide funds to transcribe the video testimonies of Deaf survivors from several sign languages into written text and to provide subtitles. Today, many testimonies remain unpublished. Transcriptions of these testimonies—see, as a case in point, Zaurov’s unpublished interviews (2004–2015)—would allow Deaf and hearing researchers to access the material and join our discussion about the Deaf Holocaust. This material, including a DVD documenting the panel discussions at the sixth DHI Conference (Zaurov 2010), could be used by schools, universities, and research institutions outside the Deaf community and by researchers with no knowledge of sign language. Research into the Deaf Holocaust can thus make a significant contribution to the large mosaic of the Holocaust.

References Bauman, H.-Dirksen L. (2004), “Audism: Exploring the Metaphysics of Oppression,” Journal of Deaf Studies and Deaf Education, 9(2): 239–46. Bauman, H.-Dirksen L., ed. (2008), Open Your Eyes. Deaf Studies Talking, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ben-Rafael, Elezier, Judit Bokser Liwerant, Yosef Gorny and Yitzhak Sternberg, eds (2009), Transnationalism. Diasporas and the Advent of a New (Dis)order, Leiden: Brill. Bhabha, Homi K. (1994), The Location of Culture, London: Routledge. Biesold, Horst (1988), Klagende Hände. Betroffenheit und Spätfolgen in Bezug auf das Gesetz zur Verhütung erbkranken Nachwuchses, dargestellt am Beispiel der “ ‘Taubstummen” [Lamenting Hands. Dismay and the Lasting Effects of the Law for the Prevention of Genetically Diseased Offspring, Illustrated with Reference to “Deaf-Mutes”], Solms-Oberbiel: Jarick Oberbiel Press.

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Gallaudet University (2013), “Deaf Mosaic.” Available online: http:// videocatalog.gallaudet.edu/?category=21 (accessed August 25, 2015). Humphries, Tom L. (1975), “Audism: The Making of a Word,” Academic Paper, Union Graduate School, Cincinnati. Oxford English Dictionary (2014), “Holocaust.” Available online: http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/87793?rskey=Gdd21E&result=1& isAdvanced=false#eid (accessed August 25, 2015). Schuchman, John S. (2002), “Hungarian Deaf Jews and the Holocaust,” in Donna F. Ryan and John S. Schuchman (eds), Deaf People in Hitler’s Europe, 1933–1945, 169–201, Washington, DC: Gallaudet University Press. Teger, Stanley (1987), “Deaf Mosaic,” in Gallaudet University (ed.), Gallaudet Video Library. Deaf Mosaic 309, Washington, DC: Gallaudet University. Available online: http://videocatalog.gallaudet.edu/?video=1611 (accessed August 25, 2015). UN-CRPD, United Nations Convention of the Rights of People with Disabilities (2006). Available online: http://www.un.org/disabilities/default.asp?id=150 (accessed August 25, 2015). Vo, Vy (2007), “Testimonies of Deaf Holocaust Survivors,” Daily Gazette Swarthmore College, 28 October. Available online: http://daily.swarthmore .edu/2007/10/28/testimonies-of-deaf-holocaust-survivors/ (accessed August 25, 2015). Zaurov, Mark (2003), Gehörlose Juden: Eine doppelte kulturelle Minderheit [Deaf Jews: A Double Cultural Minority], Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Zaurov, Mark (2009a), “Panel: Jacob Ehrenfeld,” in Mark Zaurov and Klaus-B. Günther (eds), Overcoming the Past, Determining its Consequences and Finding Solutions for the Present. A Contribution for Deaf Studies and Sign Language Education. Proceedings of the 6th Deaf History International Conference 31 July–4 August, 2006, at the Humboldt University, Berlin, 235–45, Seedorf: Signum. Zaurov, Mark (2009b), “Panel: Anna Vos-van Dam,” in Mark Zaurov and Klaus-B. Günther (eds), Overcoming the Past, Determining its Consequences and Finding Solutions for the Present. A Contribution for Deaf Studies and Sign Language Education. Proceedings of the 6th Deaf History International Conference 31 July–4 August, 2006, at the Humboldt University, Berlin, 247–52, Seedorf: Signum. Zaurov, Mark (2009c), “Deaf Holokaust,” in Mark Zaurov and Klaus-B. Günther (eds), Overcoming the Past, Determining its Consequences and Finding Solutions for the Present. A Contribution for Deaf Studies and Sign Language Education. Proceedings of the 6th Deaf History International Conference 31 July–4 August, 2006, at the Humboldt University, Berlin, 173–97, Seedorf: Signum. Zaurov, Mark, ed. (2010), Interviews about Deaf Holocaust, Forced Sterilization and Deaf Hitler Youth. 3 DVDs. Available online: http://www.igjad.de (accessed August 25, 2015).

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Zaurov, Mark (2013), “Taube Juden als transnationale ‘hybrid imagined community’: Ein Forschungsgegenstand im Spannungsfeld von Deaf History und Deaf Studies” [Deaf Jews as Transnational “Hybrid Imagined Community”: A Field of Research Located Between Deaf History and Deaf Studies], Das Zeichen, 27(94): 246–55.

Unpublished Interviews

Zaurov, Mark (2004a), Moses Blatt. Berlin/Germany. Zaurov, Mark (2004b), Hermann Drese. Gelsenkirchen/Germany. Zaurov, Mark (2004c, 2006, 2008, 2015), Jacob Ehrenfeld. Tel Aviv/Israel. Zaurov, Mark (2004d), Anna Vos-van Dam. Ede/Netherland.

Part Four

Translating the Legacy of the Holocaust

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“L’ écrit reste. L’ écrit est une trace, tandis que les paroles s’ envolent”: On the Hermeneutics of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs Peter Kuon

Introduction Quel che resta di Auschwitz (Remnants of Auschwitz) (1998) is the title of a famous essay by Giorgio Agamben. All that remains of Auschwitz as it is understood from a modern perspective as a cipher for the Shoah, encompassing the entire process of deportation, detention, and instant and gradual extermination, is writing. Nazi concentration camp survivors have shared their memories in hundreds, if not thousands, of accounts in all known European languages. Most of their texts have been published, yet few are well known. The lack of interest in the written remnants of the catastrophe seems to prove Hannah Arendt’s early dictum that they are “conspicuously monotonous.”1 The perceived monotony might, however, simply be the result of a superficial reading that reduces the memoirs to bare facts, particularly in relation to the atrocities described in the texts. Perhaps we should take the words of Roger Gouffault, a communist mechanic, resistance fighter, and survivor of Mauthausen concentration camp, into account: L’ écrit reste. L’ écrit est une trace, tandis que les paroles s’ envolent. Le livre, qui est un écrit long, permet de prendre le temps. De montrer Translated by Andreas Wagner, including the translations of the quotations unless otherwise attributed. 1 “There are numerous reports by survivors [and they are conspicuously monotonous]. The more authentic they are, the less they attempt to communicate things that evade human understanding and human experience—suffering, that is, that transforms men into ‘uncomplaining animals’ ” (Arendt 1951: 414). The text in square brackets was added to the 1955 German edition.

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la progression, l’ évolution des choses. Et donc de les comprendre. (Gouffault 2003: 10)2

He asks us to read his memoir as a “remnant” that cannot be understood immediately, but needs to be interpreted as a “trace.” In this chapter, I will develop—both theoretically and methodologically—a hermeneutic concept for working with survivors’ accounts: a science or art of interpreting and understanding them. In so doing, I will address the question of what steps need to be taken in order to understand the recollected accounts of Nazi concentration camp survivors. In this context, understanding is by no means limited to finding one right answer or one truth; what is meant here is an understanding that is appropriate to the object and that does justice to it. This approach, which is hermeneutic in the sense of Schleiermacher and his contemporary adherents (Ricoeur 1977: 183–4), requires the research process to focus directly on the object that is to be understood.

The testimonial character of survivor memoirs What exactly is the nature of the object in question here? Survivor texts can be accounts, autobiographies, poems, plays, narratives, documents, drawings, speeches, diaries, novels, descriptions, historiographic analyses, even PhD theses. The one thing these texts share is their testimonial character. A witness is someone who has observed an event and talks about it. The authority of a witness is based on the provable statement of having been at a given event (Dulong 1998: 56) and on an explicit and declared public commitment to telling the truth. When the event in question can be considered as an individual or collective catastrophe, such as the concentration camps and the Shoah, the task of a witness is not simply a matter of verifying individual facts. Rather, the truth declared by survivors in their texts not only encompasses the historic and legal facts that need to be proven; it also depicts their immediate and personal experience of a level of distress to which the reader was not subjected. Humiliation, terror, hunger, disease, and death in the concentration camps are factors that witnesses not only observed from the outside, but actually experienced themselves—horrific events that are “inscribed” into them (Neuhofer 2008: 275). This “existential concern” (Louwagie 2007: 55) explains the autobiographical dimension of The written text remains. The written text is a trace, whereas words fly away. The book, which is a long piece of writing, allows you to take time. To show the progression, the evolution of things. And thus to comprehend them.

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witness accounts, in which authors seek to recreate their personal identity through a process of symbolization using language as a medium (Ricoeur 1990: 175). Survivor accounts aim to describe both the superindividual truth of a “savoir-déporté” (“deported knowledge”) (Stern 2004: 108) with reference to knowledge of the living conditions in a concentration camp, and the individual truth pertaining to personal identity. Most researchers agree that survivors’ texts should be viewed as testimonies in the sense described above. However, such an attribution is worthless if it is not carried through in a reading that lives up to the testimonial value of the texts. Reading survivors’ texts as testimonies would mean avoiding using them for second order purposes such as lawyers trying to find legally useful evidence in them, historians using them as more or less reliable sources for historiography, or literary scholars evaluating their literary and aesthetic qualities. It would mean examining a testimony according to its own rules, as the verbal or textual expression of an individual truth (Neuhofer 2008: 277)—which, ultimately, is what it always and irreducibly is. Reading the text in such a way, perceiving it as an autonomous whole, an individual entity, is a specifically hermeneutic approach. At this point, one might be tempted to ask whether such an effort is in fact necessary in order to understand the survivors’ texts we are talking about. In most cases, we are not dealing with complicated or even experimental literature, but with texts written by survivors of different origins and educational backgrounds about decisive turning points in their lives: imprisonment, deportation, detention, liberation, returning home. Few of these survivors are experienced professional writers and thus their language is rarely elaborate or literary, but mostly colloquial and blunt, sometimes even clumsy and flawed. At first glance, their texts are easily understandable, albeit hard to take in. However, their accessibility is misleading: it hides the constitutive complexity inherent to all survivor text, which is that every witness account describes both an individual and a collective borderline experience, expressed by authors who struggled to recall and put into words the incomprehensible experiences they went through. Understanding means re-discovering this borderline experience through the process of reading.

The heterogeneity of survivor memoirs In almost all cases, the authors—whether they received literary training or not—have to go to the limits of their expressive capacities in order to depict their experiences. The extent to which the authors are overwhelmed is

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mirrored by the diverse, sometimes conflicting, aims the density of which becomes evident in the text. At the same time, these texts are meant to be an authentic depiction of the reality of the camps, as if language were capable of creating transparency; a detailed report of an objective truth as if there were no memory gaps; an individual account of a subjective truth, which nonetheless shies away from portraying the wretched state of the self at the camp; a memorial to the victims of the past firmly rooted in the present; a direct textual communication with the reader that precludes mediation, simple language that aims to be understood without recourse to rhetoric. The testimonies of survivors of the Nazi concentration camps often incorporate colliding functions of the linguistic sign: references to factual realities (referential function), expressions of subjective experiences (expressive function), engagement with the audience (conative function), and constitutions of textual sense (representational function) fundamentally conflict with each other (Kuon 2013: 53). A few sentences taken from the epilogue of Parisian post office clerk Maurice Delfieu’s memoirs published in 1946 may serve to illustrate the heterogeneity that can be found in most survivor memoirs: Les épisodes que j’ai racontés à mes lecteurs, dans les pages qui précèdent, auront réussi, je l’espère, à évoquer cette atmosphère à la fois tragique et burlesque dans laquelle nous nous débattions sans répit. J’ai fait défiler avec le plus d’ exactitude possible, sans l’ embellir, sans l’ assombrir, sans le romancer, le cortège des loqueteux, des crève-lafaim, des suppliciés et des moribonds. Ils se sont reconnus dans cette troupe sinistre. Et je n’ai pas hésité à mettre au milieu, que dis-je, en tête du cortège, l’un des plus pitoyables d’ entre eux, ce moi importun, dont les élans, les erreurs et les défaillances, s’ils autorisent parfois un jugement sévère, méritent peut-être aussi un peu d’indulgence […]. (Delfieu 1946: 189)3

The author first emphasizes the accuracy of his description, claiming to have depicted reality as it was, without altering anything by means of idealization, I hope that the episodic stories I have described to my readers on the preceding pages could evoke the tragic, yet burlesque atmosphere in which we had to fight for our lives every single minute. With the utmost exactitude and without embellishments, without obscuring or fictionalizing, I revived the train of ragged, hungry, tormented, and doomed inmates. They will have recognized themselves as members of this grim troop. And I did not hesitate to put one of the most miserable among them at the center, or rather, at the front; this inconvenient self, whose outbursts, mistakes, and weaknesses surely deserve to be judged severely at times, but perhaps also indulged […].

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exaggerating, or even fictionalizing representation techniques. The extent to which he was successful can only be judged by other survivors, fellow inmates who may or may not recognize themselves in his descriptive portraits. At the same time, however, the author is not interested in portraying real people and objects, attempting rather to capture the unreal, simultaneously tragic and burlesque atmosphere in which the camp inmates were forced to live. From this perspective, his writing project does not aim to describe the reality in the camp, but rather to evoke the collective experience of all the inmates. Finally, the author admits that his main goal in writing was to depict himself, for which he apologizes to the reader, as he himself finds it somewhat embarrassing. One might come to the conclusion that it is this very awkwardness that forces Delfieu to write about himself in order to redefine his identity after returning home. With the author’s confession, his account forfeits its claim to the truthfulness that could be judged by his fellow inmates. Thus, his text becomes an autobiographical account that cannot achieve anything more than to reveal the subjective truth of a single individual self. The reliability of this subjective truth depends on the author’s willingness to admit his own errors and mistakes. The heterogeneity of a writing project might seem to be a weakness when evaluating the aesthetics of a given text. For a hermeneutic approach, however, it is the methodological key to understanding “ordinary” survivor memoirs, that is, testimonies written without any specific literary training or literary ambitions. Diverse writing strategies and linguistic or conceptual flaws are symptomatic of the difficult task of speaking about the seemingly unspeakable: experience of the camps. They expose, so to speak, the author’s stigmata in the body of his text. The heuristic value of heterogeneity is to make possible a reading in which hidden aspects can be found under the surface of textual disruptions, thus revealing the traumatic reason for writing (Kuon 2013: 84, 367–8).

Reading survivors’ memoirs: Methodological principles How, then, can we recognize that which is untold, suppressed, or traumatized between the lines of that which is told? The reading I would like to suggest is based on three methodological principles: individualization, comparison, and contextualization (Kuon 2013: 85–6). First of all, the individuality of each text must be respected. This methodological principle is also a moral imperative, as an interpretation of a given text brings back to life the singular person who survived and wrote about the atrocities of a Nazi concentration camp. It is the aim of a

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hermeneutic reading to make the distinctive voice of an author audible, to make his or her individual style of writing readable, and to determine the specific way in which she or he depicts the reality that he or she experienced and survived. Every text has its own logic. Every author has his or her own writing project, regardless of the extent to which she or he is in control of the text, or the extent of his or her literary mastery, or whether or not there are self-contradictions in the text. From a hermeneutic perspective, contradictions, clumsiness, and mistakes are not to be seen as flaws, but rather as symptoms of the difficult task of putting individual experiences into words. It is no coincidence that syntactic structures collapse when remembering torture; that language fails in the description of a hanging; that the humiliated inmate is rarely called “I” in retrospect, etc. With such a “symptomatological reading” (Kuon 2013: 368), critical judgment is suspended—for the moment—in order to understand the reasons for mistakes pertaining to memory and verbalization. In order to capture the individuality of a text, it needs to be compared to other texts. Thus, a prerequisite for the second methodological principle is creating corpora, in and between which useful comparisons can be made.4 When creating a corpus, one has to consider the differences between individual camps and differences in the perception of national, religious, political, and ideological groups as well as the time of deportation, the length of internment, the hierarchy in the camp, etc. Ad hoc comparisons must be avoided. To provide an example: a corpus of all French memory-based accounts dealing with the camp complex of Mauthausen makes it possible to examine how differently French inmates—all of whom considered themselves to be resistance fighters—experienced and later described key moments of their deportation. Important events such as arrival, Christmas, or liberation, or everyday experiences such as dehumanization, violence, death, or support and solidarity, can be used as examples by which to compare texts dialogically and determine individual writing strategies. When one author wrote several texts over a long period of time, a constant change of perspective is notable in relation to his or her experience of the camp, depending on the particular period in which the text was written (liberation, Cold War, Hungarian Revolution, Auschwitz trials, revisionism, 50th anniversary, etc.). When different authors write about the same situation of imprisonment, later witness accounts might comment on earlier ones The KZ-memoria scripta Archives at Salzburg University (http://www.kz-memoria.net) put together coherent corpora of survivor texts about various different concentration camps.

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and reveal something that had previously been hidden because of political beliefs or personal embarrassment. Such a polyphonic approach, including harmonies and dissonances, reconsiderations and echoes, makes it possible to break down the complexity of subjectively perceived realities and their retrospective depictions. Yet working with homogeneous corpora is still a relatively uncommon research practice, which might be explained by the fact that to date there are no adequately complete records or archives of witness accounts from any single camp complex. Assuming that memories and their depictions always depend on the current present, it is important to consider the third methodological principle of contextualization, which involves carefully reconstructing the historical context in which the text was written and published. This referential context, which might also be termed zeitgeist, has a strong, yet often underestimated influence that the actors themselves, including authors, publishers, critics, and readers, are rarely aware of. It is by no means the case that everything can be said and written in any specific society at any given time and in any desired way. Untimely publishing, going against the cultural mainstream, can lead to texts being held back, disregarded, or suppressed. In French post-war society, for example, the Mauthausen narratives Ceux qui vivent (1947) by Jean Laffitte, La dernière forteresse (1950) by Pierre Daix, and Les triomphants (1953) by Paul Tillard were successful. They all share the imagery of a heroic war of resistance, fought mainly by communist inmates and leading to successful self-liberation shortly before the arrival of the USAmerican soldiers, who were portrayed as incapable of dealing with the situation. This narrative pattern is in line with the résistance myth and is the basis for a collective narrative that was used by French concentration camp survivors in their witness accounts for a long time. Texts that did not match the pattern received little to no attention. An example for this would be the impressive witness account Les morts inutiles (1946), written by prisoner physician François Wetterwald and published by the reputable résistance publisher Éditions de Minuit, in which the author bluntly describes the process of dehumanization in the concentration camp at Ebensee. Following pressure from the communist party, Wetterwald’s book had to be withdrawn from sale immediately after its release (Simonin 1994: 271–2). Other heterodox witness accounts, especially those by Jewish survivors, met similar fates shortly after the war and could only be published by small publishers or by the authors themselves. To date, only very little research has been carried out on the interplay between collective narratives that were typical of a certain period and divergent survivors’ testimonials that were either scandalized or simply ignored.

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Reading survivor memoirs: Interpretative results The reading mode I suggest here reveals individual experiences, memories, and renderings in witness accounts and relates them to collective narratives by means of comparison. The following examples refer to the moment when new deportees were shaved from head to toe as part of the arrival procedure at the main camp of Mauthausen. The first example is an extract from a witness account written by an Italian priest called Don Sante Bartolai, who up to this point uses fluent Italian to describe his capture and deportation. The sophisticated writing style of an educated person breaks down as soon as Bartolai starts to describe the arrival procedure: L’ operazione è affidata a giovani pederasti, prigionieri anch’ essi, ma protetti dai carcerieri – perché loro compagni di sozzure – i quali adoperano rasoi arrugginiti, senza sapone, compiendo atti lubrici e crudeltà infinite. Quanti tagli sui nostri poveri corpi!! Quanto sangue! (Bartolai 1966: 53)5

The author is taken back to a traumatic situation, reliving it in the present as a scene of rape where the barbers, all of them homosexuals, satisfy their “perverted” tendencies by torturing and hurting him. The violence he suffers is mirrored in a language of violence that transfers his subjective perception at the time into the present context without filtering it, toning it down, or shifting to a different perspective. Presumably, the author must have known that it was objectively wrong to claim that every single barber was a young homosexual sadist. If we compare this passage to the way in which communist resistance fighter Jean Laffitte describes the shaving process, it is evident that he completely blanks out the painful and moreover the degrading aspects of the humiliating procedure: Mais voilà le plus beau. [U]n spécialiste me rase de haut en bas avec, je dois reconnaître, beaucoup d’habileté. Un autre, non moins habile, fait tomber avec sa tondeuse, mon épaisse chevelure en quelques secondes. Je me retourne et j’aperçois André, rasé de la tête aux pieds. The task is performed by young pederasts, inmates themselves, but protected by the guards since they play along with their dirty deeds. They use rusty razors, without soap, and perform lewd acts of endless cruelty. How many cuts on our poor bodies!! How much blood!

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Il est méconnaissable et d’un comique irrésistible, mais c’est lui qui m’interpelle. “Eh bien, mon vieux, t’en as une bille!” (Laffitte 1947: 121)6

The communist party activist depicts himself and his comrades as tough men who are able to joke about the Nazis attacking their physical integrity. Their laughter demonstrates superiority and is part of a behavior that is typical of the résistance narrative. Similarly, Gilbert Debrise, who was never exposed as a communist Jew (his real name was Dreyfus), makes no mention of any hurtful or traumatic experiences in connection with the shaving ritual. In his account, he retains an amused distance and remains completely impersonal, ending with a description of the pleasantness of a warm shower: On nous arrache nos défroques, sous l’œil amusé d’un officier S.S. qui flagelle quelques dos au passage et sourit aux anges. On nous fait galoper le long d’une avenue, dévaler des escaliers, pénétrer dans une salle souterraine où des hommes en blouse blanche, émules du docteur Caligari, nous couvrent la poitrine de signes cabalistiques au crayon gras. On nous tond le crâne. On nous hisse sur des tabourets. On nous rase des pieds à la tête, aisselles, pubis, en moins de dix secondes. Puis on nous bouscule vers les douches. Douche chaude, enveloppante, tonifiante … Qui donc parlait tout à l’heure de sommeil, de lassitude? (Debrise 1946: 42–3)7

Debrise’s future colleague in the Ebensee camp, who, like him, worked and survived as a prisoner physician, was the surgeon and Catholic résistant François Wetterwald. In his Les morts inutiles, also published in 1946, he draws a much more pessimistic picture of the degrading rite of passage. He, too, illustrates his first impression of the barbers’ hall with reference to a famous film, in this case Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, particularly in relation to the effect of the lights in the underground workplace of the oppressed proletariat. He, too, chooses a collective point of view (nous, on) to describe the transformation of But here’s the best part. [A] specialist shaves me from head to toe—quite skillfully, I have to admit. Another one no less skillfully uses his clippers to remove my thick head of hair within a few seconds. I turn around and see André, shaved from head to toe. He is unrecognizable and looks incredibly funny, but it is him who calls out to me. “Well, look at your dome, old pal!” 7 They rip off our clothes under the amused gaze of an SS officer, who whips several backs in passing and smiles delightedly. They make us gallop along a path, climb down stairs, and enter an underground hall in which men dressed in white shirts—followers of Doctor Caligari—use crayons to cover our chests in cabalistic symbols. They shear our skulls. They make us sit on stools. They shave us from head to toe, armpits, pubes, in less than ten seconds. Then they push us toward the showers. A hot shower, enveloping, invigorating … Who was talking about sleep and fatigue earlier? 6

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individuals into anonymous camp inmates. He places less emphasis, however, on the individual steps of the metamorphosis, but evokes a more general atmosphere of fear and horror. In Wetterwald’s account, the arrival procedure successfully robs the new inmates of their personal identity: Et là, un spectacle qui semble jailli de la cervelle d’un metteur en scène de “Métropolis.” Une grande sale, haute, carrelée, contenant des centaines d’hommes nus. Mais ce sont les lumières et leurs jeux qui étonnent, le surprenant assemblage des ombres, pénombres, et surfaces claires. Lumière, dans l’ensemble, comme tamisée, diffuse, avec, dans un coin, un jaillissement net, cru, aveuglant, sous lequel il faut passer. On passé: une des berges de l’ombre est occupée par une range de personnages aux étranges têtes, toutes en bosses, en méplats, en estompes, crânes rasés. Ils portent des blouses blanches qui laissent dépasser des pantalons rayés de gris et de bleu. Des médecins? On tourne et se tourne devant eux qui nous marquent d’inscriptions mystérieuses au crayonencre. Une armée de coiffeurs à demi nus dans la touffeur qui règne en maîtresse … Désinfection, puis douche miséricordieuse où l’on engloutit l’eau tiède. Enfin tondus, lavés, dépouillés, nous voici couverts d’une chemise et d’un caleçon à rayures, chaussés de socques en bois. Alors, voilà, c’est fini; comprends, mais comprends donc que tu n’ es plus rien; pas même un esclave, sans recours devant aucun code; te voici livré aux lois des besoins élémentaires et il ne te reste plus, comme richesses, que tes richesses intérieures. (Wetterwald 1946: 37–8)8

The je (I) steps out of the nous (we) and talks to himself as if he were another, a stranger, a tu (you) who is no longer je. Here, the transformation of cultural And there, a spectacle, that seems as if it had sprung from the brain of the director of Metropolis. A large, tiled room with a high ceiling, containing hundreds of naked men. But it is the lights and the play of light that are astonishing, the surprising composition of shadows, semi-darkness, and bright surfaces. Light throughout the ensemble, subdued and diffused, and in a corner, a clear burst, crude and blinding, through which one has to pass. We pass. One of the edges of the shadows is manned by a row of people with strange heads, bumpy, flat, blurred, their skulls shaved. They wear white coats, exposing striped blue and grey trousers. Doctors? As we turn and turn in front of them, they mark us with mysterious inscriptions in ink. An army of half-naked hairdressers in the sweltering heat … disinfection, then a merciful shower where we absorb the lukewarm water. Eventually shorn, washed, stripped, we are covered in a striped shirt and trousers, wooden clogs. And then it is over; understand, oh understand that you are nothing anymore; not even a slave, with no recourse, no code to call upon. You are delivered, at the mercy of the law of basic needs, and there is nothing akin to richness left for you but your inner richness.

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into natural beings, of civilized men into interchangeable tools for labor seems to be—formally—brought to completion. The real success of the dehumanizing operation of the Nazis depends on the “richesses intérieures” (inner richness), that is, the individual inmate’s capacity to maintain a nonalienated inner space of personal identity.

Conclusion Understanding survivors’ memoirs requires a reading that brushes the text against the grain in order to discover the hidden truth about author’s experience of the camp, that is, the painful moments that the authors avoid putting into words. Don Sante Bartolai is unable to incorporate the arrival procedure in his detached narrative. It is the semantic collapse of his text that tells the reader precisely that which the author cannot put into words: his traumatic experience of rape. Jean Laffitte, on the contrary, remains in perfect control of a narrative that stresses the moral superiority of the resistance fighters and denies any instance of succumbing to fear. Gilbert Debrise masters his memories by ironizing the single steps of an impersonal, degrading, dehumanizing procedure. While in these cases the text reveals more than the author is able to say, François Wetterwald succeeds in recreating the dismay of the deportees who were transformed in next to no time into outright slaves and in involving the reader by addressing the inmate as tu (you). In a few years, no living witnesses of the Nazi concentration camps will be left. From then on, all the different aspects pertaining to individual and collective experiences of the camps will only be accessible through their texts—and, of course, their video interviews. This is the reason why we must learn to read these texts more carefully and try to perceive the individual voices by comparing them to one another, to distinguish subjective memories and collective narratives through contextualization, to recognize the symptoms of traumatic experiences through the analysis of textual flaws, to valorize literary or fictional constructions by understanding the writing strategies in such a way, to summarize, that enables us to retrieve the full extent of the diverse and complex treasure of experiences that survivors’ texts conceal.

References Agamben, Giorgio (1998), Quel che resta di Auschwitz. L’ archivio e il testimone (Homo sacer III) [Remnants of Auschwitz. The Witness and the Archive], Torino: Bollati Boringhieri.

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Arendt, Hannah (1951), The Origins of Totalitarianism, New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company. Bartolai, Sante (1966), Da Fossoli a Mauthausen. Memorie di un sacerdote nei campi di concentramento nazisti [From Fossoli to Mauthausen. Memoirs of a Priest in the Nazi Concentration Camps], Modena: Istituto Storico della Resistenza. Daix, Pierre (1950), La dernière forteresse [The Last Fortress], Paris: Les Éditeurs Français Réunis. Debrise [Dreyfus], Gilbert (1946), Cimetières sans tombeaux [Cemeteries Without Graves], Paris: La Bibliothèque Française. Delfieu, Maurice (1946), Récits d’un revenant. Mauthausen—Ebensee (1944– 1945) [Accounts of a Returned Soul. Mauthausen—Ebensee (1944–1945)], Paris: Publications de l’Indicateur Universel des P.T.T. Dulong, Renaud (1998), Le témoin oculaire. Les conditions sociales de l’attestation personnelle [The Eye-witness. The Social Conditions of Personal Testimony], Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Gouffault, Roger (2003), Quand l’homme sera-t-il humain? Résistance, déportation, mémoire [When Will Humans Be Human? Resistance, Deportation, Memory], Brive: Écritures. Kuon, Peter (2013), L’ écriture des revenants. Lectures de témoignages de la déportation politique [The Narrative of Returned Souls. Readings of Testimonies of Political Deportation], Paris: Éditions Kimé. Laffitte, Jean (1947), Ceux qui vivent [Those Who Live], Paris: Éditions Hier et Aujourd’hui. Louwagie, Fransiska (2007), Le témoignage francophone sur les camps de concentration nazis (1945–2004). Une étude générique et discursive [Francophone Testimony of the Nazi Concentration Camps (1945–2004). A Generic and Discursive Study], Louvain: Université Catholique de Louvain. Neuhofer, Monika (2008), “Identité, vérité et traumatisme: le témoignage de François Wetterwald” [Identity, Truth and Traumatism: The Testimony of François Wetterwald], in Peter Kuon (ed.), Trauma et texte [Trauma and Text], 273–83, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Ricoeur, Paul (1977), “Schleiermacher’s Hermeneutics,” The Monist, 60(2): 181–97. Ricoeur, Paul (1990), Soi-même comme un autre [Oneself as Another], Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Simonin, Anne (1994), Les Éditions de Minuit 1942–1955. Le devoir d’insoumission [The Éditions de Minuit 1942–1955. The Need for Insubordination], Paris: IMEC. Stern, Anne-Lise (2004), Le savoir-déporté. Camps, histoire, psychanalyse [Deported Knowledge. Camps, History, Psychoanalysis], Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Tillard, Paul (1953), Les triomphants. Roman [The Triumphants. A Novel], Paris: Les Éditeurs Français Réunis. Wetterwald, François (1946), Les morts inutiles [Futile Deaths], Paris: Éditions de Minuit.

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The Ambiguous Task of the Interpreter in Lanzmann’s Films Shoah and Sobibor: Between the Director and Survivors of the Camps and Ghettos Francine Kaufmann

Shoah, a new way of making cinema This essay focuses on the interpreter’s work with concentration camp survivors during the filming of Claude Lanzmann’s landmark film Shoah (1985). The author of this essay was one of three interpreters in Lanzmann’s films, Shoah and the only one in Sobibor, who were hired for the consecutive interpretation of the witnesses’ testimonials, in her case from Hebrew into French and French into Hebrew, while the witnesses narrated their stories in front of the movie camera. The series of interviews for which she interpreted between September 18, 1979, and October 12, 1979, were eventually edited and inserted into a film that became an artistic masterpiece and a new way of making cinema. Lanzmann and his editor, Ziva Postec, frequently referred to this new sort of film as “une fiction du réel.”1 This means that fictional methods were used in order to encourage the survivors to offer their testimonies as if the events they describe were happening in the present. The printed English version of the script, titled SHOAH, an oral history of the Holocaust, the complete text of the film by Claude Lanzmann (Lanzmann 1985b), was published together with the original French version upon the release of the movie in 1985. Lanzmann himself was the official author of both the images and the text of the original Lanzmann (1990a: 301), Postec (1987). In French, “réel” is different from “réalité”/reality and from réaliste/realistic. It is perhaps better translated as “real,” almost in the sense of “the real thing.” “Fiction du réel” is the proposed definition of this new movie genre, neither documentary nor fiction. Of course, this has nothing to do with the Holocaust denial concept of Fiction, according to which the Shoah itself is fiction.

1

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French version, which includes subtitles and the interpreted interviews. In her preface to this book, Simone de Beauvoir writes: “There is a magic in this film that defies explanation […]. Neither fiction nor documentary, Shoah succeeds in recreating the past with an amazing economy of means— places, voices, faces” (Lanzmann 1985b: 7). “Recreating the past” was indeed the purpose of Lanzmann’s project. The words of the survivors were not meant to be a mere narrative. Unlike ordinary documentaries, where memories are recounted in response to questions asked, and are usually accompanied by archive documents, music, and commentary, Lanzmann’s films dispense with these. Instead, testimonials are brought forth by means of a subtle mise-en-scène. The testimonies are more than a recollection of the past. They are an “incarnation,” as Lanzmann puts it.2 They give flesh to an unspeakable experience, lived again in the present, while the viewer is already aware of the tragic ending. “Il fallait donc faire un film de vie, avec du présent pur” (Lanzmann 1990a: 297).3 For example, Lanzmann made Simha Rotem walk silently for a long time around a scale model of the Warsaw Ghetto in Lo’hamey Haguetaoth Museum before he asked him to speak about the Jewish uprising in May 1943. He rented a barber’s shop in Tel Aviv, where he made the retired barber Abraham Bomba mime, repeating the same gestures he would have used if he was cutting the prisoners’ hair at Treblinka. While speaking to Bomba, Lanzmann felt that “c’est à partir de ce moment que la vérité s’incarne et qu’il revit la scène, que soudain le savoir devient incarné. C’est un film sur l’incarnation en vérité. Ça c’est une scène de cinéma, […] il y a beaucoup de mise en scène dans le film” (Lanzmann 1990a: 298).4 Like a work of fiction, Shoah begins with the written words: “L’ action commence de nos jours à Chelmno-sur-Ner, en Pologne …,” whereby it is notable that the cinematic word “action” starts the story in our time, in the present, in Poland. As earlier as July 1985, Lanzmann declared to the Cahiers du cinema that he wanted to bring his interviewees to “perform” their testimonies as “actors” and as “characters”: Il a fallu transformer ces gens en acteurs. C’est leur propre histoire qu’ils racontent. Mais la raconter ne suffisait pas. Il fallait qu’ils la See Frodon (2007: 118): “Les visages, les arbres, la nature. Shoah, c’est une incarnation” (The faces, the trees, nature. Shoah is an incarnation). Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed. 3 It was necessary to make a film of life, with a pure present. 4 It is from this point that the truth is embodied and that he [Bomba] re-lives the scene and that suddenly knowledge becomes incarnated. This is a film about incarnation into truth. That’s a movie scene, […] there is a lot of staging in the film. 2

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jouent, c’est-à-dire qu’ils irréalisent. C’est ce qui définit l’imaginaire: irréaliser.  […] Il fallait les mettre […] dans une certaine position physique. Non pas pour les faire parler mais pour que la parole devienne soudain transmissible et se charge elle-même d’une autre dimension. Le film n’est pas fait avec des souvenirs. […] La mise en scène est ce par quoi ils deviennent des personnages. […] Le simple fait du tournage au présent fait passer ces gens du statut de témoin de l’Histoire à celui d’acteurs. (Lanzmann 1990a: 301–2)5

Indeed, Shoah transmits more than personal stories and historical events whose material traces were deliberately wiped out. It produces emotional empathy and finds a way for the viewer to witness the revival of past experiences that still burn in the present. If we admit therefore that the interviewer, the interviewees, and viewers were choreographed by Lanzmann to be protagonists in his films, what part did he attribute to his interpreters? According to his own texts and interviews, Lanzmann did not see interpretation as a mere linguistic tool in his films. How, then, did Lanzmann choose and prepare his interpreters whom he asked to translate, in real time, such powerful and traumatic narratives?

The role assigned to the interpreters Very few articles or academic studies look at or refer to the work and function of the interpreters in Lanzmann’s films (Dayan-Rosenman 1990: 192–4, Felman 1990: 64–5, 86–7, Kaufmann 1993, Garrido Vilariño 2003–2004, Frodon 2007: 122–3, Glawogger 2013). Lanzmann himself sometimes refers to his interpreters (1985b: XI, 1990b: 284, 286, 1990c: 205–6, Frodon 2007, 116, Lanzmann 2009: 489–90, 500–2), but he does not elaborate on their function in the film. In one instance, he notes: “La présence des interprètes fait aussi partie de la polyphonie du film, de son côté Tour de Babel. Et le choix des langues engage” (Frodon 2007: 122).6 I had to turn these people into actors. It’s their own story they tell. But telling it was not enough. They had to play it, that is to say: to “irrealise” [Lanzmann’s neologism]. This is what defines the realm of imagination. […] They were to be put […] in a certain physical position. Not to make them speak, rather that the spoken words would suddenly become transferable and charged themselves with another dimension. The film is not made with memories. […] Through staging, they [the witnesses] become characters.  […] The simple act of filming in the present transfers these people’s status from historical witnesses to that of actors. 6 The presence of interpreters is also part of the polyphony of the film, of its “Tower of Babel” nature. The choice of languages is a commitment. 5

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In his introduction to the book Shoah, “the text of the film,” he simply presents them as a technical necessity: Les langues que je n’ entendais pas, comme le polonais, l’hébreu ou le yiddish, sont traduites en français dans le corps même du film, les interprètes—Barbara Janicka, Francine Kaufmann, Mrs Apfelbaum— étant elles-mêmes présentes à l’image. […] Quand, au contraire, les protagonistes et moi-même pouvions nous entretenir en allemand et en anglais, sans le truchement d’une traductrice, notre dialogue a été soustitré pour les spectateurs du film. (Lanzmann 1985a: 11)7

In fact, contrary to Lanzmann’s assertion in his text, Barbara Janicka is the only interpreter present on screen. She is seen walking with Lanzmann, the witnesses, and the Polish “characters” of the film, in the empty but “true” landscape of the Holocaust—the “scenery of Shoah,” (the “scene of the crime,” as Lanzmann calls it, 1990b: 290). Filmed far from there, in Israel, the other witnesses were “D.P.s” or displaced persons. Most of the protagonists for whom I translated from Hebrew did not speak their mother tongue but rather the language of their adopted country. Their exile is most evident in the clumsiness of their speech. The only native Hebrew speakers were Hanna, Motke Zaïdel’s daughter who was born in Israel, Simha Rotem, who arrived in Israel as a young boy, and the poet Abba Kovner, who was educated at a Hebrew academy in Poland. Only one witness (translated by Fanny Apfelbaum), Mordechaï Podchlebnick, insisted on speaking Yiddish, his mother tongue, rather than Hebrew, which he used to communicate with his daughters and grandchildren. In contrast to the scenes with the Polish interpreter, Lanzmann kept his Israeli interpreters outside the frame. It seems that the location in Israel was still part of the mise-en-scène but it was less essential than the Polish setting to recreating the authenticity of the “scene of the crime.” Lanzmann felt that the words and faces of the survivors were sufficient to revive the Shoah, with the interpreter’s voices echoing in French that which was said in real time, in Yiddish or Hebrew. These voices are not “voice-overs” that cover the voices of the witnesses. Rather, they are “voices off,” intentionally recorded while filming: The languages that I did not understand, such as Polish, Hebrew, and Yiddish, were translated into French in the body of the film itself (and then translated into English for the American edition). The interpreters—Barbara Janicka, Francine Kaufmann, Madame Apfelbaum—are themselves present on the screen. […] When, on the other hand, the protagonists and I myself were able to speak in German and in English, without the intervention of a translator, our dialogue has been subtitled for the spectators of the film. (Translated and adapted in Lanzmann 1985b: xi.)

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Il est impossible de séparer dans Shoah ce qui relève de l’image et ce qui relève du son. Il faut ajouter les multiples stratégies de passages entre les voix, du on au off et du off au on, entre ma voix, celle des personnes interviewées, les interprètes. Tout cela tisse un réseau complexe, jamais par hasard. (Frodon 2007: 124)8

Considering the cumbersomeness of the audiovisual process, Lanzmann’s decision not to cut the voices of the interpreters out of the sound track during the editing of Shoah and Sobibor has not always been understood. It has been noted that Lanzmann could have added subtitles for French audiences, as he did in his other interviews in the foreign languages he spoke (English, German). He explained his rejection of this method with reference to the technical constraints of shooting with one movie camera: [C]ela dénaturait toute la nature du rapport qui s’ est mis en place, par exemple entre ma question en français à un Polonais, la traduction de ma question en polonais par l’interprète, la réponse du type en polonais et la traduction de sa réponse en français. Comment sauter une de ces quatre étapes, filmées avec une seule caméra? Couper dans la continuité? Mais c’est affreux. C’est impossible […]. (Frodon 2007: 122)9

A further aesthetic aspect can be added to this technical reasoning. During the editing process, the continuity of the scene might have been destroyed, the rhythm disrupted, the sentiment of truth might have vanished. During the four stages of the narrative process, each female interpreter is a full part of the interaction on screen. Her voice becomes part of the sound track of the film; she becomes one of the protagonists. Furthermore, the transparency of the process suppresses any possibility of confounding the interpreter’s words with the original testimony. Contrary to dubbing or voice-over translation, this method creates no illusion that the character is

It is impossible to separate, in Shoah, what the image relates and what the sound relates. One must add to that the multiple strategies of passage between the voices, from the on to the off and from the off to the on, between my voice, those of the interviewees, and those of the interpreters. All of this weaves a complex network, nothing is ever left to chance. 9 It would have misrepresented the nature of the relationship that is set up, for example, between my question in French to a Pole, the translation of my question into Polish by the interpreter, the response of the guy in Polish, and the translation of his answer into French. How can you skip one of these four steps, filming with only one camera? By cutting into the continuity? But that’s dreadful. It’s impossible […]. 8

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really “saying” what the voice of the dubbing actor pronounces.10 Usually, in documentaries, one would expect a different actor’s voice for each character and this voice must resemble that of the original character with reference to gender, age, education, and accent. In Shoah, illusion is also precluded by the fact that the three interpreters are women, while most of the witnesses are men. Furthermore, there is always one same voice, be it younger or older, “embodying” each language (Polish, Yiddish, or Hebrew), rather than each character in the film.11 Several critics attributed the excessive length of the film to the deliberate presence of the interpreters’ voices on the sound track. A few recognized that it had a purpose. Shoshana Felman called this a “lag effect” (“l’effet de retard,” Felman 1990: 64). The lag effect ultimately enables the viewer to identify with the film’s author and interviewer. This identification process has been described by Israeli film critic Dan Fainaru, who at first was exasperated by the apparent clumsiness of the translation, when it seemed so obvious to use voice-overs: But after a few minutes the reason for this becomes evident. In this fashion, a certain rhythm is imposed on the film. You soon realize there is a certain degree of identification with the person asking the questions, namely Lanzmann, and like him, you need the spare time of the translation, to have the facts sink in fully and leave their full impact. And one can’t help but marvel at the accuracy of the tone, at the authenticity of the feelings emerging from the soundtrack. (Fainaru 1986)

Given this fact, the choice of the interpreters could not have been a coincidence. There was in fact a “casting” for all the “protagonists” in Shoah.12 This is no longer true, however, of the book of Shoah, “the text of the film,” where the reader can never know whether the words are those of the interpreter (oral translation) or those of the subtitles (written and abridged translation). The only French “original” wording is in Lanzmann’s questions. The “original” of the film is the French version of Shoah, including subtitles, interpretation, or Lanzmann’s questions. This French version is translated for other countries, analyzed and quoted by researchers, while the real words of the witnesses have never been transcribed and examined. 11 On one particular occasion, Lanzmann told me that he had to keep my voice throughout the whole film. The reason for our conversation was my refusal to participate in the shooting of a two-day interview with Abba Kovner on Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). There were public holidays but, according to the Jewish law, no professional or other work is done on these days. Being a practicing Jew, I gave Lanzmann the names and phone numbers of some colleagues. Ultimately, the shooting dates were modified and I interpreted Abba Kovner. 12 The words “casting” and “protagonists” were used by Lanzmann during his interview with Frodon (2007: 115). 10

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Lanzmann often mentions that he met most of the “protagonists,” particularly the Jewish witnesses, before filming them. In some cases, he had even read their books (e.g., Filip Müller and Rudolf Vrba from the Sonderkommandos in Auschwitz), and in others he was aware of their ability to recount their experiences from the Eichmann Trial in 1961 (e.g., Simon Srebnik and Mordechaï Podchlebnik, who both survived Chełmno, Itshak Zuckermann, hero of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, and Abba Kovner and Hansi Brand, whose interviews were cut out of the final version of the film).

The “casting” of the interpreters Barbara Janicka and Fanny Apfelbaum As for the interpreters themselves, the question remains as to whether they were also chosen for qualities beyond their linguistic skills, like the other protagonists of the film. Reading Lanzmann, it seems that the first interviews mediated by an interpreter took place in Poland, in 1978. These interviews were interpreted from Polish into French and French into Polish. Lanzmann tells us that he first hired “une jeune femme remarquable qui avait visiblement un air juif. Je ne l’ai pas gardée. J’ai pris à sa place une chrétienne. Avec la première, il aurait été impossible d’interviewer les paysans polonais” (Frodon 2007: 116).13 In his memoirs The Patagonian Hare, he goes into even more details: Marina Ochab, the first interpreter, was the daughter of a well-known former president of the Polish State Council. She inherited dark skin and dark eyes from her Jewish mother, and a nose that showed she was Jewish (Lanzmann 2009: 489). “Je lui exposai avec une brutale franchise que son beau visage était trop sémite pour que les Polonais parlassent librement devant elle” (Lanzmann 2009: 500).14 Furthermore, Marina, aside from looking Semitic, was utterly ignorant of the fate of the three millions Polish Jews who died during the Shoah, since her mother took refuge in Moscow during the war and had no experience about the Holocaust. Marina therefore “could not be of great help” (sic; Lanzmann 2009: 490) to Lanzmann since she knew nothing about Treblinka, Chełmno, Sobibór, Bełżec, or even about the Jewish sector of Auschwitz (Lanzmann 2009: 490). A remarkable young woman who had a visibly Jewish air about her. I did not keep her. I took a Christian in her place. With the first one, it would have been impossible to interview the Polish peasants. 14 I explained to her, bluntly, that her beautiful face was too Semitic for the Poles to talk freely in her presence. 13

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Lanzmann obviously needed someone who was not only able to translate and knew about the subject matter, but whom his interlocutors could also recognize as a fellow citizen. This explains why he was, paradoxically, so pleased with his second interpreter, Barbara Janicka, “de vraie souche catholique, merveilleuse interprète” (Lanzmann 2009: 490),15 who was able to identify with, empathize, and understand the cultural context of the people who spoke through her to the filmmaker, and in whom they had confidence. Barbara Janicka, however, caused Lanzmann other problems. She wanted to leave the set several times, because she was aware of the real intentions of the filmmaker, which was to expose the extent to which the Polish people were aware of the Holocaust. She became frightened by what she heard and what she was expected to translate. Furthermore, her position as an official tour escort and interpreter-guide16 was authorized by the Polish authorities who had granted Lanzmann the visa to make his film, which meant that she was also accountable to them. Being too honest to lie, she could not help telling them the truth (Lanzmann 2009: 500), which put her in a position of double, if not triple, split loyalties: loyalty toward her fellow countrymen; fairness toward Lanzmann and his film; faithfulness toward the national authorities. There were several clashes between Barbara and Lanzmann (and between Lanzmann and some of the members of his technical crew, who did not understand what he was doing), but she performed her job until the end. She did, however, soften some of the questions and answers, using the word “jidi” (Jew) instead of the pejorative “jidki” (Yid). At other times, she stuck to the truth, and her translations underwent a brutal “explosion” (Lanzmann 1990b: 286–7, 1990c: 205–6): Alors, elle ne trichait plus et se laissait elle-même emporter par la violence de l’ exactitude avec une sorte de joie mauvaise, qui semblait affecter chacun des propos qu’elle traduisait d’un “Tu l’as voulu, eh bien, voici!” […] C’est un travers constant des interprètes, même des meilleures, surtout des meilleures, elles cèdent à leurs craintes, à leurs émotions. (Lanzmann 2009: 501)17 Barbara Janicka, of true Catholic descent, a wonderful interpreter. This is what Lanzmann told me about her. I never met Barbara Janicka myself, and everything I know about her work and reactions comes from Lanzmann’s personal testimonies. 17 So she no longer cheated and let herself be carried away by the violence of accuracy, with a kind of malicious joy, which seemed to mark each sentence she translated with a note of “You wanted it, well, so here it is!” […] It is a common quirk among interpreters, even the best, especially the best: they give in to their fears, their emotions. 15 16

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This last sentence leads us to believe that Lanzmann was equally interested in exploring the fears and emotions of the interpreters during the making of his film. With regard to the casting of interpreters in Israel, it would appear that the majority of candidates were not professionally trained. One of them, Laurence Apfelbaum, a fully bilingual young soldier at the time, quit after her first day. Lanzmann had hired her on her mother Fanny’s recommendation.18 Some days later, Lanzmann returned to Fanny, asking if she herself could translate the testimony of a Yiddish-speaking survivor. Not being an interpreter, Fanny refused. Lanzmann then sent an assistant who showed Fanny the rushes from a previous shooting in Germany. This was the interview with Franz Suchomel, the SS-Untersturmführer from Treblinka. Having watched the footage, Fanny was convinced of the necessity of the film and agreed to be a part of the project, but she refused to take any payment for her time. It was her family background that interested Lanzmann most, in addition to Fanny’s ability to speak Yiddish. Her father, Shimshon Yossef Rudzin, born in Będzin (southern Poland), lost his parents and his thirteen brothers and sisters at Auschwitz. The Rudzin family survived the war in Lyon, where they were hidden in one single room for two and a half years. From the ages of ten to twelve, Fanny, as a girl and the only member of the family who spoke French without an accent, was sent by her family to search for food every day. Naturally, after the war, she grew up in a home whose atmosphere was shrouded in mourning and where the Shoah remained a vivid memory. One morning in May 1979, Lanzmann, Fanny, and the crew arrived at the house of survivor Mordechaï Podchlebnik in Ramat-Gan, Israel. The Podchlebnik family—wife, daughters, and grandchildren—were sitting in the living room. The tables were full of cakes, fruit, and various drinks, and Fanny recalled that the atmosphere was almost festive, more like a party. Evidently, it seemed that Mordechaï’s family thought that the aim of the interview was to focus on Mordechaï’s heroic story.19 Fanny, however, quickly understood that Lanzmann’s purpose was quite different, once he began

Before writing my article for Meta (Kaufmann 1993), I met Fanny Apfelbaum in Herzlia Pitua’h (October 5, 1992), where she lived, and I interviewed her. I took notes and recorded part of this interview (forty-five minutes). I contacted her again and asked her to authorize my use of her testimony for the current article. She read it and, having made some adjustments and additions, she gave her consent. 19 Mordechaï Podchlebnik was one of only three Sonderkommando survivors of the Chełmno concentration camp, who escaped from the camp into the surrounding forest and managed to survive the Holocaust. At Chełmno, he recognized the corpses of his wife and children when unloading bodies from a gas van. After his flight, he tried to inform people about Chełmno, but at first no one believed him. 18

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asking Mordechaï to detail the murder of the Jews of Chełmno.20 The style of the interview upset Fanny. Not only was it clear that these types of questions were “breaking” Mordechaï, but Lanzmann also insisted on asking the same question again and again, which was whether Podchlebnik felt dead or alive during the Shoah.21 Fanny could not bear this anymore, and asked Lanzmann in French, during the technical breaks, which took place in order to change the audio tapes or image rolls, whether she could leave before the end of the interview. Eventually she stayed until they completed the interview late in the evening. In relation to her “participation” behind the camera—Fanny refuses to call it a “work”—she told me that she felt very comfortable at first. She and Mordechaï’s wife shared the same Yiddish accent, as the latter was also born in Będzin, and her parents prepared the same dishes as Fanny’s parents. Their communication was very relaxed and natural as they talked and searched for common memories. Mordechaï, who never told his story to his children because “they did not speak Yiddish, and these things can only be said in Yiddish,” spoke confidently to Fanny. He would probably never have spoken to a stranger, but Fanny’s background allowed him to trust her. Being neither an interpreter nor a translator, Fanny was not preoccupied with translation problems. Her role was more that of a storyteller. Mordechaï spoke and she retold his story. She did not worry about using the exact words, nor was she anxious about remembering all of the details or content. She sometimes even went so far as to ask questions of her own (“und bamoyech?” which means “and in your heart, your soul?”), or she reacted to Lanzmann, asking, “Que voulez-vous qu’il fasse, qu’il pleure?” meaning “What do you want him to do, cry?” Lanzmann 1985b: 7). One could hear in her voice that Fanny was deeply moved and highly empathic with the man for whom she was translating. As far as Lanzmann was concerned, she tried faithfully to help him establish a communication. Despite her commitment to and involvement in Lanzmann’s project, she insisted that he called her Mrs. Apfelbaum and not Fanny.22 As it happens, he called her madame. Several clips of the Podchlebnik’s interview (mainly outtakes) are viewable on the USMMH website at http://www.ushmm.org/online/film/display/detail.php?file_num=5088. Mordechai (Michael) Podchlebnik—Chelmno: Story Number: RG-60.5026; Film ID: 3294–97; Event Date: May 1979: Place: Israel; Duration: 02:00:00. I compared the clips with the transcripts and with the DVD of the film and the French and English version of the books (“text of the film”). They are not always consistent or faithfully translated. 21 “What died in his heart? […] And what died in his soul?” “Did he survive as if he was living or as if he was dying?” (English translation of transcript, box 46, Podchlebnik 15, 31–2, in http://data.ushmm.org/intermedia/film_video/spielberg_archive/transcript /RG60_5026/D32BB262-72D2-424D-8682-B9117D9BD7D0.pdf). 22 This is probably the reason why Lanzmann does not precise her first name in all the credits, in the books, films, and DVD. She stays there: Mrs. Apfelbaum. 20

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While sound and image where being tested, Fanny sat next to Podchlebnik chatting. When the filming began, Lanzmann asked Fanny to  stay sitting next to Mordechaï so that he could get a clear shot of his face when he answered Lanzmann’s questions. Fanny, however, refused and sat behind the camera, which set the precedent for the next interpreter to do the same.

The Hebrew-French interpreter Some months after interviewing Podchlebnik, Lanzmann tried working with several other interpreters for translations from Hebrew into French. One of them gave him my phone number. He called in September 1979, explaining that he was making a full-length movie about the Holocaust, with a longer television version spread across six episodes. His aspiration was to create THE film that had not yet been made about the Shoah. I felt a sacred duty to participate in his project, not simply as an interpreter but also moreover as the daughter of two Shoah survivors. My father was an inmate in Drancy where he had met my mother and whence he was deported to Auschwitz. From Auschwitz, he was sent to work at a camp in Warsaw, and was eventually forced onto a death march to Dachau, where he stayed until the camp was liberated by the Americans. My mother was a member of the FTP-MOI Resistance. Her father was tortured and shot by the Nazis and part of her family was killed in the concentration camps. I was probably not hired by Lanzmann on the basis of my work as a professional interpreter. Quite the opposite: when we first met, he explained that he was fed up with what he called “the UN intonation,” the monotone flow and bored voice of the professional interpreters he had encountered in New York. He wanted the interpretation in his film not to be mechanical, since he intended to use the interpretation as part of the soundtrack. He gave me a number of other instructions, among which were the following: - I would have to stay off-frame, behind the camera, and close to it, so that the eyes of the witness would look at me and thus be directed toward the eye of the camera.23 - The witness would see me as his interlocutor, and as such it was essential not to take notes. (I understood that it would have transformed the dialogue into a technical process.) I was asked to listen carefully, to Probably, when screening the rushes of Podchlebnik’s interview with Fanny Apfelbaum, Lanzmann came to the conclusion that the interpreter staying off camera was indeed the best solution in order to obtain the effect that he as a filmmaker wanted.

23

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look at the witness, and wait for the end of a sentence or a paragraph, without interrupting the flow of memory. - Before translating, I would have to wait a number of seconds to avoid an overlap of voices. - If the image roll happened to end, I had to continue my translation since this was still being recorded on the audio tape. - In order not to destroy the spontaneity of the interview, I was asked not to speak with the witness before or after each take. I was prohibited from discussing the witness’ life or experience of the Shoah. - I was expected to work alone, in both directions (French–Hebrew– French), throughout the shooting (even if an interview lasted a full day).

The most difficult part was not taking notes. The level of concentration was very hard to keep up, sometimes for a sequence of several minutes. There was a risk of forgetting names, numbers, foreign words, meaningful details, and key words. I tried to negotiate with Lanzmann, explaining that these rules went against the basics of my profession, but Lanzmann insisted. Since I felt that the goal of this movie was sacred and Lanzmann’s passion and conviction were infectious, I was prepared to try and fulfill what was expected of me. However, I hoped and even was convinced that, at the end of the day, Lanzmann would not keep my live interpretation on the final soundtrack. Curiously, I received no notes and no documents to prepare myself for the interviews. I assumed that Lanzmann was discovering the witnesses’ stories together with me. However, during weeks of shooting, I learned that he had in fact met his interlocutors before and knew everything about them. He even recorded them on tape, and transcribed their stories into heavy files. As he wrote: En ce qui concerne les survivants juifs des commandos spéciaux, je pense qu’il y avait un impératif moral absolu, c’ était de tout savoir d’eux avant de tourner. Je n’avais pas le droit d’ être surpris […], je savais à quel point ce serait difficile de les faire à nouveau accoucher. (Lanzmann 1990c: 210–11)24 As far as the Jewish survivors of the special commandos were concerned, I think there was an absolute moral imperative; I had to learn everything about them before filming. I did not have the right to be surprised […], I knew how difficult it would be to make them speak again.

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When it seemed essential to him for the coherence of the movie that he had already roughly drafted in his head, Lanzmann even tried to bring the survivors to re-express certain phrases, or some details or remarks they had made spontaneously two or three years previously, for the camera, imbuing them with maximum emotion, truth, and intensity. Of course, I was unaware of this process and was as surprised as the witnesses by Lanzmann’s insistence on some details. For my first day of work, we met with two witnesses of the atrocities of Ponari, Motke Zaïdel, and Yitzchak Dugin, at the Ben-Shemen forest, between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. For me, they were anonymous survivors. I had no idea of the kind of terrifying testimony I would eventually interpret. Lanzmann had asked woodsmen from the JNF (Jewish National Fund) to burn branches and herbs in the background of the scene. I later understood that the smoke behind the trees was meant to remind the witnesses of the pyres of burning corpses in Ponari. One of the first questions Lanzmann asked was if the Ben Shemen forest, with its ditches, high trees, smoke, and ashes resembled the Lithuanian forest of Ponari. Evoking Ponari, Lanzmann used the word bouleaux (birches), but I couldn’t remember the Hebrew word and asked to cut. “Is it important to use the exact word?” I questioned. Lanzmann’s reaction was unequivocal. We only had eleven minutes of film for each roll and I should not interrupt the shooting each time I was unsure of vocabulary. So I just used the generic word “trees” (and only remembered the word for “birch” later on) and wrongly concluded that my priority was not the words themselves but careful attention to the flow of remembrance. Consequently I began using equivalents, paraphrases, and inverse enumerations (in accordance with short-term memory techniques), as translative compensation strategies, while still trying to be as precise as possible. The two men’s horrible account of Ponari came as a shock to me. These men had worked with their bare hands in mass graves, where they dug up piles of flattened corpses which rapidly disintegrated in their fingers, and which they had to burn in order to erase every trace of the atrocity. While doing this work, Motke Zaïdel recognized the faces and the clothes of his mother, his three sisters, and their children (Lanzmann 1985b: 12). Translating this episode was a profoundly traumatic experience. I remember being so upset that, on two or three occasions, I stopped functioning as an interpreter, and began listening as a compassionate human being. Meanwhile, Lanzmann continued to ask about the size and layout of the pits. The witnesses had already replied, but I had not translated the answer. Lanzmann repeated: “What was the exact depth of the pits?” Feeling sorry for the exhausted witness I had no choice but to ask this question again.

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Torn between my sympathy for these survivors and my total commitment to Lanzmann’s project and his important message, I found that my position as an interpreter was becoming unbearable. In hindsight, if I consider Lanzmann’s insistence on knowing everything in advance in order to avoid being surprised during the interviews, while deliberately leaving his interpreters unprepared, it seems to me today that each interpreter was cast to play the role of first witness to the witness (i.e., witness 2 or audience 1), to act as a go-between for the survivor and the audience, and to take on the role of a third interlocutor on the set, capable of empathy but also of misunderstanding. Like in every act of oral human communication, horror, surprise, hesitation, omissions, and additions are a token of authenticity, and they were kept in the Shoah soundtrack. For example, in the film Sobibor (based on an interview with Yehuda Lerner made during the shooting of Shoah), I was not sure that I heard the word “geese” correctly, primarily because I was not aware that the Nazis used flocks of geese to cover the screams of dying Jews. I looked at Lerner very surprised and in response to my silent interrogation, he added: “real geese.” Lanzmann, who was well aware of the purpose of the geese asked him: why geese? I translated Lanzmann’s question but Lerner still thought I was unsure of the meaning of the word geese, whereas in fact I was surprised at the significance of the use of geese in camps. This prompted him to ask me: what, you don’t know what “geese” are? I whispered: yes; they are little animals, to which Lerner nodded and continued his story (Lanzmann 2001: 27).25 In Shoah, interviews are more than a dialogue that is mediated by a “neutral” interpreter. They are three-sided conversations. Moreover, the interviewer and the interviewee are sometimes unsure of who is actually speaking and of who said what. In the rushes of Lerner’s interview, we found Lanzmann reacting like this: L: I don’t understand; he must tell this story better than this, because I understand nothing; […] He must begin this story from zero; and then, you, please, translate it right. Go, go …26

This aside in the Hebrew exchange is neither translated in the film nor in the book or in the internet USHMM transcript. All of the subtitles and transcripts were made solely on the basis of the French wording produced by Lanzmann and the interpreters during the shooting. The original foreign language testimonies have not been translated again. 26 See the English translation of the French transcript of Lerner’s interview, at the end of Lerner 4, 15: http://resources.ushmm.org/intermedia/film_video/spielberg_archive /transcript/RG60_5030/91645B27-8317-421E-A32C-50450DC5BDC4.pdf. All the translations of the transcripts were done by volunteers and they are not always accurate. I had to correct some errors in the quotations I have used in this article. 25

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It is obvious that there were sometimes moments of confusion and discrepancies between the testimony, my translation, and what Lanzmann expected to hear when he asked his witnesses to be precise in their testimony. Another example of the ambiguous position of the interpreter is illustrated in an exchange between Lanzmann, myself, Motke Zaïdel, and Yitzchak Dugin. It was their second interview, this time at Zaïdel’s house.27 I discovered then how very important exact wording was for Lanzmann. The rushes are enlightening: Q: Then now we finally arrive at the truth, at something concrete, right; earlier they spoke of tools salvaged from the … from the martyrs, they said, from the corpses, from the “figures,” now he said they dug with their bare hands or simply with spoons, were these the tools? A: That’s true, at first the hands and after the tools … Q: The tools or the spoons? A: Spoons. Q: Spoons, those aren’t tools … A: Well, those were the tools we had; we didn’t have tools, yes you could say they were spoons. Q: [Lanzmann to me]: Who called those tools, was it them, or did you translate spoons as tools? A: [Me to Lanzmann] No, they said tools. [Me, translating Zaïdel again] I would like to add something, we spoke of pliers a little while ago, and we could use the pliers very effectively afterwards to cut the chains, but at the time we were digging the tunnel, we only used our hands and the spoons.28

This exchange illustrates another difficult aspect of my position. I was using the first person when interpreting, as I had been professionally trained to do. The way Lanzmann formulated his questions was in fact in an indirect style, but I always tried to translate in a direct style. For example, Lanzmann asked Antek (Yitshak Tsukermann) a question. In his Hebrew answer, Antek said: “Claude wants to know what my impression was. If he could lick my heart,

Almost each interview I interpreted took two days of shooting, except for Lerner’s. See the English translation of the French transcript of Zaïdel and Dugin interview at the USHMM site, FILM ID 3534–Audio Roll 51a/Camera Roll 57/Zaïdel 11; http://data.ushmm.org/intermedia/film_video/spielberg_archive/transcript /RG60_5050/912AA0D8-B9F6-4F59-8796-140D69F714C0.pdf.

27 28

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he would be poisoned.” In my translation, it became: “Claude, you asked for my impression. If you could lick my heart, it would poison you” (Lanzmann 1985b: 196). Similarly, when addressing Hanna Zaïdel, Lanzmann asked: “Why was she so curious about this story?” I translated: “Why were you so curious about this story?” and Hanna answered in the first person: “As a child I had little contact with my father …” (Lanzmann 1985b: 8). Until recently, I was convinced that I served both Lanzmann’s demands (not to use a monotone flow and bored voice) and the purpose of the film Shoah, by adding life and emotion to the dialogue, using direct speech. However, I have since read an interview in which Lanzmann explains that his intention was not to collect personal experiences, but to drive his witnesses to speak on behalf of all the Jewish victims. He did not want them to say “I,” and to tell him their personal stories. “Les survivants ne disent pas ‘Je’, ils disent ‘nous’, ils sont à la lettre les porte-parole des morts […] c’est pourquoi j’ai eu tant de problèmes depuis la sortie du film avec les survivants. Ils ne se retrouvent pas dans Shoah; ce film ne parle pas d’eux” (Frodon 2007: 115).29

Concluding remarks During the act of interpreting in Shoah and Sobibor, I did my best without knowing precisely what was expected from me. I was vigilant with regard to the technical constraints; I tried to reproduce the intonations of the speakers; I also empathized entirely with the survivors. As far as Lanzmann was concerned, though, I was not aware of the extent to which he expected more from me than interpretation. When I wrote my first article about Shoah and sent it to Lanzmann before publishing (Kaufmann 1993), I asked him for comments, explanations, and corrections, but Lanzmann did not answer. When I phoned him, he just said that I overestimated the function of interpretation in the film. Some critics, however, noted that the main language in Shoah is the language of translation. Interpretation, with all of its shortcomings (errors, omissions, hesitations, additions), is a metaphor for any testimony: one sees and hears, but one’s memory cannot reproduce faithfully all that was said: it always selects, interprets, and misrepresents. Of course, this essay does not seek to judge the quality of translation and Survivors do not say “I,” they say “we,” they are literally the transmitted voice of the dead  […] that’s why I had so many problems with the survivors after the film was released. They do not find themselves in Shoah; this film does not talk about them. (N.B.: This remark helps to understand the Podchlebnik’s family’s surprise at discovering that the TV crew did not come to hear his personal heroic story.)

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does not address the reception stage, which came after the text of the film was edited and published. It simply tries to describe the situation the interpreter was in during the shooting and to show the ambiguity of her position as a professional or non-professional protagonist, torn between the interpreter’s faithfulness toward her task and toward the duty of transmitting the witnesses’ “vouloir dire” in the translation, in addition to negotiating Lanzmann’s personal expectations and the technical constraints of the sound and camera. At the end of the day, the result of the interpreter’s work serves the purpose of an artistic masterpiece that evokes the Shoah in a totally new way. Interpretation in this case cannot be appreciated or evaluated at the same level as the more pragmatic task of providing a mere linguistic aid to a conventional documentary.30

References Films Shoah (1985), Dir. Claude Lanzmann, Paris: Les Films Aleph. Sobibor, 14 Octobre 1943, 16 heures (2001), Dir. Claude Lanzmann, Paris: Co-production Why Not Productions, Les Films Aleph, France 2 Cinéma. Claude Lanzmann Shoah Collection, Steven Spielberg Film and Video Archive, Washington: US Holocaust Memorial Museum. Available online: http://www.ushmm.org/search/results/?q=shoah+Lanzmann (accessed August 25, 2015).

Secondary references Dayan-Rosenman, Anny (1990), “Shoah: L’ écho du silence” [Shoah: The echo of silence], in Bernard Cuau, Michel Deguy, Rachel Ertel, Shoshana Felman, Elisabeth de Fontenay, Elisabeth Huppert, Gertrud Koch, Sami Naïr, Marcel Ophuls, Anny Dayan-Rosenman, Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Abraham Brumberg, Neal Ascherson, Timothy Garton Ash, Jacek Kuron and Jean-Charles Szurek (eds), Au sujet de Shoah: Le film de Claude Lanzmann [On the Subject of Shoah: The Film by Claude Lanzmann], 188–197, Paris: Belin. Fainaru, Dan (1986), “Shoah,” Jerusalem Post Magazine, 12 June: n.p. Felman, Shoshana (1990), “À l’ âge du témoignage: Shoah de Claude Lanzmann” [The Age of Testimony: Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah], trans. Claude Lanzmann and Judith Ertel, in Bernard Cuau, Michel Deguy, Rachel Ertel, Shoshana I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to Josh Haruni (Jerusalem) who helped me edit this article which was written by a French-speaking researcher. Without his meticulous and gifted engagement, I would never have submitted it.

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Felman, Elisabeth de Fontenay, Elisabeth Huppert, Gertrud Koch, Sami Naïr, Marcel Ophuls, Anny Dayan-Rosenman, Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Abraham Brumberg, Neal Ascherson, Timothy Garton Ash, Jacek Kuron and JeanCharles Szurek (eds), Au sujet de Shoah: Le film de Claude Lanzmann [On the Subject of Shoah: The Film by Claude Lanzmann], 55–145, Paris: Belin. Frodon, Jean-Michel (2007), “Entretien avec Claude Lanzmann. Le travail du cinéaste” [Interview with Claude Lanzmann. The Work of the Film Director], in Jean-Michel Frodon (ed.), Le cinéma et la Shoah: Un art à l‘épreuve de la tragédie du XXe siècle [Cinema and the Shoah: An Artform Put to the Test by the Tragedy of the 20th Century], 111–25, Paris: Éditions Cahiers du Cinéma. Garrido Vilariño, Xoán Manuel (2003–2004), “L’image des interprètes dans les films de 1’Holocauste: du casque au visage” [The Image of Interpreters in Holocaust Films: The Helmet and the Face], Anales de Filologia Francesa, 12: 151–75. Available online: dialnet.unirioja.es/descarga/articulo/2011809.pdf (accessed August 25, 2015). Glawogger, Marion (2013), “ ‘Il me demandait de déroger à toutes les règles de ma profession’. Dolmetschen in Claude Lanzmanns Film Shoah” [“He Asked Me to Deviate From All the Rules of My Profession.” Interpreting in Claude Lanzmann’s Film Shoah], MA diss., Department of Translation Studies, University of Graz, Austria. Kaufmann, Francine (1993), “Interview et interprétation consécutive dans le film Shoah, de Claude Lanzmann” [Interview and Consecutive Interpreting in the Film Shoah by Claude Lanzmann], Meta, 43(4): 667–73. Available online: www.erudit.org/revue/meta/1993/v38/n4/003290ar.pdf (accessed August 25, 2015). Lanzmann, Claude (1985a), Shoah, Paris: Fayard. Lanzmann, Claude (1985b), SHOAH, an Oral History of the Holocaust: The Complete Text of the Film by Claude Lanzmann, English subtitles of the film by A. Whitelaw and W. Byron, New York: Pantheon Books. Lanzmann, Claude (1990a), “Le lieu et la parole” [The Place and the Word], Interview of Lanzmann by Marc Chevrie and Hervé Le Roux, in Bernard Cuau, Michel Deguy, Rachel Ertel, Shoshana Felman, Elisabeth de Fontenay, Elisabeth Huppert, Gertrud Koch, Sami Naïr, Marcel Ophuls, Anny DayanRosenman, Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Abraham Brumberg, Neal Ascherson, Timothy Garton Ash, Jacek Kuron and Jean-Charles Szurek (eds), Au sujet de Shoah: Le film de Claude Lanzmann [On the Subject of Shoah: The Film by Claude Lanzmann], 293–305, Paris: Belin. Lanzmann, Claude (1990b), “Les non-lieux de la mémoire” [The Non-places of Memory], Interview of Lanzmann by François Gantheret, in Bernard Cuau, Michel Deguy, Rachel Ertel, Shoshana Felman, Elisabeth de Fontenay, Elisabeth Huppert, Gertrud Koch, Sami Naïr, Marcel Ophuls, Anny DayanRosenman, Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Abraham Brumberg, Neal Ascherson, Timothy Garton Ash, Jacek Kuron and Jean-Charles Szurek (eds), Au sujet

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de Shoah: Le film de Claude Lanzmann [On the Subject of Shoah: The Film by Claude Lanzmann], 280–92, Paris: Belin. Lanzmann, Claude (1990c), “A propos de Shoah,” in Shoah le film. Des psychanalystes écrivent [Shoah, the Film. Psychoanalysts Write], 199–211, Paris: Jacques Grancher. Lanzmann, Claude (2001), Sobibor; 14 Octobre 1943, 16 heures, trans. Francine Kaufmann, Paris: Éditions Cahiers du Cinéma. Lanzmann, Claude (2009), Le lièvre de Patagonie [The Patagonian Hare], Paris: Gallimard. Postec, Ziva (1987), “Shoah, Paris, 1979–1985: Editing Shoah.” Available online: http://www.postecziva.com/Shoah.php (accessed August 25, 2015).

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The Illusion of “Authenticity”: The Translation of Video Testimonies with Survivors of National Socialist Terror for Use in Educational Work Sylvia Degen Translation/editing: Jessica Ring

Introduction Andrew Chesterman raised some rather general questions during the very first seminar of the August 2013 CETRA Research Summer School at the University of Leuven, Belgium. The seminar was called “Using Theory,” and he asked, “What is a theory?” and “What are your reasons for looking at X in one given way?” Rather general, but not easy to answer. Since then, one of his questions in particular has become a constant companion to me: “How do you see translation? What is your metaphor for it?” The stream of metaphors for translation is an endless one; the best known is probably the idea of the translator as a ferry driver, carrying meaning from one language to another, from one culture to another. But despite this wide selection of possible metaphors, I still had not found the one I could easily adapt to both my specialization as a translator and my research focus. Several months later, there was a screening of British director Sarah Pucill’s re-staging of French Surrealist artist Claude Cahun’s black and white photography. The film synopsis described it as: “Part essay, part film poem, Magic Mirror translates the startling force of Cahun’s poetic language into a choreographed series of Vivantes Tableaux, intermixed with stagings from her writing” (Pucill 2014). It was fascinating to see the merging of these two artists’ work, creating something completely new. In the following Q&A, Sarah Pucill describes her “collaboration” with Claude Cahun—who had already passed away in 1954—in a way which one could easily adapt to translation, at least at first glance. Both artists seemed to share a similar view of things, a similar perspective, and similar concerns: what one had succeeded in doing (at a

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particular time, with particular means, and in a particular context) the other was able to further refine decades later. This was not a case of reproduction or appropriation, but rather a transparent process in which both authors remained recognizable. Could this be my personal metaphor for translation? A respectful, intense collaboration between author and translator toward the creation of something new? Perhaps it is, but it has proved difficult to transfer this understanding of translation to my everyday practice. My field of specialization is the translation of testimonies by survivors of National Socialist terror, including an increasing amount of video interviews. No art. No fiction. No Surrealism—rather a traumatic reality told from the perspective of those who experienced it. What would that collaboration look like? There are more and more digital survivor testimonies available worldwide, and they are not only commonly used for academic research but also for educational purposes. On the homepages of the institutions using these testimonies, there are clear claims regarding the authenticity of these video documentations; just to give a few examples: “This archive represents a guarantee of honest presentation […]. [The project] speaks for itself—literally” (The University of Michigan-Dearborn 2014), or “These oral histories are now available digitally and in their entirety for the first time, uncensored and unfiltered” (Wisconsin Historical Society 2014), or “Such documents allow us to hear the personal voice of those who fell victim to the persecution. In the context of Holocaust education, this personal voice enhances the effectiveness of the learning process” (Yad Vashem 2014). Due to this claim of authenticity in reference to the original, the translation also aims to be as “authentic” as possible. But is this goal realistically achievable? When translating survivors’ video testimonies for use in educational work, one is confronted with two unique challenges: the issue of adhering as closely as possible to the original in order to maintain the integrity of the survivor’s personal expression, and the necessity to adapt materials for their usage in specific educational environments—unfortunately, the respective demands of those two challenges often seem to contradict each other. The following section will take a closer look at this demanding field of translation, keeping in mind the above discussion of personal metaphors, translation as collaboration, and the intrinsically impossible claim of “authentic” representation. Despite their supposedly philosophical nature, these issues will be approached on a rather practical level. First, it is necessary to provide a rough introduction to the field of audiovisual testimonies of survivors of National Socialist terror and their use in educational work. It will be shown that the experience of personal encounters with survivors is considered to be a crucial element within

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Holocaust education, and that the videotaped testimonies can be considered as an attempt to preserve some remnant of this “authentic” experience. On the other hand, the testimonies are used as educational material and they undergo a complex didactic and technical preparation process, in order to be geared toward the target group, which is mainly young people. In order to illustrate the tension caused by the claim of authenticity on the one hand, and the usage of the testimonials (or rather of their translations) as educational materials on the other, there will be a brief presentation of some typical translation problems that arise in practice. The subsequent section will illustrate some of the main characteristics of the actual working conditions of those who deal with this kind of issues and tensions in their daily translation routine. The discussion will focus on three well-known institutions in the field of Holocaust Education, all of which are based in Berlin. Two of them are digitized audiovisual archives and one is a video archive which is part of one of the main memorial sites. All of them are/were involved with translating audiovisual Holocaust testimony for educational purposes. This section makes use of the preliminary results of my interview project with managers, project leaders, and various translators working for them. It also provides information based on my own experience as a translator working for these institutions. The concluding section will provide a summary of the key points raised in this ongoing study.

Audiovisual testimonies with survivors of National Socialist terror, their translation, and their use in educational work For decades, many of the survivors of National Socialist terror were active in memorial institutions, in schools, in their communities, or they took part in public events. While reporting on the terror that they had experienced, they also stated that they had a responsibility to their murdered friends and relatives to participate in awareness raising. Other survivors remained silent and did not speak about their horrible experiences for a long time. Today, the personal interactions between the survivors of NS terror who were able and willing to speak and those who were willing to listen have been widely replaced by digitized audiovisual testimonies which are accessible worldwide. As part of this transition from a communicative to a cultural memory, the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation, founded in 1994 by Steven Spielberg, played a central role. For the purpose of this discussion, the

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foundation can be used as an example in order to illustrate the dimension of these audiovisual projects: within five years, the foundation conducted nearly 52,000 survivor interviews in fifty-six countries and in thirty-two languages. Today, the Visual History Archive is the largest digital collection of its kind in the world. The complete Visual History Archive is available at forty-nine institutions globally, while localized collections of testimonies are available at 199 sites in thirty-three countries. According to the archive itself, approximately one million students, researchers, teachers, and lay people view the testimonies each year (Freie Universität Berlin 2012a). The main target group is young people. Within the field of Holocaust education, survivor testimony is generally considered to be of central importance—because the personal encounter is meant to put “a human face to history” (The Holocaust Educational Trust 2014). That also applies to video testimonies. For example, the website of the NGO “Facing History and Ourselves” (2013) states: “The shared experience of listening to a survivor bearing witness is like no other experience […] It inevitably affects us deeply and literally changes the way we feel about history and ourselves.” Similar to personal conversations and the written autobiographical memories of survivors, video testimonies are widely perceived as “authentic,” as firsthand accounts, as the legacy of the survivors. These documentations allow us to hear the personal voice of those who were victims of the persecution, but who survived nonetheless—they are of inestimable value. However, both the transmission medium and the preparation process of the interviews for in-school and out-of-school educational purposes provide numerous possibilities for manipulation. One of these processes is translation. Usually, the construction of audiovisual archives online—for example, the Forced Labor 1939–1945 Archive (2015)—makes it rather obvious to the audience that they are being presented with a translation (in this case, a German-speaking audience): while they see the survivor speaking in a foreign language in the video, they read the translation as text next to the frame. However, it is highly probable that only a few of the viewers will be aware of the effects that translation has on a text. Intensified by the usage of the first person and the widespread, inaccurate understanding of translation as merely “the same words just in a different language,” it is most likely that the impression of “authenticity” will remain, and that the listener will assume that the translation does not deviate from the source language in any important way. Survivors’ video testimonies are not fiction, literature, or experimental texts. When it comes to translation, the ethical considerations surrounding them do not allow for a loose translation. Since the testimonies are widely

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seen as the legacy of the survivors, it is a common claim—on the side of the translators as well as on the contracting institutions’ side, generally—that the translation reflects the survivors’ specific perspective as accurately as possible. As the translator and translation scholar Zaia Alexander puts it: I would like to reconsider the word testimony—the term used for so much of what we read from survivors. The ethical considerations summoned by the expression offer a vital glue to the parameters of translating such texts. Bearing witness does not allow for free translating or for interpreting (as one would with fictional literature); fealty is an unstated requirement. (Alexander 2002: 17)

According to these considerations, the answer seems simple: a source-textoriented translation strategy is the appropriate way to go. But what about the skopos? What about the intended use of the translated text as educational material? Even though the video testimonies are widely perceived as “authentic,” they undergo a complex preparation process before they are used for educational purposes. This didactic and technical preparation involves many different people and professions, among them the translators—and, as already mentioned above, every step in this process provides an opportunity for manipulation. The first step in this process is the interview itself. Usually, the interviews were conducted in the interviewees’ homes and in their language of choice, and covered the interviewees’ lives before, during, and after the Holocaust. The interview teams were recruited and coordinated by local institutions, projects, foundations and civil society initiatives. They consisted of laypeople and/or professionals, often living in the respective regions, and guidelines for interviewers and videographers were supposed to ensure that the interviews would be conducted with a consistent approach. Most of the interviews within the framework of this study were conducted during the 1990s; however, the first ones were conducted at the end of the 1970s and interviews are still going on today. The next step is cataloguing and indexing. This is a highly complex process, which differs from archive to archive. Basically, the testimonies are cataloged in a bibliographic database and each testimony has been indexed by assigning indexing terms to its relevant segments. The aim of this process is to permit the users to perform detailed and effective searches—on names, places, time periods, and other keywords—both within one testimony and between them. According to the USC Shoah Foundation, “a team of historians, technology professionals, software engineers, and experts in information management” was involved in this step at the Visual History Archive (USC Shoah Foundation 2014). Even if the scale of other archives

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is smaller, the procedure remains basically the same. In the subsequent step, the translation is usually done using the already edited and segmented transcript of the testimony as the source. However, in case of doubt, the spoken word in the audio/video file is the decisive factor. The transcript is linked to the audiovisual file via timecodes and the translation is done either in table format (OEI) or in a special transcription software (VHA/ CeDiS). The translated segments are automatically linked to their source text equivalent. At the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, this process was slightly different; initially, the translation was delivered in word format. Subsequently, the translation is proofread and edited. At the larger archives, this process is supported by a team of experts in the fields of didactics, education, and e-learning. While some of the factors that influence the testimonies are widely discussed (at least within academia,1 although not necessarily with the target audience of the survivors’ video testimonies), others remain broadly invisible: and translation is one of these. If we think about the skopos as a central, influencing factor for the choice of translation strategy (Vermeer 1978: 100), the educational goal which is set by the archives and memorial sites as contract providers is of primary importance. Didactic preparation could start as early as with the translation. However, that would imply a certain level of adaptation to the target context. In this case, there are pedagogical requirements which can affect the translation. For instance, if the target audience is a young one, the language chosen must be appropriate for their level of comprehension. These educational requirements create a conflict when it comes to Holocaust testimonies considering the fact that the institutions specifically claim that their texts are “authentic.” If they were indeed “authentic,” one would expect them to have a source-text-oriented translation strategy, one looking to reproduce that which is said as “authentically” as possible. To illustrate this dilemma, the following section will present some typical questions with which translators are confronted during this particular translation process: What do you do as a translator when … an individual’s memories do not accurately reflect your own knowledge of certain historical facts (dates, locations)? Nazi German terms are used that would not be understandable to the young reader (“in den Osten schicken” [“send to the east”])? See Baranowski (2009), Apostolopoulos and Pagenstecher (2013), and Abenhausen et al. (2012) for the context discussed here.

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the speaker’s language use is so antiquated that it would no longer be understood by the target youth group? When what used to be linguistically self-evident is no longer so, or when a particular term has now acquired another meaning (as is the case with “ghetto,” for example)? terms are used that would be considered discriminatory today, and which should especially be avoided in the realm of educational work (for instance, “gypsy,” and in the German context in particular, “asocial”)?

If we take the last example of discriminatory language use, there seem to be two options: first, we could just reproduce that language, in an attempt to reflect the specific perspective of the source text author (the survivor) as accurately as possible. Or second, we could replace such language with current “politically correct” terminology. However, both methods are unsatisfactory: the use of discriminatory language should be avoided, especially in an educational setting. On the other hand, the language used not only says a lot about the speaker, but also documents the context and reflects the zeitgeist in which the speaker lives. By simply replacing supposedly inappropriate terms, this information would get lost. Furthermore, it would constitute a distortion of the text that was too extensive—especially in the context at hand. However, the source text and the intended use of the target text are not the only factors influencing the choice of translation strategy, the translation process and its outcome. The circumstances and conditions of a translation’s production are also a key factor, especially in a professional working environment.

The actual working conditions In the following, we will take a closer look at the translation practices of three major audiovisual archives in Germany: the Visual History Archive and the Forced Labor Archive 1939–1945 (both at the Freie Universität Berlin, FU), as well as the video archive of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, also in Berlin. As mentioned above, the Visual History Archive is based in the United States, but thanks to a licensing agreement with the USC Shoah Foundation, the Freie Universität Berlin is able to provide archive access for students, researchers, teachers, and scholars. Furthermore, various teaching and learning materials, a DVD series, and an online archive for schools have been developed at the FU. All three institutions play an important role in the field of Holocaust education in Germany—and in particular the latter, as Germany’s first major memorial dedicated specifically to Jews murdered

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in the Shoah. This memorial is not only a representative one, but also a highly sensitive one: it has prompted various vociferous political debates and (international) public attention to it is ongoing. For this study, it is of central importance that all three of the investigated institutions/contract providers have set an educational goal. For example, the Visual History Archive webpage reads: The USC Shoah Foundation, with the “Visual History Archive,” mainly pursues pedagogic as well as didactic aims. By using the medium video, the Institute hopes that video will provide today’s audio-visually oriented youth with easier access to history as a whole and thereby be able to provide tolerance and human rights education. (Freie Universität Berlin 2012b)

Usually, this kind of skopos would actually be a main influencing factor for choosing the translation strategy. In order to investigate the practical context in which the translation of these video testimonies takes place, twenty-four qualitative interviews with a selection of different actors who participate in the translation process were conducted: thirteen of them were translators, working freelance for at least one of the institutions investigated. Three of the interviewees had temporary contracts as project members, mainly editing transcripts and translations. The project director of the video archive at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe also took part in the interviews. Compared to the other two audiovisual archives investigated, that one is much smaller with far less people involved; each person is thus charged with a broader range of tasks. In contrast, at the Freie Universität Berlin—which hosts the Visual History Archive as well as the Forced Labor Archive 1939–1945— various departments are involved, all with defined responsibilities. The Center for Digital Systems (CeDiS) is the competence center for e-learning, e-research, and multimedia at the FU and provides online access to both archives. While the translation of the Visual History Archive’s testimonies was coordinated directly by CeDiS, this was not the case for the Forced Labor Archive 1939–1945: CeDiS was only responsible for digitizing the interviews and developing the interactive online platform as well as educational materials. Regarding the coordination of the translation and indexing of the interviews, however, the Department of Eastern European Studies (OEI) was in charge. The heads of the two translation and editing units (at CeDiS and the OEI), the project coordinator for translation and editing, and the person responsible for quality management and indexing (both at the OEI) were interviewed for this study. In order to gain a comprehensive overview

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of both projects, it was necessary to include the head of CeDiS; for detailed information on their financial situation and administrative structure, the administrative coordinator of CeDiS, responsible for budget and human resource management, third-party-funds and accounting, also took part. Finally, the expert for e-learning and multimedia testimony archives at CeDiS participated in the study, providing insight into the pedagogical preparation of the translated material. The guidelines for the translators’ interviews include questions regarding their own self-conceptions as translators, their approach to their occupation (professional and content-related standards; the theoretical translation models used as orientation), or concerning working conditions (qualifications, payment, restrictions). Furthermore, there were inquiries into what translation strategies are used by the translators when they are confronted with problems such as those mentioned above. In regard to the institutions providing contracts to the translators, the study asks how aware they are of the role of translation in educational work, and about the role of the translator as expert authority. Questions about what specific criteria are considered when awarding contracts to translators are asked, taking both economic aspects and the institutions’ requirements and expectations into consideration. Out of the thirteen translators interviewed, only three have a university degree in translation or are state certified, and only six work as professional translators. The other seven freelancers were all academics from the cultural and social sciences, ranging from political sciences to history to art. At the time of their translation work in this field, three of them were in a master’s program, one in a doctoral program, one had finished her master’s degree and two had completed their doctorates—however, none of them were in translation studies programs. It appears as though the relevant linguistic proficiency and a certain familiarity with the topic were more decisive for the awarding of contracts than what is known as “translation competence,” as it is taught in translation studies. Notably, two of the in-house coordinators for translation and editing (at CeDis and the OEI) were also professional translators. In the course of the interviews, there is one central theme: the lack of money. One project coordinator for translation and editing—herself a trained translator—provided a very colorful account of how she fought for adequate remuneration with those in charge of payment: And of course: too expensive, everything is much too expensive. I had to start working on convincing them, I wrote reports, performed some small studies demonstrating why it can’t be translated with Google.

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Because that was another suggestion, that maybe it could just all be done automatically. Everything had to be proven again. For us translators, we don’t need proof, it is clear to us why that doesn’t work, everyone of us knows that, but for people on the outside, everything had to be proven. Or why it doesn’t work for students to do it. I had to present that in writing, and figure out how long it would take: 40 years with students and 4.5 years with professional translators, if you want to achieve a certain level of quality. We also had to battle with arguments like, “oh, quality isn’t so important, the main thing is that we have 400 completely accessible interviews online.” And that was unimaginable to us, because what does that mean “quality isn’t important,” in that case, you can just forget the whole thing.2

The project director of the video archive at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe talked about how they increasingly fell back on German-language interviews, in order to avoid the costs of translation: The translations would have been […] the most expensive part [of our budget]. And we showed it, what came out at the end, to an institution that was possibly going to provide funding, and it was a seven digit number. And they said, “impossible.” After we took out the translation, it was a number in the lower sixes. […] There had been the idea to have 100 interviews, 80 not German. In the end, there were 80 interviews, and 10 were not German. It got completely flipped around. But it was still very expensive, nonetheless.3

Based on the translators’ accounts, unpaid, additional work is more the rule than the exception. The overwhelming majority of the interviewees have very high standards regarding their translation work. Those standards often go beyond common measures of professionalism, and one explanation given for that is the particular subject matter—namely, survivor testimonies. Another reason provided is that they are well aware that these translations will be used for educational purposes. Both of these considerations lead some of them to spend a lot of additional time researching and writing commentaries to provide context to the translation. As the translator is paid based on quantity of text and not hours worked, this additional time goes unpaid. One translator said:

L_ZA_1, min. 21, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 11, 2014, Berlin. L_StD_1, min. 40, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 7, 2014, Berlin.

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For me, my interest is clearly in education. These are some of the last testimonies that you can get. I think that that is very important, and that was probably also the motivation for doing it especially well.4

Many translators complained about the bad quality of transcripts that had been compiled as a part of earlier projects and were the foundation for the further interpretation and indexing process, the bibliographical registering of the documents and classification by content. The necessary revision process constituted an unexpected amount of work and effort, which was unaffordable in the end. One of them recalls: Everything comes together during the indexing process. All of the mistakes, from the interview methodology to the transcription to the translation, they all accumulate and come up at the end. In addition to the work that you have to do. They just didn’t think about that part.5

Briefly before the above comments, he had addressed the same topic in the following way: But during the indexing process, that was a disgrace. That was a catastrophe. It was so badly paid, that you were really exploiting yourself in the end, if you did it right. If you actually worked out what you were getting paid per hour, it would have been 50 cents. […] And that’s just drudgery, the effort put into it has no relation to anything anymore. And then you tend to be sloppy about it all. And that is very critical, because it is really special material we are dealing with here. You should really confront it thoughtfully and with a clear head and not that way. […] That isn’t right.6

This translator was the only one in the project who spoke a particular language. It was therefore very difficult for him to withdraw from it, to say “I can’t afford it anymore.” He felt a great political and moral responsibility to continue. Furthermore, the quote also clearly demonstrates that the quality of a translation does not only depend on the quality of the source text or the competence of the translator—but also on the external conditions. Another problem, which cannot be separated from the issue of insufficient funding, is the lack of awareness about translation on the side of those U_ZA_1, min. 01:02, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 8, 2014, Berlin. U_ZA_5, min. 41, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 21, 2014, Berlin. 6 U_ZA_5, min. 37, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 21, 2014, Berlin. 4 5

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funding the project. The idea of awareness-raising becomes difficult when there are people actually advocating for the translation of survivor interviews with Google Translator. The project coordinator for translation and editing, already cited above, recounts the following: The people who planned everything have no familiarity at all with the material. We were constantly severely criticized, we were constantly told that we weren’t doing something right. […] At meetings like that, there are people who aren’t interested in the details either. They want to see the quarterly reports. They want some kind of progress or milestone reached […].7

Another video archive’s project manager discussed how they were already far along in the process by the time they developed any awareness for translation: Well, it would have been good for the translator if there had been some communication, and it would have been very interesting for those of us who worked on it as part of a team at the Foundation. Because that would have shed some light on how to deal with this source genre. Based on the Foundation’s guidelines, we thought of the translation as just a resource, and I would say that’s how we treated it. […] Later, we didn’t work with any outsourced translators anymore […] instead, we only used people who were part of the team. […] So that everyone knows what the others are doing. So that there aren’t like satellites on the outside, as it had been before […] It would have been better had there been direct communication and collaboration at that time.8

Although the citation above says that the translations were done only by “people who were part of the team” after the initial phase of the project, that does not mean that the outsourced translators joined the team. Instead, the translations were conducted by other members of the team who had a certain level of language skill. In terms of the questions concerning self-awareness and selfconception, the translators’ responses varied greatly from one another. It seemed to make a difference whether the interviewees work as professional translators, or if they only take on translation as a side job alongside their actual occupation. As a rule, the professional translators were aware of L_ZA_1, min. 40, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 11, 2014, Berlin. L_StD_1, min. 56, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 7, 2014, Berlin.

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their competence and had a critical approach to their working conditions— conditions which led to them not being appropriately remunerated for said competence. In contrast, one of the interviewed students who had translated some of the testimonies during her studies and today works in a call center, demonstrated on the one hand a rather superficial understanding of translation, and on the other total satisfaction with the compensation received (gross equals net). This appears to point to revealing differences in how professional translators approach their work in comparison to untrained translators. The interviews also provided evidence regarding another important issue in the field of translation. As discussed above, many different people and professions are involved in the didactic and technical preparation of the video testimonies. However, while most of these specialists are part of a team based within their respective institutions, that is not the case for the translators. Since the testimonies are translated by freelancers, translation is usually an outsourced task. As a consequence, the translators are isolated from the subsequent editing process for the most part. In parallel with so-called female careers, such as care work, reproductive and domestic labor, they generally work at home. Without exception, all interviewed translators consider this to be problematic to some degree or another. In cases where translators did have contact with their colleagues in the project, they valued it very highly and were quite satisfied with the personal relationships that they experienced during their projects. One further positive aspect named by the translators was the opportunity to engage in a close examination of the survivors’ biographies, even if that was also sometimes described as difficult and straining: “The [translator] had asked if the deadline could be extended because she found it so emotionally straining.”9 In general, the translators felt that they were doing meaningful work, one of them considered “this project as one of the most precious ones”10 he had ever done. Another one said: The more I got into this topic, the more I confirmed to myself that it is an important issue and that there is still much to do. And yes, the encounters with these people made this [work] absolutely awesome to me. And from this point you want to continue. Even if you are emotionally completely exhausted, you want to go on.11

L_StD_1, min. 58, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 7, 2014, Berlin. U_VHA_1, min. 01:01, interview by Sylvia Degen, September 9, 2014, Berlin. 11 U_2_1, min. 01:05, interview by Sylvia Degen, September 11, 2014, Berlin. 9

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Having discussed the translators’ own requirements in regard to their work, it would now be useful to look at the institutions’ requirements and expectations for the translation, in particular concerning the supposed “authenticity” of the recorded biographies. All of the evaluated contracting institutions offer translation guidelines for orientation—but these are often insufficient, and demonstrate a certain lack of awareness of the particular requirements of the translations at hand: for one of the audiovisual archives investigated, the translation is supposed to be used for both “academic analyses” and “educational purposes”; it should be “as close as possible to the original, all particularities (pauses, repetitions, stuttering or other language defects) [should be included] […]” and at the same time [the translation should be] “easily readable, correct, and complete in the German target language, […] that means that it must not be recognizable as a translation based purely on the language.”12 It is, however, impossible to create an easily readable text that simultaneously includes all of the linguistic particularities of the original audio file. This example illustrates that there are some requirements for the translation in the guidelines which must remain unsatisfied. The skopos “academic analysis” is quite different from “for educational purposes,” and leads to unfulfillable, contradictory requirements. While all of the archives expect a faithful rendering of the original text— in other words, the translation is expected to be as invisible and as “authentic” as possible—there are also other more divergent requirements depending on the institution: while one institution emphasizes the goal of good readability in the target language (see above), another one would actually like to see some “tripping” over the translation: The sources, the biographical interviews actually balk at this [educational] duty. Because they are not accommodating, they are not easily digestible, because the Foundation has refused to […] cut them down to size, to bring them into line, to present them in such a way that they will be easily consumable. And with this decision also comes the decision that the translation should not be that. […] I think that Holocaust didactics always has to start out by making clear that something is being negotiated here, something should be learned here that itself brings up fundamental problems of understanding. […] Extremely simplified: making the unrepresentable representable, but as something unrepresentable.13 All cited guidelines come from my personal archive. L_StD_1, min. 20, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 7, 2014, Berlin.

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As far as the interviewed translators are concerned, their translation strategies are quite varied. One interviewee worked exclusively in a sourcetext-oriented way, but that was an exception. Others placed more importance on the readability and changed the target text accordingly. Most of the translators took advantage of the option to make remarks, although some criticized that it was unclear to whom those remarks were directed, and what happened to them in the end: I explained all of the many names that came up. Then they disappeared. I noticed that they were not in the transcripts, the ones that you can read afterwards. I would have considered that [information] important. […] And for terms too, ones that had an entirely different meaning back then. Some explanatory section would have been important, in particular for educational work. I had the opportunity to make remarks, I made ample use of that opportunity without knowing what would happen with them. And then I was disappointed when I saw that nothing happened with them. Because something was indeed lost in the process.14

This extensive usage of the remarks option clearly demonstrates that the translators’ requirements for the translation go well beyond a simple reproduction of the source text. One of their central concerns was to provide crucial contextual and linguistic information that would otherwise be lost to the recipient, a vital part of succeeding in conveying the knowledge that these biographies were meant to impart.

Conclusion The aim of this article was to provide some insights into the field of digitized audiovisual testimonies from survivors of National Socialist terror and their translation for educational purposes. The first section focused on the text type Holocaust testimony, on the intended use of its translation as educational material, and on some of the resulting challenges. The second section provided some provisional results of an ongoing interview project with different actors in the field. So far, the empirical results suggest three key factors that are very influential in the translation practices investigated: first, the high personal U_ZA_1, min. 41, interview by Sylvia Degen, July 8, 2014, Berlin.

14

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commitment of the interviewed translators; second, the lack of awareness about translation on the side of the funding institutions, which leads to a lack of financial resources; and third, the fact that the interviewed translators consider their isolated working environment to be problematic. When looking at the funding institutions’ requirements, they seem to expect a translation that delivers “the same words just in a different language”—supposedly easily done with Google Translator. There seems to be no recognition of the translation’s influence on the supposedly “authentic” text. Consequently, translation costs are often not adequately calculated in financial budgets and contracts are given to (less expensive) laypeople. Furthermore, the translators are not involved in the entire preparation process of the audiovisual testimonies. Although the research framework is a different one, these findings correspond largely to the results Enzenhofer and Resch (2011) presented in their study on translation processes in qualitative social research. In contrast, the translators’ requirements for the translation go well beyond a simple reproduction of the original. All the translators interviewed were highly committed to their work. The fact that they considered the topic to be interesting and the work to be meaningful initially sounds like a purely positive aspect—however, it often leads to translators accepting inadequate working conditions and engaging in the common practice of unpaid additional work. To a greater or lesser extent, all interviewed translators who worked apart from the rest of the team considered this to be problematic. Some of them had only a vague idea of the different steps involved in the complex preparation process of the audiovisual testimonies; any exchange of ideas with others working in the same project was difficult. Additionally, the above findings point to a classic theme when it comes to translation: the invisibility of the translator. Unsurprisingly, the widespread assumption that the best translation is an invisible one often has a negative effect on the creator of that translation. For as long as their translation remains invisible, so do they. The provisional results of the study discussed here stress the need for translators, in this field at least, to become more visible. Given the complexity of the translation field described in the first part of this article, working collaboratively in a team and promoting collective knowledge production seem to not only improve the working conditions of the translators but to also provide a good framework for the resolution of the translation problems at hand. For example: if the translators were part of the project team, they could work together with the IT specialists in order to use the advantages

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offered by digital media for the translations as well. This approach might also show the way to a possible solution to the conflict between source-textand target-text-oriented translation strategies: maintaining the standard of “authenticity” as closely as possible in the translation, forbids any intervention in the text itself. However, the text-external options provided by the digital medium allow for some clarifying additional commentary. In that way, metaphors, NS terminology, or context-specific expressions can be translated as closely to the text as possible. Moreover, dates, place names, etc. that have been remembered incorrectly, can remain as they are. The interviewees’ own personal ways of expressing themselves can be reproduced as accurately as possible. Difficult passages could then be contextualized by providing annotations—to the translation synchronized with the video and also to the transcript (available in PDF format)—in the form of a pop-up window and/or internal links, for instance. Apart from providing additional information by using these text-external options, it would also be possible to encourage a discussion regarding difficult passages, such as in the case of discriminatory language use. The search for an appropriate and adequate metaphor for translation continues. And while the idea of collaboration is still appealing, collaborating with the survivors of National Socialist terror as source text authors has to be completely different than the collaboration experienced by Claude Cahun and Sarah Pucill. While they seem to share a similar perspective or similar experiences, that could never be the case when translating a Holocaust testimony. The problems of language and representation, already present in any attempts at linguistic expression around this topic (as reflected in Primo Levis’ famous quote, “We say ‘hunger,’ we say ‘tiredness,’ ‘fear,’ ‘pain,’ we say ‘winter’ and they are different things”; Levi 1960/1996: 123), also apply to the translation of such texts: when it comes to the descriptions of the horrible, inhumane conditions in the ghettos and concentration camps, it is impossible for someone who has not had their experience to fully grasp the meaning of the source text. However, despite the lack of a shared background knowledge and at times even of a common vocabulary, the survivors providing their testimonies and their translators might share some similar concerns: namely, that nothing of that nature ever happens again and that the survivors’ testimonies have an igniting effect on the young recipients, generating discussion and analysis. In order to get closer to this goal, and as a part of this collaboration, the translator’s task could be to define the limits of language, representation, and translation—instead of putting all one’s energy into coming as close as possible to some unrealizable ideal of “authenticity.”

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References Abenhausen, Sigrid, Nicolas Apostolopoulos, Bernd Körte-Braun and Verena Lucia Nägel, eds (2012), Zeugen der Shoah: Das Visual History Archive in der schulischen Bildung [Testimonies of the Shoah. The Visual History Archive in School Education], Berlin: Freie Universität Berlin, Center für Digitale Systeme (CeDiS). Alexander, Zaia (2002), “Beyond Babel: Translating the Holocaust at Century’s End,” PhD diss., UCLA, Los Angeles. Apostolopoulos, Nicolas and Cord Pagenstecher, eds (2013), Erinnern an Zwangsarbeit: Zeitzeugen-Interviews in der digitalen Welt [Remembering Forced Labor: Interviews with Testimonies in the Digital World], Berlin: Metropol. Baranowski, Daniel, ed. (2009), “Ich bin die Stimme der sechs Millionen”: Das Videoarchiv im Ort der Information [“I am the Voice of the Six Million”: The Video Archive as a Place of Information], Berlin: Stiftung Denkmal für die Ermordeten Juden Europas. Enzenhofer, Edith and Katharina Resch (2011), “Translation Processes and Quality Assurance in Qualitative Social Research,” Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 12(2). Available online: http://www.qualitative-research.net/index .php/fqs/article/view/1652 (accessed August 25, 2015). Facing History and Ourselves (2013), “Survivor Testimony,” in Facing History and Ourselves. Available online: http://www.facinghistory.org/survivor-testimony (accessed August 25, 2015). Forced Labor 1939–1945, Memory and History (2015) “A Digital Archive for Education and Research.” Available online: http://www.zwangsarbeit-archiv .de/en/index.html (accessed August 25, 2015). Freie Universität Berlin (2012a), “Die USC Shoah Foundation. The Institute for Visual History and Education.” In Freie Universität Berlin, USC Shoah Foundation: Visual History Archive. Available online: http://www.vha.fu -berlin.de/archiv/index.html (accessed August 25, 2015). Freie Universität Berlin (2012b), “What Is ‘Visual History’?” In Freie Universität Berlin, USC Shoah Foundation: Visual History Archive. Available online: http://www.vha.fu-berlin.de/archiv/index.html (accessed September 14, 2014). The Holocaust Educational Trust (2014), “Outreach Programme.” Available online: http://www.het.org.uk/index.php/education-general/outreach -programme (accessed August 25, 2015). Levi, Primo (1960/1996), Survival in Auschwitz: The Nazi Assault on Humanity, trans. Stuart Woolf, New York: Simon & Schuster. Pucill, Sarah (2014), “Magic Mirror, 2013.” Available online: http://www .sarahpucill.co.uk/films/magic-mirror (accessed August 25, 2015). The University of Michigan-Dearborn (2014), “Voice/Vision. Holocaust Survivor Oral History Archive.” Available online: http://holocaust.umd .umich.edu (accessed August 25, 2015).

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USC Shoah Foundation (2014), “The USC Shoah Foundation Story.” Available online: http://sfi.usc.edu/about (accessed August 25, 2015). Vermeer, Hans J. (1978), “Ein Rahmen für eine allgemeine Translationstheorie” (“A Frame for a General Translation Theory”). Lebende Sprachen, 23(3): 99–102. Wisconsin Historical Society (2014), “Oral Histories: Wisconsin Survivors of the Holocaust.” Available online: http://www.wisconsinhistory.org /HolocaustSurvivors (accessed August 25, 2015). Yad Vashem (2014), “The International School for Holocaust Studies.” Available online: http://www.yadvashem.org/yv/en/education/learning_environments /testimony.asp (accessed August 25, 2015).

Part Five

Limits of Permeability

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Interpreters in Soviet Prisoner of War Camps: Beyond the “Unsayable”? Viktor Milosevic

Due to the scarcity of information on Soviet prisoner of war camps during the time of the Iron Curtain, very little was known about the everyday life of the hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war who were held in the Soviet Union. Only in the early 1990s did historians such as Stefan Karner begin to shed light on this under-researched issue. Moreover, even less is known today about the interpreters in prisoner of war camps who were either forced or chosen to bridge language gaps between the inmates and their Soviet minders. In this chapter, I intend to discuss the topic of interpreting activity, and more importantly, analyze the roles of interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps. In doing so, prevailing ideas of the roles of interpreters in translation studies will be supplemented as it is my claim that interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps—mostly due to the harsh conditions which prevailed in the camps—took on more than just the role of language mediators. Furthermore, this article will also show which additional roles interpreters could embody in Soviet prisoner of war camps. Through the use of Erving Goffman’s concept of social interaction, several memoirs of former German and Austrian prisoners of war who spent many years in Soviet captivity will be analyzed. Among them are memories of the former German and Austrian soldiers Hans Dibold and Hinrich Kluge, Günter Knopf, Alfons Rujner, Werner Brähler, Hans Kampmann, and Edmund Thelen.

The history of prisoner of war camps in the Soviet Union The beginning of the Soviet camp system dates back to 1917 when the Bolshevik Party, led by Lenin, seized political and economic power in Russia (Stettner 1996: 43–4). At that time, it was crucial for the Bolsheviks to

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oppress political as well as intellectual opponents of the new political regime. For this, the Bolsheviks sought to imprison all “enemies” of the socialist revolution in forced labor camps, which—from the 1930s until the 1950s— were administered by the GULAG, the Main Camp Administration (Stettner 1996: 43–4), a system which went through many stages of development and lasted until the end of the 1980s (Stark 2003: 11–12).

The GUPVI In addition to the GULAG, there was also the GUPVI, the Main Soviet Administration of Prisoners of War and Internees, which was established on September 19, 1939, by Order 0308 issued by the State Security Administrator and Chief of Soviet Security Lavrentiy Beriya and existed until the end of the 1950s. This Soviet camp system was implemented by the Soviet government in order to manage affairs concerning prisoners of war and civilian internees (Karner 1995: 55). At the beginning of the military conflict between the Soviet Union and Germany, there were only eight prisoner of war camps in the Soviet Union in which exclusively Finnish and Polish prisoners of war were kept (Karner 1995: 56). However, after Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet Union on June 22, 1941, four of the initial eight prisoner of war camps were destroyed, leaving the GUPVI administration with four camps until the beginning of 1942 which had been intended to only hold 8,000 or a maximum of 9,000 inmates each (Karner 1995: 56). Shortly after the beginning of 1942, two additional prisoner of war camps were built to serve as reception camps for the thousands of German prisoners of war who had been captured after the invasion of the German troops, and especially after the unconditional surrender of the 6th Army in Stalingrad in February of 1943 (Dornik, Hess and Knoll 2007: 28). The first prisoners of war were kept in former monasteries, old military dormitories, and areas like the former training barracks of the NKVD—the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs (Dornik, Hess and Knoll 2007: 28). Later, from 1944 on, the prisoner of war camps had to be built by the prisoners themselves. Eventually, the camp archipelago of the GUPVI administration encompassed more than 5,000 prisoner of war camps, military hospitals, and labor squads positioned all over the Soviet Union (Karner 1998: 131)—from the border of Poland to the east of Siberia (Knoll 1995: 15). In the camps, soldiers and civilian internees from about sixty-five nations were kept imprisoned and were forced to rebuild the infrastructure which had been destroyed during the Second World War (Sagorulko 2000: 175–6).

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The main purpose of the GUPVI administration, with its thousands of camps, was to register all captured prisoners of war and internees in socalled collecting points. After that, the inmates were integrated into the camp system, provided with provision in accordance with the norms established by the NKVD, segregated in terms of potential war criminality, and forced to work in labor squads all over the Soviet Union (Karner 1998: 133).

Everyday life in Soviet prisoner of war camps Until the end of 1946, the conditions prevailing in most prisoner of war camps were horrifying. First, many soldiers lost their lives due to the harsh climate conditions during the wintertime. Second, soldiers had to work up to twelve hours a day with almost no days off. This led to a prevalence of extreme exhaustion, malnourishment, and serious chronic diseases among the prisoners of war (Karner 1995: 76). Moreover, since the Soviet Union refused to repatriate most of the prisoners of war in 1949, as the socialist government would have lost hundreds of thousands of “convenient” workers, many prisoners of war were sentenced to life imprisonment in labor camps (Lehmann 1986: 28) where they either died of illness such as typhus, lung disease, scurvy, or malaria, or simply undernourishment (Vavulinskaya 2013: 84). The difficult health circumstances posed an immense problem not only to the inmates but also to the numerous physicians and medics operating within the camps, since in most Soviet prisoner of war camps food supplies were simply insufficient (Vavulinskaya 2013: 83–4): the rations included only 400 grams of bread, 20–30 grams of butter, some soup, almost no meat, and sometimes 75–100 grams of fish (Sagorulko 2000: 29). The inmates thus suffered not only from extreme hunger but also from brutal conflicts which arose due to the lacking food supplies. Consequently, many inmates tried to use certain “privileges” for their own benefit by stealing and/or selling food, clothing, tools and other useful items on the “black market” outside and within the camps (Vavulinskaya 2013: 84–6). However, the miserable conditions under which the prisoners of war in the Soviet Union had to survive were also caused by the fact that after 1945, the USSR experienced an extreme labor deficit since many Soviet men of working age had died in combat. Moreover, the food industry had shrunk to a minimum as many factories producing food had been converted into arms factories in order to supply the quickly expanding military. Furthermore, Nazi Germany had destroyed most of the Soviet Union’s infrastructure, which was desperately needed to support agricultural production after the war (Dornik, Hess and Knoll 2007: 72–3). Therefore, most prisoners of

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war first had to rebuild what the Germans had destroyed during the “Great Patriotic War”: prisoners of war were forced to work in a wide variety of fields, for example, mining, agriculture, manufacturing, and state-financed city rebuilding programs (Engelke 1998: 59). As far as the camp system through 1946 was concerned, it had become too complex in its administrative structure. Therefore, in May and June of 1946, the NKVD ordered a downsizing of the camp archipelago, which led to a classification of the camps into four main categories (Dornik, Hess and Knoll 2007: 34–5): The first category of prisoner of war camps was comprised of relatively small camps, labor squads, and hospitals in areas near borders with Europe. In these camps, former soldiers of the German Wehrmacht were kept imprisoned and had to abide by strict rules which had been established by the NKVD. The second category consisted of camps located in remote areas of the Soviet Union, where mostly soldiers of the Wehrmacht were forced to work under extreme conditions. The third category included all camps where former Austrian, Hungarian, and Romanian soldiers were kept under a relatively “mild” regime. And there were also special camps in which war criminals and former soldiers of the SS, SD, SA, and Gestapo were kept in captivity until they were either sentenced to death or to twenty-five years (effectively death) of forced labor in camps of the GULAG administration (Karner 1995: 76–8).

The hierarchy in Soviet prisoner of war camps Under the harsh conditions in all four categories of prisoner of war camps, most of the prisoners of war and civilian internees suffered under hatred, resentment, denunciation, physical as well as mental punishment, physical conflicts, and malnourishment for a very long time. However, there were also inmates who did not suffer as much as the others since every prisoner of war camp had its own hierarchy, mainly consisting of four social layers, with the Lagernatshalnik—the camp commander—at the top of the social pyramid (Dähler 2007: 59).

Camp personnel, Wehrmacht officers, and other prisoners of war Hierarchically inferior to the Lagernatshalnik was the camp personnel which consisted of Soviet officers and regular Soviet soldiers who served as guards (Dähler 2007: 59). Under the Soviet social stratum in the camps were former German, Austrian, or Italian officers who, among other prisoners of war, were treated according to their military ranks. Non-commissioned officers

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who had been captured by Soviet troops were also distinguished according to their military ranks (Dähler 2007: 59). Another more “privileged” group of inmates were the so called functionaries who had more rights than ordinary soldiers who, together with the civilian internees, not only formed the last stratum of the camp hierarchy, but also did not have as many privileges as the functionaries (Dähler 2007: 59). It can therefore be said that staying alive in camps of the GUPVI administration was a matter of belonging or not belonging to certain groups of prisoners of war. This categorization was undertaken by specially trained NKVD troops (together with their interpreters): they had to categorize the prisoners of war according to their nationalities, military ranks, and functions during the war (MVD of the USSR 1946/2000). As part of this, the NKVD troops were constantly searching for war criminals among the new arrivals to prisoner of war camps.

War criminals The following were considered to be war criminals: all former operative troops of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Reich Main Security Office), all troops of the Sicherheitsdienst (Security Service), the Geheime Feldpolizei (Secret Field Police), the Gestapo (Secret State Police), the Schutzstaffel (Protection Squadron), and the Sturmabteilung (“Brownshirts”) as well as all former staff who had worked in Nazi concentration camps. Furthermore, all members of the Hitler Jugend (Hitler Youth) and all staff who had previously worked in other Nazi institutions were considered war criminals (MVD of the USSR 1946/2000). Consequently, almost everyone of German or Austrian origin could have been labeled as a war criminal. It was, in fact, extraordinarily difficult for the NKVD personnel and their interpreters to distinguish between regular German and Austrian Wehrmacht troops and true war criminals since there were also Wehrmacht soldiers who had been directly involved in war crimes or had at least assisted the SS or Gestapo troops in oppressing, discriminating, abducting, imprisoning, and murdering Jews as well as other “enemies” of Nazi Germany in the Soviet Union (Möller 2005: 9–10).

Functionaries in Soviet prisoner of war camps Each Soviet prisoner of war camp had its own camp commander and also deputies who were in charge of security, administration, logistics, labor, and political re-education (Schneider 2004: 58–60). Private contact with

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the inmates was strictly forbidden and punishable—for the staff working in administration sections as well as for the guards (Hilger 2000: 120). However, in order to oversee and supervise the work and to adequately control the labor norms of the inmates, the camp personnel recruited inmates to assist them. For this purpose, the camp staff mostly used officers and other soldiers who were of high military rank. Such inmates became “functionaries” and could work in the camps as communist activists, interpreters, cooks, or doctors (Dähler 2007: 59). These inmates were considered privileged as they received additional provisions as well as warmer clothes and were exempted from hard labor; they were even allowed to leave the camps. Therefore, much of the hard living conditions could have been eased by being “employed” as a functionary. However, in order to become such a functionary, one had to fulfill certain criteria: a good command of foreign languages, especially Russian, participation in political re-education, and expertise in fields such as construction or metallurgy (Hilger 2000: 123–5). Another very important factor for becoming a functionary was political “reliability.” Consequently, interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps—who were also considered functionaries—were among those inmates who were often envied by other prisoners because of their special rights.

Interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps As the analysis of the memoirs of former German and Austrian prisoners of war has revealed, interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps worked in practically every sphere of daily camp life. They had to be present and interpret upon the arrival of new inmates, during interrogations, during roll call, in hospitals, in court, during the work of the labor squads, and in many other everyday camp situations. The interpreters assigned to interpreting activities in these fields were either military interpreters who worked for the NKVD (Sagorulko 2000: 103), or prisoners of war who, either because of their bilingual background or good command of Russian and other languages, were chosen or forced to act as language mediators. One can therefore say that in Soviet prisoner of war camps, there were two groups of interpreters. The first group of interpreters, the so-called shtatnye perevodchiki (interpreters in service), had to assist Soviet troops during the arrival of new inmates and the registration of the prisoners of war. Furthermore, they had to determine the identity and the military rank of the newly arrived prisoners, and engage in military intelligence in order to identify whether an inmate served in the German Wehrmacht or the SS, and interpret during roll

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calls and speeches (NKVD of the USSR 1944/2000). These (former military) interpreters were either men or women who had served their country during the war. The second group, which consisted of mostly male prisoners of war who had been recruited to perform interpreting activities, had similar functions. They interpreted during roll calls, assisted other interpreters, and interpreted in situations in which no shtatnye perevodchiki were available (NKVD of the USSR 1944/2000). Thus, prisoners of war serving as interpreters were simply indispensable in the everyday running of GUPVI camps. Whether the interpreters were respected or feared by the civilian internees and prisoners of war within the camps depended on their behavior toward their fellow inmates. In the memoirs of former German and Austrian prisoners of war, they are either described as the “Good Samaritans” who were willing to help, or as ruthless tormentors who did not care about the “well-being” of their fellow inmates in any way. Thus, one can say that interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps could take on more than just the role of the (allegedly) “neutral” language mediators.

The roles of interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps For the following analysis, Erving Goffman’s model of social interaction seems particularly apt. It not only provides a wide variety of roles which humans can “play” in certain situations, but is also very useful when it comes to describing specific situations of everyday life. Moreover, according to this model, human communication between individuals or groups can be described as a performance during a play—a very important aspect of Goffman’s sociological model that helps to thoroughly discuss the research questions raised. The first example of my analysis demonstrates what roles interpreters performed during an interrogation. For this, a passage from Hinrich Kluge’s memoirs Neun Jahre in Stalins Gulag (Nine Years in Stalin’s Gulag), published in 2004, was chosen. In his memories, Kluge, a former German military physician of the 60th German tank division near Minsk in Belarus, who had spent nine years in captivity and was repatriated in September 1953, is requested to interpret during an interrogation of an inmate because the camp personnel would like to resolve a theft claim: So kommt eines Tages der Dorfvorsitzende mit dem russischen Oberleutnant und fordert von mir als Dolmetscher Aufklärung eines Diebstahls [Diebstahl von Lebensmitteln einer Bäuerin vonseiten eines

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Gefangenen]. […] Wir sollen nun der Bauersfrau die gestohlenen Produkte ersetzen, und der Mann soll bestraft werden. Erst herrscht großes Schweigen, dann allgemeiner Protest gegen die Abgabe von unserer sowieso knappen Verpflegung. […] “Die Zeiten, wo ihr was zu sagen hattet, sind längst vorbei. Mit einem von euch Vornehmtuern wollte ich schon lange mal abrechnen!” (Kluge 2004: 211–12)1

This situation shows how Kluge, the camp interpreter and physician, not only takes on the conflicting role of the mediator, but – following Goffman – also acts as an interrogator who tries to resolve the theft claim. He is also a specialist since he, who is familiar with the local population’s way of thinking, is requested to help in resolving the theft. Moreover, since he advises the alleged thief to pay the farmer some money as a compensation for the stolen food, he somehow turns traitor by acting on behalf of the local population. Consequently, one can say that Kluge acted not only as a language mediator, but also as a specialist and turncoat in the eyes of another inmate. The second passage was taken from Hans Kampmann’s “Wer nicht hofft, der ist tot” (He Who Does Not Hope, Is Dead), a short account on his time in Soviet captivity. Kampmann is a former Wehrmacht lieutenant who had been captured in July 1944 near the Belorussian city Bobruisk and was repatriated in September 1949. In this passage, Kampmann describes how the interpreter, a German soldier who had gone over to the Soviets, told his fellow inmates news on the course of the war in the camp of Gryasovets: Wir erfuhren die Nachrichten vom Frontverlauf […] durch unseren Dolmetscher, einen Deutschen, der zu den Russen übergelaufen war. Ihm standen die regierungsamtlichen Zeitungen Pravda und Isvestija zur Verfügung. Er stellte auch Wandzeitungen her, die im Lager ausgehängt wurden. Zusätzlich ging er durch die Baracken und verlas neueste Nachrichten. Wir haben seine Berichte angehört, aber konnten nicht beurteilen, ob sie wahr waren oder nicht. Manches hielten wir für Propaganda. Wir wurden besonders mißtrauisch, wenn er mit One day a local representative and the Russian first lieutenant requested me to interpret during the resolving of a theft claim [someone had stolen food from a woman who was a farmer]. […] We had to make up for the stolen food and punish the thief. At first nobody said a word, and then suddenly everyone protested against the handing over of the already scarce food supplies. […] “The days when officers like you had a say are long over! I always wanted to settle my account with one of you busybodies!” Here and throughout, all translations are my own unless otherwise attributed. 1

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handgeschriebenen Zetteln kam, anstatt mit einer seiner Zeitungen. (Kampmann 2000: 102)2

This example illustrates that the interpreter, a German, was considered a turncoat who had changed sides. No one trusted him as he was thought to have had manipulated the news, which according to Erving Goffman made him look like an informer who worked for both the Soviet troops and the prisoners of war. Furthermore, he was thought to have been a kind of spy and traitor, that is, someone simply no one could trust. Therefore, one can say that although he knew how to act as language mediator as well as an informer in order to become a privileged member of the camp society, his behavior made him look worse in the eyes of his fellow inmates. However, this passage also reveals that the German interpreter was a specialist, who knew how to conform to his assigned duties, that is, Kampmann describes him as a man who wrote newspapers on his own. In conclusion, he was not only an interpreter but also a specialist, informer, and traitor, all at the same time. The following excerpt was taken from Werner Brähler’s Aus meiner Zeit (About My Time). Brähler was a Wehrmacht lieutenant who was captured by Soviet troops near Frankfurt (Oder) in Germany during February of 1944 and was, after having been transferred to several different prisoner of war camps, repatriated on December 16, 1949. In this passage, Brähler describes a situation in which a Prussian interpreter starts complaining about the inmates’ overall miserable living and working conditions after a prisoner of war was shot by a guard: Der Postenführer hatte unseren Organisierer erschossen! Daraufhin wurde im Arbeitskommando die Arbeit niedergelegt. Es herrschte große Wut und Aufregung. Unser aus Ostpreußen stammender Dolmetscher verlangte die sofortige Benachrichtigung der russischen Lagerleitung. Als diese mit mehreren Offizieren der Wachgarnison eintraf, protestierte er vehement gegen die Willkür dieses Sergeanten, der im tiefsten Frieden einfach einen Menschen umbringt. Er begründete auch die News on the courses of the front […] was delivered through our interpreter—a German who had defected to the Russian side. For this he used the government issued Soviet newspapers Pravda and Izvestiya to read out the latest news on the course of the war. However, he also had his own wall newspapers which were hung out within the camp. In addition to that, he read the latest news in the barracks where we listened to him, but we could not tell whether he was telling the truth as we believed that some of the news was in fact Soviet propaganda. Moreover, we got especially skeptical when the interpreter read out the news by using his handwritten notes instead of one of his newspapers.

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Notwendigkeit des Organisierens mit der schlechten Ernährung bei gleichzeitiger Arbeit im Akkord. Ein LKW wurde angefordert, um den Toten zu transportieren. Zwei Leute wurden dafür gesucht. Ich meldete mich hierzu. (Brähler 2010: 385–6)3

The analysis of this passage reveals that the Prussian interpreter not only acted as a language mediator or “spokesman” but also as an advocate or, as Goffman puts it, a protective agent who ensures that the camp commander’s attention is drawn to the miserable living and working conditions of the inmates. Furthermore, the passage shows that the interpreter does not stay in character all the time since he also acts as a traitor for a short moment: by deliberately telling the camp personnel about the “organizing activity” within the camp, which is strictly forbidden, he risks provoking the camp commander and thereby being punished or even killed. This measure was, however, necessary to live up to the expectations of his fellow inmates as he not only took on the role of the language mediator and spokesman but also acted as a protective agent who sought to make sure the guard was punished for his wrongful actions. The next example is taken from Hans Dibold’s memoirs Doctor at Stalingrad: The Passion of a Captivity (original title: Arzt in Stalingrad. Passion einer Gefangenschaft). Hans Dibold was a former Austrian specialist in internal medicine and Scharführer in the SS (SS squad leader). He spent almost four years, from January 1943 until November 1947, in Soviet captivity. He demonstrates how Ranke, a German prisoner of war and interpreter who had been a functionary in a Soviet military hospital, together with Hans Dibold, acted as language mediators between the physicians and a political commissar: Er war inzwischen etwas arrogant geworden, noch immer von blasser Hautfarbe, trug er eine schwarze Panzeruniform, obwohl er nur Schirrmeister bei einer Infanteriedivision gewesen war. Seine Stellung als Dolmetscher war ihm in den Kopf gestiegen, wir konnten uns nicht mehr so recht auf ihn verlassen. Er übersetzte nicht, was wir sagten, The guard shot the organizer! The labor squad immediately stopped working. Everyone was outraged and agitated. Our interpreter, who was from eastern Prussia, demanded the immediate informing of the Russian camp commander. When the commander and several officers of the garrison arrived, the interpreter started vehemently protesting against the sergeant’s arbitrary actions, which led to the unconscionable killing of a man. Moreover, he also started justifying the necessity of “organizing” [meaning first stealing and then selling or bartering] due to the malnourishment and hard work within the camp. A lorry was requested to remove the body. Two men were needed for this task. I volunteered.

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sondern was ihm richtig erschien—und für ihn nicht gefährlich war. Vielleicht auch ließ er manchmal weg, was nach seiner Ansicht uns hätte gefährlich werden können. Es war ein unheimliches Gefühl, daß dies in der Hand eines unberechenbaren Menschen liegen sollte. (Dibold 1949/1964: 132)4

This passage depicts a situation in which the interpreter translates everything the political commissar says, while he does not accurately interpret what had been said by the prisoners of war. Moreover, one can see that the mediator became a turncoat by interpreting in favor of the political commissar: Ranke, the interpreter, can be seen as an informer who pretends to be a “member” or inmate of the same prisoner of war camp. He knows how to act as an inmate, but deceives his comrades by wearing the uniform of a German soldier. He deceives his fellow inmates and thereby “sells” information to the camp personnel—as would a professional shopper who wants to enrich himself. In addition to the roles of the mediator, turncoat and informer, the interpreter is seen by other inmates as a traitor who has fled the harsh life of the camp to benefit by being close to the camp staff. The last example illustrates to what extent interpreters could take on a double role. The following situation shows how Hinrich Kluge is requested to act as interpreter in court, since the Soviet court interpreter cannot translate the young SS man’s words who only shouts “Heute wir, morgen ihr!” (Today us, tomorrow you!): Gegen Mittag wird ein Dolmetscher verlangt. Jemand nennt meinen Namen, und ich muß in das Gerichtszimmer. Dort steht vor dem Richtertisch ein ganz junger Soldat und schreit immer wieder: „Heute wir, morgen ihr!“ Die kleine Dolmetscherin weiß das nicht zu übersetzen. Der Junge hat einen roten Kopf und ist wie in einem Ausnahmezustand. Ich überlege kurz und übersetze dann: „In Lenins Lehre heißt es: Das Rad der Geschichte dreht sich unaufhaltsam weiter. Wer heute oben ist, ist morgen unten. Der Junge meint, heute werden wir ungerecht verurteilt, He [the interpreter] had become a little arrogant but had still the same pale skin, wore a black uniform of the Panzer division [tank division], although he had been only a Schirrmeister [technician] in an infantry division. The position of the interpreter had gone to his head, so we could not really trust him anymore. He did not translate what we had said, but rather those words he thought to be right—and not of danger to him. Maybe sometimes he omitted the parts that, in his eyes, could have become dangerous for us. It was an eerie feeling to know that this all actually depended on an unpredictable man [the interpreter].

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morgen ihr.“ Mit reichlich „Job twoju matj“ und Kolbenstößen bedacht, landen wir draußen bei den anderen. (Kluge 2004: 254)5

As can be seen in this example, the interpreter plays a double role: since Kluge already knows the outcome of the “trial,” on the one hand he uses his knowledge to protect the young soldier, and on the other he compromises the trial by deliberately skewing the young soldier’s words. For this purpose, he chooses a quotation by Lenin. This makes the interpreter not only a mediator but also, according to Goffman, an informer who deliberately uses information about a group of people to cause harm to their reputation.

Concluding remarks Given the passages which were taken from the memoirs of former German and Austrian prisoners of war, it can be concluded that there were two types of interpreters in Soviet prisoner of war camps: interpreters in service who were former Soviet military interpreters, including men and women, and mostly male inmates who, either because of their bilingual background or thorough knowledge of Russian and other languages, had been chosen or forced to act as language mediators. Furthermore, one can say that interpreters were employed in nearly every situation of daily life in Soviet prisoner of war camps. Due to the interpreting activity in the camps, language mediators actively shaped the inmates’ everyday lives: They could either ease or intensify the hardship of the prisoners. They were active interlocutors who were capable of denouncing, sabotaging or helping by means of interpreting—either in favor of their fellow inmates, or in favor of the camp staff. Moreover, it can be asserted that language mediators in Soviet prisoner of war camps, by interpreting for two parties hostile to each other, could act out of character and therefore take differing roles at the same time. They could take on the role of the mediator, and simultaneously “play” the roles of the partial denouncer, the protective agent, the deceptive informer, the traitor or

About noon, an interpreter is demanded. Someone called out my name, so I had to go back into the courtroom. In front of the judge, there was a very young soldier standing and shouting “Heute wir, morgen ihr!” [Today us, tomorrow you!] The young woman interpreter did not know how to translate it. The boy’s face had turned red; he was beside himself with rage. First, I pondered it, then I translated: “As it says in Lenin’s doctrine: the wheel of history is in constant motion. Today you are at the top, tomorrow at the bottom. The boy said, today we are being unjustly convicted, tomorrow you will be.” Accompanied with plenty of “Yob tvoyu mat” [Fuck you!] and beatings with the rifle butt, we got kicked out of the room.

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turncoat, the specialist or the prisoner of war who suddenly turned renegade in order to enjoy more privileges. One can thus see that the interpreters’ behavior proved to be elastic, and that language mediators in Soviet prisoner of war camps were constantly aware of the power potentially involved in their interpreting activity. It has been argued that by taking on various roles simultaneously, interpreters in prisoner of war camps could influence the course as well as the outcome of the mediating situation. Consequently, the roles of interpreters should not be seen as something static, but rather as potentially deceptive and sometimes biased—even to that extent the interlocutors, mostly prisoners of war, could face severe mental and physical punishment or even death based on the role assumed by the interpreters.

References Brähler, Werner (2010), Aus meiner Zeit [From My Time in Service]. Available online: http://www.ausmeinerzeit.de/bilder/7%20-%20 Kriegsgefangenschaft%20Russland.pdf (accessed August 25, 2015). Dähler, Richard (2007), Die japanischen und die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion 1945–1956. Vergleich von Erlebnisberichten [Japanese and German Prisoners of War in the Soviet Union from 1941 to 1956. A Comparison of Personal Experiences], Zürich: LIT. Dibold, Hans (1949/1964), Arzt in Stalingrad. Passion einer Gefangenschaft [Physician at Stalingrad. The Passion of a Prisoner of War], Freiburg: Herder. Dornik, Wolfram, Michael Hess and Harald Knoll (2007), Burgenländische Kriegsgefangene und Zivilverurteilte in der Sowjetunion 1941–1956 [Burgenland Prisoners of War and Civil Internees in the Soviet Union from 1941 to 1956.], Eisenstadt: Amt der Burgenländischen Landesregierung. Engelke, Edda (1998), Niederösterreicher in sowjetischer Kriegsgefangenschaft während und nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg [Lower Austrian Prisoners of War in Soviet Captivity During and After World War Two], Graz: Selbstverlag des Vereins zur Förderung der Forschung von Folgen nach Konflikten und Krieg. Hilger, Andreas (2000), Deutsche Kriegsgefangene in der Sowjetunion, 1941–1956. Kriegsgefangenenpolitik, Lageralltag und Erinnerung [German Prisoners of War in the Soviet Union from 1941 to 1956. Policies Regarding Prisoners of War, Everyday Camp Life and Memories], Essen: Klartext. Kampmann, Hans (2000), “Wer nicht hofft, der ist tot. Hans Kampmann: Von der Ostfront über Moskau nach Sibirien” [“He Who Has No Hope Is Dead.” Hans Kampmann: From the eastern Front via Moscow to Siberia], in Rüdiger Overmans and Ulrike Goeken-Haidl (eds), Soldaten hinter Stacheldraht. Deutsche Kriegsgefangene des Zweiten Weltkriegs [Soldiers

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Behind Barbed Wire. German Prisoners of War During and After World War Two], 80–121, München: Propyläen. Karner, Stefan (1995), Im Archipel GUPVI. Kriegsgefangenschaft und Internierung in der Sowjetunion 1941–1956 [In the GUPVI Archipelago: Capture and Internment in the Soviet Union, 1941 to 1956], Wien: R. Oldenbourg. Karner, Stefan (1998), “Die sowjetische Hauptverwaltung für Kriegsgefangene und Internierte (GUPVI) und ihr Lagersystem 1941 bis 1956” [The Main Administration for Affairs of Prisoners of War and Internees (GUPVI) and Its Camp System, 1941 to 1956], in Klaus-Dieter Müller, Konstantin Nikischkin and Günther Wagenlehner (eds), Die Tragödie der Gefangenschaft in Deutschland und in der Sowjetunion. 1941–1956 [The Tragedy of Captivity in Germany and in the Soviet Union 1941–1956], 129–53, Köln: Böhlau. Kluge, Hinrich (2004), “Das Leid der Gefangenen” [The Suffering of Prisoners], in Reinhold Busch (ed.), Neun Jahre in Stalins Gulag. Ein deutscher Arzt berichtet über das Leid der Kriegsgefangenen [Nine years in Stalin’s Gulag. A German Doctor on the Suffering of Prisoners of War], 21–313, Berlin: Frank Wünsche. Knoll, Harald (1995), “Österreichische Kriegsgefangene und Internierte in sowjetischer Hand” [Austrian Prisoners of War and Internees in Soviet Captivity], in Stefan Karner (ed.), “Gefangen in Rußland.” Die Beiträge des Symposions auf der Schallaburg 1995 [“Captured in Russia.” Contributions from the 1995 Symposium at Schallaburg Castle], 13–27, Graz: Selbstverlag des Ludwig Boltzmann-Instituts für Kriegsfolgen-Forschung. Lehman, Albrecht (1986), Gefangenschaft und Heimkehr. Deutsche Kriegsgefangene in der Sowjetunion [Captivity and Homecoming. German Prisoners of War in the Soviet Union], München: Beck. Möller, Horst (2005), “Vorwort” [Preface], in Christian Hartmann, Johannes Hürter and Ulrike Jureit (eds), Verbrechen der Wehrmacht. Bilanz einer Debatte [The Perpetrators of the Wehrmacht. The Results of a Debate], 9–15, München: Beck. MVD of the USSR (1946/2000), “Перечень лиц, которые согласно директиве № 38 Контрольного совета в Германии являются военными преступниками, нацистами и милитаристами, подлежащими выявлению в лагерях для военнопленных и интернированных” [Register of Those Who—According to the Directive no. 38 of the Allied Control Council—Are Classified as War Criminals, National Socialists and Combatants and Who Are to Be Traced in Camps for Prisoners of War and Civil Internees], in Maxim M. Sagorulko (ed.), Военнопленные в СССР 1939–1956. Документы и материалы [Prisoners of War in the USSR, 1939–1956. Documents and Records], Moscow: Логос [Logos]. Available online: http://militera.lib.ru/docs/da/voennoplennye/index.html (accessed August 25, 2015).

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NKVD of the USSR (1944/2000), “Инструкция по персональному переучету военнопленных, содержащихся в лагерях НКВД и в спецгоспиталях НКО и НКЗДРАВА” [Directive for Inventory of Prisoners of War in NKVD Prisoner of War Camps and in Hospitals of the Peoples’ Commissariats for Defence and Health], in Maxim M. Sagorulko (ed.), Военнопленные в СССР 1939–1956. Документы и материалы [Prisoners of War in the USSR, 1939–1956. Documents and Records], Moscow: Логос [Logos]. Available online: http://militera.lib.ru/docs/da/voennoplennye/index.html (accessed August 25, 2015). Sagorulko, Maxim M. (2000), Военнопленные в СССР 1939–1956. Документы и материалы [Prisoners of War in the USSR, 1939–1956. Documents and Records], Moscow: Логос [Logos]. Available online: http://militera.lib.ru/docs/da/voennoplennye/index.html (accessed August 25, 2015). Schneider, Felix (2004), Oberösterreicher in sowjetischer Kriegsgefangenschaft. 1941 bis 1956 [Upper Austrians in Soviet Captivity 1941–1956], Graz: Selbstverlag des Vereins zur Förderung der Forschung von Folgen nach Konflikten und Krieg. Stark, Meinhard (2003), Frauen im Gulag. Alltag und Überleben. 1936 bis 1956 [Women in the Gulag. Everyday Life and Their Struggle for Survival. 1936–1956], München: Carl Hanser. Stettner, Ralf (1996), “Archipel GULag”: Stalins Zwangslager. Terrorinstrument und Wirtschaftsgigant. Entstehung, Organisation und Funktion des sowjetischen Lagersystems 1928–1956 [“The GULag Archipelago”: Stalin’s Labor Camps. Instrument of Terror and Economic Giant. Origins, Organisation and Function of the Soviet Camp System. 1928–1956], Paderborn: Schöningh. Vavulinskaya, Lyudmila (2013), “Повседневность плена: иностранные военнопленные в Карелии (1944–1949 годы)” [Everyday Life in Captivity: Prisoners of War in Karelia (1944–1949)], Труды Карельского научного центра РАН [Transactions of the Karelian Research Centre of Russian Academy of Science] 4(4): 82–8. Available online: www.krc.karelia.ru/doc _download.php?id=6111&table_name=publ&table_ident=10966 (accessed August 25, 2015).

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Interpreting under Pressure: From Collaboration to Resistance Piotr Kuhiwczak

Over the last two decades, the relationship between the interpreters and their paymasters has been the subject of many academic debates. These debates have helped to bring into focus the role the interpreters play in our lives (Inghilleri 2012). If measured by a number of academic publications, the outcome of this effort is impressive, but doubts begin to creep in when one looks at the position of interpreting in institutional contexts. My own experience in academia, and more recently outside it, tells me that there is a considerable gap between research-based knowledge and everyday professional practice. Interpreters’ self-image and the academic agenda for interpreting are often at odds with what employers themselves understand the interpreters’ role to entail. It is now generally acknowledged that interpreters are indispensable in the process of intercultural communication and this is often enshrined in legislation and codes of professional practice (Bancroft et al. 2013). It does not mean, however, that those who commission interpreting services believe that interpreters should be “visible” (Pöchhacker 2004: 149). What I see in my daily encounters with a variety of professionals is that interpreters are a part of the service industry, which means that they are indispensable, but subordinate components embedded in a wider web of power relations and institutional rituals. Because I commission interpreters but also occasionally interpret myself, I have an opportunity to see and experience the interpreters’ position from two different perspectives, and I think I know what it means to be a master and what it means to be a slave. So what are the lessons I have learned from my ambiguous duality that may be of use to anybody else? My prevailing feeling is that if there is one person in the room with sensitivity and intelligence, she or he can salvage something from the muddle and miscommunication, which the interpreted conversation often becomes (Wadensjö 1998). It may be a sensitive interpreter but it may be somebody else—an intelligent solicitor, a well-trained medical

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professional, a client who realizes that something is not quite right, or an impartial observer from another agency who happens to understand how communication works. I believe that despite all the efforts to improve the interpreters’ positions and skills, the interpreted events will always remain random and haphazard, especially now when the public funding is tight, the communities are more and more inward looking, and there is little interest in experimentation in improving and restructuring anything which has no immediate commercial application. But how do these general reflections relate to interpreting in concentration camps? My answer to this is that in its essence interpreting in the camps is similar to interpreting under all other circumstances, but I realize that by making such a statement I may be accused of denying the uniqueness of the Nazi camps. However, I believe that by endorsing the uniqueness of the Holocaust without reflecting on it, we elevate its exceptionality to a dogma, and this exempts us not only from asking the questions about the relationship of the past to the present, but also from imagining how each of us individually may behave under pressure. Interpreting is a good activity to be considered in this context because interpreters may easily relieve themselves from any responsibility for their actions by insisting that they only interpret while others speak and make decisions. Perhaps an interpreter is an ideal embodiment of Ernest Gellner’s “modular man”—somebody who can engage and disengage himself from any social association without being accused of betrayal (Gellner 1996: 101–2). In fact, since most interpreting positions these days are based on the principle of commissioning freelancers for a one off job with few contractual obligations, hiring an interpreter is a perfect example of a free market economy transaction where mutual obligations are reduced to the minimum and wider responsibilities and implications are outside the written contractual agreement. I am not suggesting that a free market is the right framework to apply while discussing interpreting in the concentration camps, but it is important to have the modern paradigm in mind while assessing the level of constraints under which interpreting took place under exceptional circumstances. The case of interpreting in the concentration camps should be of interest to us for two reasons. Firstly, it should help us to understand how interpreting functions under extreme pressure. Secondly, it may tell us something about interpreters’ agency and responsibility in the conflict zones. I believe that these are genuine reasons why we should not shy away from studying the concentration camps in the same way we study other social phenomena and make useful comparisons with other situations when it is appropriate. In order to understand the role of interpreters in the camps it is not sufficient to limit our engagement to the study of documentary material.

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We need a conceptual framework within which these documents need to be interpreted. Concentration camps have been a subject of many sociological interpretations since the early 1950s. The purpose of these interpretations was well defined early on by Theodore Abel in 1951 who suggested that there were two aspects of the camps sociologists needed to investigate— one is the camp as a social institution, the other is the range of the human behavior under particularly difficult circumstances. Seven years later these ideas were developed by H.G. Adler, and in 1976 Anna Pawełczyńska wrote a comprehensive sociological study of concentration camps known in English as Values and Violence in Auschwitz. Although the authors of those studies provided detailed description of power structures, which made the functioning of the concentration camps possible, they were searching for an answer to a fundamental moral question about the agency and responsibility for what happened in the camps. The search for the explanation of the Nazi’s motivation to perpetrate genocide and mass murders preoccupied the immediate post-war decades to such an extent that the wider context in which the events were taking place were initially underestimated. A different and truly innovative sociological description of the Holocaust was attempted by Zygmunt Bauman, first in his 1988 essay “Sociology After the Holocaust” later incorporated into his highly acclaimed volume Modernity and the Holocaust published in 1989. The revolutionary nature of Bauman’s thinking becomes clear in his preface to the 1989 volume when he questions the traditional thinking about the responsibility for the Holocaust: Yet the exercise in focusing on the Germanness of the crime as on that aspect in which the explanation of the crime must lie is simultaneously an exercise in exonerating everyone else, and particularly everything else. The implication that the perpetrators of the Holocaust were a wound or a malady of our civilization—rather than its horrifying, yet legitimate product—results not only in the moral comfort of self-exculpation, but also in the dire threat of moral and political disarmament. It all happened “out there”—in another time, another country. The more “they” are to blame, the more the rest of “us” are safe, the less we have to do to defend this safety. Once the allocation of guilt is implied to be equivalent to the location of causes, the innocence and sanity of the way of life which we are so proud of need not be cast in doubt. (Bauman 1989: XII)

The reason why Bauman’s approach was different may be related to the fact that he had no firsthand experience of concentration camps as an inmate. When the Second World War broke out, Bauman managed to escape to the Soviet Union where he joined the Polish army units created by Soviets

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following the 1941 agreement with the Polish government in London. He returned to Poland in 1944 as the Soviet Army moved west, where he met his wife, Janina, who had escaped from the Warsaw Ghetto, survived the war in hiding and subsequently wrote two volumes of her memoirs (Bauman 1986, 1988). It is from Janina that Zygmunt Bauman learned a lot about the mechanisms which determined the extermination and the survival of the Jews in the Nazi occupied Europe. Drawing on Max Weber’s analysis of a modern industrial society, Bauman views a concentration camp as a highly organized industrial conglomerate managed by individuals who have clearly allocated responsibilities and are actively discouraged both from understanding the whole process of production and developing an ethical response to it. The conglomerate has the main objective, which, in the case of concentration camps, was the extermination of the Jews and other social groups considered to be undesirable. To summarize Bauman’s thesis briefly, we can say that he did not see the industrial process of killing people in the camps as an anomaly, but something, which arose directly from a highly industrialized society from which the state eliminated any forms of independent social control (Bauman 1989: XII). Bauman is very eloquent in explaining how the German state manipulated its citizens so that they either tacitly accepted the murder as a necessary action or averted their eyes from what was being done not only to aliens but also to their Jewish neighbors. Drawing the parallel between the past and present, Bauman writes: To understand how the astounding moral blindness was possible, it is helpful to think of the workers of the armament plant who rejoice in the “stay of execution” of their factory thanks to big new orders, while at the same time honestly bewailing the massacres visited upon each other by Ethiopians and Eritreans. (Bauman 1989: 24)

Nazi propaganda and the police force made sure that the “bewailing” was reduced to a minimum in Germany. This was an easy task particularly after the invasion of Poland in 1939 when a number of external enemies could be added to the internal enemies who were already identified and earmarked for liquidation. The essence of Bauman’s argument applicable to our context is perhaps his conviction that human beings have what he calls a “natural proclivity to avoid worrying more than necessity required” which today would translate as an urge to switch a TV channel whenever uncomfortable footage of human suffering threatens to destabilize our thoughts. Because of their multinational and multilingual character, concentration camps required interpreters and interpreting. The process of interpreting was complex and multidimensional. There were situations where it was

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formalized; for instance during the roll calls when the commanders wanted to make sure that the policies and orders were understood by the inmates; and when it was random, when individual guards needed to communicate with individual prisoners. The invidious method of involving the prisoners in running the extermination led also to the appointment of linguistically equipped individuals as functionaries who were combining the function of a guard with a function of an interpreter, mostly to the benefit of the camp authorities. Finally, there was informal communication between different national groups and in this case the ability to speak another language gave some individuals a privileged position. Likewise, the lack of linguistic skills often put whole groups of inmates at a disadvantage. Pawełczyńska gives an example of Greek Jews in Auschwitz whom she calls the “most tragic crowd,” which shrunk at a terrifying pace because they did not have a common language with other inmates and were not able to communicate (Pawełczyńska 1980: 91–2). Documents alone will not give us sufficient insight into the role of interpreters in the camps. We need to have scenarios and observe interactions between interlocutors who have no common language. But this is impossible. What we have is only the second best, the subjective reconstructions of such situations. I want to use just one illustration from the very well known in Poland but yet untranslated Stanisław Grzesiuk’s memoir Pięċ lat kacetu (Five Years in Concentration Camps) published in 1958. Between 1940 and 1945 Grzesiuk was an inmate of Dachau and then Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camps. His memoir is not a literary masterpiece, but we do not read Holocaust memoirs for the sake of their stylistic fluency. Its popularity in Poland depends on its clarity, simplicity, honesty, and most unusually, the immense resilience that emanates from the book. Additionally, it is absolutely clear that Grzesiuk had what we call an “ear for languages” perhaps because he was a man from a down-town Warsaw who spoke a specific urban dialect. In fact, most of his post-war life Grzesiuk spent promoting the dialect by singing pre-war songs originating in Warsaw’s street folklore. When the Gestapo arrested Grzesiuk in 1940, he spoke only Polish. By spring of 1945, he spoke reasonable Russian, German, and Spanish. He was also able to communicate in Serbo-Croatian and Czech partly because both languages are related to Polish, and partly because he simply believed that under those particular circumstances the communication in all languages was useful. The exception was French, which Grzesiuk never learned because he found the French prisoners least cooperative of all camp inmates (Grzesiuk 1958/2011: 390–3). His attitude toward German language was ambiguous: he did not want to speak it at all but understood that this would reduce his chances to survive, and survival was prisoners’ main preoccupation.

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If I were asked to define the main functions of language competence in Mauthausen-Gusen as presented by Grzesiuk, I would say that on the part of the prisoners languages and interpretation were used to increase one’s own chance to survive and defy the Nazi authorities. In fact, the two functions can be conflated. Mauthausen-Gusen was set up to kill the prisoners through slave labor and cruel disciplinary punishment for the so-called infringements of the camp and labor discipline. In order to survive, prisoners had to avoid hard labor but at the same time avoid being punished for avoiding the labor. The camp functionaries’ demand for faithful interpreters was dictated by the need to control the prisoners by disseminating the orders and detecting the strategies of avoidance and resistance. Grzesiuk’s version of linguistic communication is a constant tug-of-war where one false move could cost a prisoner his life. The strategies deployed were highly sophisticated. To demonstrate this, Grzesiuk gives an example of his ambiguous relationship to the German language. Because of his resistance to German, he never learned it well, but instead of trying harder he quickly realized that in critical situations not being able to speak fluent German may be advantageous (Grzesiuk 1958/2011: 193–4). In fact, it was often better to pretend that one did not understand German at all. Here is a succinct description of what he discovered: Co mi ta metoda dawała? Gdy mnie pytał o coś esesman, kapo czy też blokowy, odpowiadałem “nic fersztejn.” To słowo “nic” powiedziane po polsku mówiło samo, że ja naprawdę znam tylko jedno niemieckie słowo: “fersztejn.” Dostawałem wtedy tylko dla formalności w twarz albo kopniaka i przeganiano mnie. Gdy sprawa była poważniejsza, wzywano tłumacza. Gdy taki mówił coś tłumaczowi po niemiecku, ja już rozumiałem pytanie i miałem chwilę czasu—zanim mi to tłumacz powtórzył—zastanowić się nad odpowiedzią. W ten sposób ciężko było zaskoczyć mnie jakimś podstępnym pytaniem. Nie znaczy to, że w ten sposób unikałem zawsze bicia—przeważnie jednak metoda ta skutkowała. (Grzesiuk 1958/2011: 86)1 How did this method help me? Whenever an SS man, a kapo, or a block elder asked me something, my answer was “nic fersztejn.” The word “nic” pronounced in Polish indicated that the only German word I knew was “fersztejn.” So when they heard this, they meted out only a regular slap in the face or a kick in the bum and they told me just to get lost. When something more serious was going on, they were calling in an interpreter. When the interpreter was saying something in German to the functionary, I was already able to work out what the functionary wanted to ask me. This gave me time to think what to say even before the question was interpreted. Thus it was almost impossible for them to surprise me with a tricky question. It does not mean that I always managed to avoid beating, but in most cases the method worked well. (My translation)

1

Interpreting under Pressure 

225

Grzesiuk gives other examples where prisoners used interpreting to their own advantage and to the advantage of a wider prisoner community using a number of strategies similar to the one above. The remaining question is why some interpreters used their linguistic skills to help others, while others did not. I am afraid this is not a question I can easily answer. Bauman sees this as a matter of choice between moral duty and self-preservation (Bauman 1989: 207), but he is critical about the fact that sociologists have paid little attention to the question of ethics and moral choice. Kristen Renwick Monroe who studied the motivations of people who were trying to save the Jews in the occupied Europe arrives at a different conclusion (Monroe 2003): She believes that it was a lack of choice which determined people’s responses. The impulse to help was an impulse arising from the deep structure of their identity; it was not a result of a calculated choice. One of the interviewees explains this in her brief statement: You don’t just stand and think. You have no time to think if something happens. Suppose somebody drowns. If you stop [to] think “Shall I? Shall I not? Eeenie, meenie, miney, mo.” You can’t do that. You either help or you don’t. (Monroe 2003: 205)

If this is the case, then we should not be surprised that under extreme pressure the number of those who value self-preservation exceeds the number of those who are willing to help others. Discussions about the Holocaust often focus on how bystanders responded to the murder of the Jews, and how far the responsibility for what happened should be devolved. Were the German railways responsible for the Holocaust because they ran the transports to concentration camps, or not? Was the Swedish government collaborating with the Nazis because Sweden was supplying steel to the German industry? Could RAF have destroyed the railway lines leading to Auschwitz, thus making the extermination of people on such a massive scale impossible, or not? The further removed we are from the events, the more we are inclined to pass clear-cut judgments by applying today’s standards without looking at what was possible then. It seems to me that the case of interpreters in conflict zones both now and then belongs to what Primo Levi called “the grey zone”—a situation where somebody’s responsibility is diminished because of the coercive environment in which they are forced to act (Levi 1989: 36–70). In today’s legal framework the “grey zone” would be seen as diminished responsibility. It may be the case then that interpreters are in a permanent state of diminished responsibility. However, the law is clear that the burden of proof is on them, and we must make sure that this is not forgotten.

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References Abel, Theodore F. (1951), “The Sociology of Concentration Camps,” Social Forces, 30(2): 150–5. Adler, Hans Günther (1958), “Ideas Towards a Sociology of the Concentration Camp,” American Journal of Sociology, 65(3): 513–22. Bancroft, Marjory A., Lola Bendana, Jean Bruggeman and Lois Feuerle (2013), “Interpreting in the Grey Zone: Where Community and Legal Interpreting Intersect,” The International Journal for Translation and Interpreting, 5(1): 94–113. Bauman, Janina (1986), Winter in the Morning. A Young Girl’s Life in the Warsaw Ghetto and Beyond, 1939–1945, London: Virago. Bauman, Janina (1988), A Dream of Belonging. My Years in Postwar Poland, London: Virago. Bauman, Zygmunt (1988), “Sociology After the Holocaust,” The British Journal of Sociology, 39(4): 469–77. Bauman, Zygmunt (1989), Modernity and the Holocaust, Ithaka: Cornell University Press. Gellner, Ernest (1996), Conditions of Liberty, London: Penguin Books. Grzesiuk, Stanisław (1958/2011), Pięċ lat kacetu [Five Years in Concentration Camps], Warsaw: Książka i Wiedza. Inghilleri, Moira (2012), Interpreting Justice: Ethics, Politics and Language, London: Routledge. Levi, Primo (1989), The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, New York: Vintage. Monroe, Kristen Renwick (2003), The Hand of Compassion: Portraits of Moral Choice During the Holocaust, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Pawełczyńska, Anna (1980), Values and Violence in Auschwitz. A Sociological Analysis, trans. Catherine S. Leach, Berkeley: University of California Press. Pöchhacker, Franz (2004), Introducing Interpreting Studies, London: Routledge. Wadensjö, Cecilia C. (1998), Interpreting as Interaction, London: Longman.

Name Index Note: Locators followed by the letter “n” refer to notes. Abel, Theodore F. 36, 221 Adler, Hans Günther 32, 36, 221 Agamben, Giorgio 26, 28, 32, 47, 110, 149 Albertinelli, Lorenzo 103 Alexander, Zaia 9, 80 n.1, 91, 185 Amat-Piniella, Joaquim 105 Amstetten 105 Antelme, Robert 67, 74–6 Antonini, Rachele 13 Apfelbaum, Fanny 164, 167, 169–71 Arce, Fermín 102 Arendt, Hannah 26, 31–2, 46, 52, 149 Aschenberg, Heidi 8, 49, 64 n.2 Auschwitz-Birkenau 4, 7, 10, 25, 29, 33, 45–7, 50, 70, 79–80, 82–4, 99, 119–20, 124, 127, 140–1, 149, 154, 167, 169, 171, 223, 225 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 54 Bargueño, Ramón 102 Bárta, Drahomir 100 Bartolai, Sante 156, 159 Bauman, Janina 222 Bauman, Zygmunt 32, 137–8, 221–2, 225 Bełżec 122 n.7, 167 Benjamin, Walter 80, 83 Benz, Wolfgang 3 Bernadac, Christian 100–1 Bettelheim, Bruno 27–32 Blatt, Moses 140 Bloch, Herbert A. 37–8 Bondy, Curt 38 Borowski, Tadeusz 50, 55

Borwicz, Michel 66 Brähler, Werner 203, 211–12 Bretstein 105 Brodzki, Bella 9 n.5 Buchenwald 27, 38, 48, 51, 71, 74, 125, 127 Celan, Paul 84 Chełmno 162, 167, 169, 170 n.20 Chesterman, Andrew 181 Cohen, Elie A. 27 Constante, Mariano 107 n.19, 109 Dachau 10, 46, 50, 97, 120, 124–5, 171, 223 Dähler, Richard 206–8 Davies, Peter 8, 10 Debrise [Dreyfus], Gilbert 157, 159 Degen, Sylvia 9 Delfieu, Maurice 152–3 Des Pres, Terrence 29 n.1, 30–1, 38 Dibold, Hans 203, 212–13 Dios Amill, José de 105, 106–7 Dora 125 Dornik, Wolfram 204–6 Dugin, Yitzchak 173, 175 Ebensee 97, 100, 105, 155, 157 Ehrenfeld, Jacob 139–40 Eitinger, Leo 37 Enzenhofer, Edith 196 Fainaru, Dan 166 Farrago, Peter 139 Felman, Shoshana 163, 166 Fergnani, Enea 101 Fernández-Ocampo, Anxo 14 n.11

228

Name Index

Flossenbürg 120–1 Forced Labor Archive 1939–1945 187–8 Frodon, Jean-Michel 162 n.2, 163, 165, 166 n.12, 167, 176 Gandersheim 74, 76 García, Ofelia 44–5 Garrido Vilariño, Xoán Manuel 163 Gavard, Jean 101, 107 n.21, 108 Gellner, Ernest 220 Geve, Thomas 119–20 Goffman, Erving 30–1, 203, 209, 211–12, 214 Gouffault, Roger 149–50 Gramling, David 4, 117 Groß-Rosen 125 Grzesiuk, Stanisław 223–5 Gusen 38, 97, 125, 223–4 Hammel, Andrea 9 Hilger, Andreas 208 Hitler, Adolf 3, 65, 138, 207 Insana, Lina 8, 9 n.5 Jagoda, Zenon 8, 43 Janicka, Barbara 164, 167–8 Kafka, Franz 80 Kambanellis, Iakovos 106–7 Kampmann, Hans 203, 210–11 Karabanik, Edward 125–6 Karner, Stefan 203–4, 206 Kaufmann, Francine 163–4, 169 n.18, 176 Kautsky, Benedikt 35 Kertész, Imre 8, 25, 53 Kłodziński, Stanisław 8, 43 Kluge, Hinrich 203, 209–10, 213–14 Knoll, Harald 204–6 Knopf, Günter 203 Kovner, Abba 164, 166 n.11, 167 Kuhiwczak, Piotr 10

Kuon, Peter 8, 153–4 KZ-memoria scripta 98, 154 n.4 Laffitte, Jean 36, 100 n.9, 105, 107 n.22, 155–7, 159 Lanzmann, Claude 161–76 Le Caër, Paul 109 n.25 Lenzing 37–8 Lerner, Yehuda 174, 175 n.27 Levi, Primo 4–5, 9, 11, 14–16, 45–9, 52–3, 55, 66–8, 70, 79–84, 87, 95–7, 102–3, 109–10, 117–20, 197, 225 Liu, Lydia 44 Lublin 121–5 Luchterhand, Elmer G. 38 Macanović, Hrvoje 100, 105 Maestro, Jakob 25–6 Magini, Manlio 99 Majdanek 117–18, 121–5, 128–31 Masłowski, Jan 8, 43 Mason, Ian 11–12 Massignan, Luigi 109 Mauthausen 7–8, 10, 12, 16, 26, 36–8, 46, 49, 70, 95–102, 104–9, 124–5, 140, 149, 154–6, 223–4 Melk 108 Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe 186–8, 190 Neuengamme 125 Neuhofer, Monika 150–1 Neurath, Paul M. 27, 34 Ochab, Marina 167 Ohrdruf 37–8 Orth, Karin 27 Oschlies, Walter 8, 43–4, 64 n.3 Panizza, Giandomenico 103 Passarin, Pio 96–7 Pätzold, Kurt 103

Name Index Pawełczyńska, Anna 29 n.1, 33, 36–7, 221, 223 Plewik, Grzegorz 125 Pöchhacker, Franz 104–5, 219 Podchlebnick, Mordechai 164, 167, 169–71, 176 n.29 Pollak, Michael 29–31 Popper, Otto Michael 100–1, 106 Postec, Ziva 161 n.1 Pottier, René 108 Pucill, Sarah 181, 197 Pym, Anthony 43, 53–4, 56, 115 Radziwiłł, Krzysztof 126–8 Rafael, Vincente 54 Ravensbrück 46, 73, 140 Redl-Zipf 109 n.25 Resch, Katharina 196 Ricoeur, Paul 150–1 Rohmer, Albert 66–7 Rosen, Alan 10 Rotem, Simha 162, 164 Rousset, David 35, 46, 53, 55 Rujner, Alfons 203 Sachsenhausen 125 Sagorulko, Maxim M. 204–5, 208 Saint Macary, Pierre 105 Seidman, Naomi 9 Semprún, Jorge 47–9, 51–3, 55 Shelley, Lore 4 Siwek-Ciupak, Beata 124, 126–8 Sobibór 122 n.7, 161, 165, 167, 174, 176 Sofsky, Wolfgang 1, 5–6, 14–16, 26–7, 32–5, 63–4, 70–1, 76 Spielberg, Steven 170, 174 n.26, 175 n.28, 183 Steyr 101–2

229

Straka, Georges 71 Stutthof 124 Suderland, Maja 34–6, 38 Sykes, Gresham M. 33 Taterka, Thomas 8, 43, 53, 65 Thelen, Edmund 203 Tibaldi, Italo 100 n.9 Toury, Gideon 50 Treblinka 162, 167, 169 Tryuk, Małgorzata 4, 7, 43, 99, 115–16, 120, 123 Tryuk, Witold 120–1 Tsukermann, Yitshak 175 USC Shoah Foundation 185, 187–8 Vavulinskaya, Lyudmila 205 Venuti, Lawrence 48, 53, 81 n.5 Vermeer, Hans J. 108, 186 Visual History Archive 184–5, 187–8 Vos-van Dam, Anna 139 n.3, 140 Wadensjö, Cecilia 219 Warmbold, Nicole 8 Wesołowska, Danuta 8, 118 Wetterwald, François 155, 157–9 Will, Elisabeth 73 Williams, Cen 44 Winterfeldt, Hans 8 Wolf, Antoni 129 Wolf, Michaela 4, 7, 12, 14, 43, 56, 96 n.3 Yad Vashem 182 Zaïdel, Hanna 164, 176 Zaïdel, Motke 164, 173, 175 Zaurov, Mark 137–40, 143

Subject Index Note: Locators followed by the letter “n” refer to notes. Aktion T4 142 anti-Semitism 3, 39, 137 Arbeitseinsatz 25 arbeits(un)fähig 97, 135–8, 143 audism 137 authenticity 16, 44, 53, 65, 74, 79, 149, 152, 164, 166, 174, 182–6, 194, 196–7 autonomous personality 28–9 by-stander 39 camp aristocracy 69 language 44, 55, 79 literature 53 society 6–7, 26, 34–6, 38–9, 63–4, 96, 211 typology 27–8 close reading 15, 79 collaboration 6, 32–3, 75–6, 96, 102, 109, 182, 192, 196–7, 225 collective experience 34, 151, 153, 159, 196 comparability 1, 14–16 concentration camp system 12, 27, 55, 96, 105–6 contextualization 153, 155, 159, 197 corruption 4, 33, 103 cultural memory 183 Deaf Holocaust 142–3 Deaf Jew 135–9, 142–3 dictionary 82, 87, 89–90, 107 didactic preparation 183, 185–6, 188, 193

discriminatory language use 66, 187, 197 documentary 2, 177, 220 Eichmann Trial 167 Endlösung 65, 123 Erkennungsdienst 100 ethics 7, 13, 16, 80, 115–16, 184–5, 222, 225 everyday life 1–2, 10, 25–6, 39, 49, 68, 71, 103, 110, 135, 154, 203, 208–9, 214 exile 51, 107, 164 fictionalization 27, 152–3, 161–2, 184 forced labor 4, 16, 25, 27, 100, 109, 140, 184, 187–8, 204, 206 foreignization 79 genocide 3, 5, 52, 55, 221 German language 2, 4–5, 9–11, 25, 45, 48–51, 54, 64–5, 68–72, 74, 76, 82–3, 88–90, 95–6, 98, 100–1, 103, 107, 109, 116–20, 123, 125–6, 128–9, 131, 140, 164–5, 184, 186, 190, 194, 223–4 Google Translator 189, 192, 196 grey zone 96–7, 102–3, 109–10, 225 habitus 39, 47–8, 52, 110 hermeneutics 150–1, 153–4 heterogeneity 27–8, 71, 151–3 Holocaust education 182–5 hybridity 44, 51, 136–7

Subject Index impartiality 116, 220 incomparability. See comparability incomprehensibility 1, 14, 43, 84, 151 individualization 8, 27, 30–1, 33–4, 37–40, 63, 150–1, 153–4, 156, 158–9, 209 interpreter ad hoc 4, 10, 13, 52, 54, 70, 101, 104, 108 camp 4, 13, 108, 120, 124, 131, 210 ex officio 4, 99, 104 in movies 161–2, 165, 171–3 official 4, 12, 70, 72, 99, 104, 120 as rubber truncheon 70, 103, 110 interpreting competence 2, 90, 100, 106–8, 224 mode 16, 105, 109 typology 12, 104 kapo 4, 6, 11, 25, 32, 67, 72, 74–5, 79, 103, 105, 117, 123, 127, 129, 224 lager 1–2, 6, 8, 10–16, 70, 79 lager jargon 49, 79, 82, 95 lagerszpracha 4, 8, 79, 95, 117–18 language knowledge 2, 4–5, 70, 95–6, 100–1, 107, 119–20, 125–6, 131, 143, 214 mediation 2, 4–16, 53, 69, 99–101, 103–5, 108–9, 115–16, 118, 152, 167, 174, 203, 208–15 Läufer 120 lingua franca 4, 69, 95 memoir. See survivor memoir memorial institution 7, 107, 152, 183, 186–8, 190 monolingualism 44, 46, 49, 55, 131 multilingualism 10, 12, 43–4, 46–9, 53, 55–6, 68–70, 74, 79, 83, 88, 103, 118, 120, 123–4, 222

231

National Socialism 1–3, 6, 11–12, 14, 27, 33, 35–6, 39, 43, 45, 51, 53, 55–6, 64, 68, 82, 95–6, 99, 101, 121, 131, 135, 137–9, 141, 157, 159, 171, 182–3, 195, 197, 204, 207, 221–2, 224–5 non-professional interpreting 10, 13–14, 47, 136, 169, 177 Nuremberg Laws 3, 101 oral history 161, 182 perpetrator 2, 5–7, 9, 17, 39, 68, 76, 96, 102, 110, 221 polyglossia 64, 67, 70, 101 polyphony 40, 155, 163 power absolute, total 5–8, 10–11, 26, 32–3, 63 institutional 11–12 interactional 11–12 pre-camp life 29–31, 35, 39 prestige 11 prisoner-functionary 4, 12, 32, 64, 70, 76, 99, 102–3, 105, 109, 118, 125, 207–8, 212, 223–4 prisoner of war camp 16–17, 121–2, 124–7, 131, 203–9, 211–15 privilege 4, 8, 70–1, 74, 99, 103, 106–7, 109, 131, 205, 207–8, 211, 215, 223 professionalism 13, 16, 54, 71, 106, 116, 136, 166–9, 171, 175, 177, 189–90, 192–3, 219–20 Prominentenblock 25, 107 remembrance 173 Résistance 38, 51, 54, 98, 155–7, 159, 171 resistance 6, 8, 30, 34, 79, 100, 103, 108, 149, 154–5, 224

232

Subject Index

responsibility 47, 90, 183, 191, 220–2, 225 role of interpreter 2, 14, 64, 69, 83, 95–7, 105, 131, 170, 174, 203, 209–10, 212–15, 219–20, 223 Sanitätsbaracke 4 Schreibstube 4, 100, 107 sectorial language 79 sign language 136–7, 140–1, 143 skopos 53, 108–9, 185–6, 188, 194 social bonding 30, 36–9 social life 26, 35, 39, 63–4, 66 social structure 2, 7, 15, 32, 34–5, 39, 63, 71 societal hierarchy 34, 39, 69, 154, 206 sociological turn 56 solidarity 4–5, 7–8, 26, 28, 33–5, 39, 76, 103–4, 108, 154 Sonderbehandlung 65 Sonderkommando 65, 167, 169 SS staff 4, 12, 33, 99 Stammlager 27 sterilization 137–8, 142 survival 2, 5, 10, 25–6, 28–32, 34, 36–9, 43–4, 47, 49, 52, 68, 70, 76, 79, 82–3, 95–7, 100, 103, 110, 120, 131, 135–6, 140, 142–3, 222–3 survivor account 10, 13, 98, 100–1, 103, 105–6, 108, 151 memoir 8, 10, 15, 35, 44–6, 52–3, 65, 67, 71, 79, 82, 96–7, 99–100, 102, 104, 107, 109, 117, 120, 126, 128, 135, 149–50, 152–3, 156, 159, 167, 203, 208–9, 212, 214, 222–3 report 25, 65, 98, 149, 152, 183 testimony 44, 182, 184, 190

technical language 65 terminology 13, 16, 69, 80, 82, 187, 197 terror 1, 5–6, 8, 14–16, 27, 33, 40, 63, 68, 71–3, 76, 95–6, 102–3, 110 testimonial. See memoir total institution 30, 32, 39 Tower of Babel 10–11, 67–8, 80–4, 87, 116, 163 translanguaging 44–5, 47, 49, 51, 53–6 translatability/untranslatability 9, 54, 82, 84 translation competence 100, 106–8, 189–91, 193, 224 guidelines 185, 189, 192, 194 strategy 13–14, 52, 54, 79, 108, 173, 185–9, 195, 197 translator’s (in)visibility 186, 194, 196, 219 traumatic experience 7, 25, 29, 52, 80, 83, 153, 156–7, 159, 173, 182 trial 123, 154, 167, 214 uniqueness of Holocaust 3, 14 n.12, 15, 220 unspeakability 2, 14, 44, 83, 115, 117, 153, 162 video testimony 16, 143, 159, 170, 174–5, 182–8, 193 war criminal 205–7 Wehrmacht 138, 206–8, 210–11 welcome speech 36 n.10, 101, 104, 128 writing strategy 153–4, 159 Yiddish 10, 79, 118, 164, 166, 169–70