ERIC L. SANTNER

Nor¡sDominick LaCapra,'Representing the Holocaust: Reflections on the Historians'Debate,' in S. Friedlander, ed., Probing the Limits of Representation (Cambridge:Harvard University Press, 1.992).For a more thorough discussion of issues of mourning in postwar Germany, seeAlexander and Margarete Mitscherlich, The Inability to Mourn: Principles ofCollectiue Behøuior, trans. Beverley R. Placzek (New York: Grove Press, 1975),and Eric L. Santner, Stranded Obiects: Mourning, Memory, and Pilm in PostwarGermany (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990).

3. Sigmund Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, in The Standard Edition of theComþlete Psychologìcal'\Yorks, ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1953-1.9741, ){vlll, 32.

4. Ernst Nolte, 'Vergangenheit die nicht vergehen will,' Frankfurter AllgemeineZeitung, 6 June 1,986.

5. Martin Broszat, 'Plädoyer für eine Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus,' Mer-kur, 39 (May 1985), 375.

6. The following remarks have been informed in part by a reading of feminist analysesof voyeurism and fetishism in narrative cinema. See, for example, Laura Mulvey'sby now canonical essay, 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,' in Film Tbeoryand Criticism: Introductory Readings, ed. Gerald Mast and Marshall Cohen (NewYork: Oxford University Press, 1.985), pp. 803-816.

7. Edgar Reitz, Liebe zum Kino: Utopien und Gedanþen zum Autorenfilm, 1962-1983 (Cologne: Verlag Köln 78, 1984), p. 1.41..

8. For a critique of the use of narrative and visual pleasure i¡ Holocaust, see Elie'!íiesel's remarks on the film in the New York Times, 16 April 1,978. For adiscussion of the aesthetics and politics of empathy - issues central to the oldExþressionismus-Debatte - in the context of the tùlest German reception ofHolocaust, see Netu German Critique, 19 (Vinter 1980), as well as Anton Kaes'sFrom Hitler to 'Heimat': The Return of History as Film (Cambridge, Mass.:Harvard University Press, 1989).

9. Reitz, Liebe zum Kino, p, 'J.02.10. In this regard see especially Klaus Theweleit, Mø:nnerphantasien (1977; Reinbek:

Rowohlt, 1989), and Jessica Benjamin, The Bonds of Loue: Psychoanalysis,Feminism, and the Problem of Dominatioz (New York: Pantheon, 1988).

.BEARING WITNESS OR THEVICISSITUDES OF LISTENING'

25

Dori Laub

A R¡conn rHAT HAs YET To BE MADE

The listener to the narrative of extreme human pain, of massive psychic trauma'faces a unique situation. In spite of the presence of ample documents, of searingartifacts and of fragmentary memoirs of anguish, he comes to look for some-thing that is in fact nonexistent; a record that has yet to be made. Massivetr".rrnu precludes its registration; the observing and recording mechanisms ofthe human mind are temporarily knocked out, malfunction. The victim'snarrative - the very process of bearing witness to massive trauma - does indeedbegin with someone who testifies to an absence, to an event that has not yetcome into existence, in spite of the overwhelming and compelling nature of thereality of its occurrence. \üühile historical evidence to the event which constitutesthe trauma may be abundant and documents in vast supply, the trauma - as a

known event and not simply as an overwhelming shock - has not been truly

screen on which the event comes to be inscribed for the first time'

From Dori Laub (79921 'Bearing Witness or the Vicissitudes of Listening', in S. Felman and D.Laub (eds), Testimony: Crises of''Witnessiøg in Literature, Psycboanalysis, and History. New Yorkand London: Routledge.

DoRr LRus

By extension, the listener: to tr¿ìumâ comes to be a participant ¿.rncl a ccl-ownerof the traumatic event: thl'ough his very listening, he comes to partiallyexperience tranma in himself. The relation of the victim to the event of thetrauma, therefore, impacts on the rel¿rtion of the listener to it, ancl the lattercomes to feel the bewilderment, injury, confnsion, dread and conflicts that thetraLlma victim feels. He has to acldress all these, if he is to carry out his functionas a listener, and if traum¿r is to emerge, so thât its henceforth impossiblewitnessing can indeed take place. The listener, thelefore, by definition partakesof the struggle of the victim with the memories ancl residues of his or hertraumatic past. The listener has to feel the victim's victories, clefeats anclsilences, know them from within, so that they can assLrme the form of testirnony.

The listener, however, is also a separate human being and will experiencehazards and struggles of his own, while carrying out his function of a wirness rothe trauma witness. While overlapping, to a clegree, with the experience of thevictim, he nonetheless does not become the victim - he preserves his ownseparate place, position and perspective; a battlegrouncl for forces raging inhimself, to which he has to pây attention and respect if he is to properly carryout his task.

The listener, therefore, has to be at the same time a witness to the traumawitness ancl a witness to himself. It is only in this way, through his simult¿rneousawareness of the continuous flow of those inner hazards both in the traumawitness and in hin-rself, that he can become the enabler of the testirnony - the onewho triggers its initiation, as well as the guardian of its process and of itsmornenturn.

The listener to trauma, therefore, needs to know 'the lay of the land' - thelandrnarks, the undercurrents, and the pitfalls in the witness and in himself. Heneeds to know that the trauma survivor who is bearing witness has no priorknowledge, no comprehension and no melnory of what happenecl. That he orshe profoundly fears such knowledge, shrinks away from it ancl is apt to closeoff at any moment, when facing it. He needs to know that such knowledgedissolves all barriers, breaks all bor-rnclaries of time and place, of self andsubjectivity. That the speakers about trauma ol1 some level prefer silence so as toprotect themselves from the fear of being listenecl to - and of listening tothemselves. That while silence is defeat, it serves them both as a sanctuary anclas a place of bonclage. Silence is for them a fatecl exile, yet also a home, adestination, ancl a binding oath. To not return from this silence is rule ratherthan exception.

The listener must know all this and more. He or she must listen to and hearthe silence, speaking mutely both in silence ancl in speech, both frorn behind anclfrom within the speech. He or she must recogllize, acknowledge and addressthat silence, even if this siniply means respect - and knowing how to wait. Thelistener to traumâ needs to know all this, so as to be a guide and an explorer, acompanion in a journey onto an unchartecl land, a journey the survivor cannottraverse or return from alone.

A woma,r i' rrer,",l'ilä:,';iì.,,T,i:ä;"i,J''TTl.n*irz experience roiuterviewers from the Video Archive for Holocaust Testimonies at Yale. Shewas slight, self-effacing, almost talking in whispers, rnosrly to herself. Herpresence was indeecl barely noteworthy in spite of the overwhelming magnitudeof the catastrophe she was acldressing. She tread lightly, leavir-rg hardly â trace.

She was relating her mernories as an eyewitness of the Auschwitz uprising; asudderr intensity, passion ancl color were infusecl into the rlarrative. She wasfully there. 'All of sudden,' she said, 'we saw four chimneys going up in flames,explocling. The flames shot into the sky, people were lunning. It was unbelie-vable.' Tl.rere was a silence in tl.re room, a fixed silence against which thewomân's words reverberated loudly, as though carrying along an echo of thejubilant sounds exploding from beliind barbed wires, a stampede of peoplebreaking loose, screams, shots, battle cries, explosions. It was no longer thecleadly timelessness of Auschwitz. A dazzltn5 brilliant momenr from the pastswept through the Írozen stillness of the muted, grave-like landscape withdashing meteoric speecl, exploding it into a shower of sights and sounds. Yet themeteor from the past kept moving on. The womân fell silent ancl the tumults ofthe moment faded. She became subduecl again and her voice resumed theuneventful, almost monotonous and lamenting tolte. The gates of Auschwitzclosed ancl the veil of obliteration and of silence, at once oppressive anclrepressive, clescencled once again. The comet of intensity and of aliveness, theexplosion of vitality and of resistance faded and receedecl into the clistance.

Many months later, a conference of historians, psychoanalysts, and artists,gatherecl to reflect on the relation of education to the Holocaust, watched thevicleotapecl testimony of the woman, in an attempt to better understand the era.A lively clebate ensued. The testimony was not accurare, historians claimecl. Thenumber of chimneys w¿ìs misrepresentecl. Historically, only one chimney wasblown up, not all four. Since the memory of the testifying woman turnecl out tobe, in this way, fallible, one coulcl not accept - nor give creclence to - her wholeaccount of the events. It was utterly important to remain accurate, lest therevisionists in history cliscredit everything.

A psychoanalyst who had been one of the interviewers of this woman,profoundly disagreecl. 'The woman was testifying,' he insisted, 'not to thenumber of the chimneys blown up, but to something else, more radical, morecrucial: the reality of an nnimaginable occrlrrence. One chimney blown up inAuschwitz was as incredible as four. The numbel mattered less than the fact ofthe occurrence. The event itself was almost inconceivable. The woman testifiedto an event that broke the all compelling frame of Auschwitz, where Jewisharmed revolts just dicl not happen, and had no place. She testified ro rhebreakage of a framework. That was historical truth.'

The psychoanalyst who had interviewed that woman happenecl to have beenmyself, and though my attitude vis-à-vis her testimony was differenr rhan theattitucle of the historians, I had myself the oppol'tunity of encountering - during

'BEARING WtrN¡ss oR THE VtctsstruDEs oF LtsrENtNG

Donr L¡ua

the very process of the interviewing - questions similar in nature to those thatthe historians were now raising. And yet I had to deal with those objections andthose questions in a different manner.

I figured from the woman's testimony that in Auschwitz she had been amember of what is known as 'the canada commando,' a group of inmateschosen to sort our the belongings of those who had been gassed, so that thosebelongings could be recuperated by the Nazis and sent back to Germany. Thetestifying woman spoke indeed at length of her work in a commando that wouldleave each morning, separately from the others, and return every night withvarious items of clothes and shoes in excellent condition. She emphasized withpride the way in which, upon returning, she would supply these items to herfellow inmates, thus saving the lives of some of them who literally had no shoesto walk in and no clothes to protect them from the frost. she was perking upagain as she described these almost breathtaking exploits of rescue. I asked her ifshe knew of the name of the commando she was serving on. she did not. Doesthe term 'canada commardo' mean anything to her? I followed up. 'No,'shesaid, taken aback, as though startled by -y question. I asked nothing moreabout her work. I had probed the limits of her knowledge and decided to backoff; to respect, that is, the silence out of which this testimony spoke. \x/e did nottalk of the sorring out of the belongings of the deacl. She did not think of them asthe remainings of the thousands who were gassed. she did not ask herself wherethey had come from. The presents she brought back to her fellow inmates, rhebetter, newer clothes and shoes, had for her no origin.

My attempt as interviewer and as listener was precisely to respect - not toupset, not to trespass - the subtle balance between what the woman þnew andwhat she did not, or could not, þnow.It was only at the price of this respect, Ifelt, this respect of the constraints and of the boundaries of silence, that what thewoman did þnow in a way that none of us did - what she came to testify about -could come forth and could receive, indeed, a hearing. The historians' stance,however, differed from my way of listening, in their firm conviction that thelimits of the woman's knowledge in effect callecl into question the validity of herwhole testimony.

'Don't you see,' one historian passionately exclaimed, 'that the woman'seyewitness account of the uprising that took place at Auschwitz is hopelesslymisleading in its incompleteness? She had no idea what was going on. sheascribes importance to an attempt that, historically, made no difference. Notonly was the revolt put down and all the inmates executed; the Jewish under-ground was, furthermore, betrayed by the Polish resistance, which had pro-mised to assist in the rebellion, but failed to do so. \ùØhen the atempt to bieakout of the camps began, the Jewish inmates found themselves completely alone.No one joined their ranks. They flung rhemselves into their death, alone and indesperation.'

rwhen I interviewed the woman, I knew, of course, that the Auschwitzuprising was put down, but I myself did not know the specific contribution

of the Polish underground to the defeat: I did not know of the extent of thebetrayal.

Had I known, however, would I have questioned her about it? Probably not,since such questions might have in effect suppressed her message, suppressedwhat she was there to tell me.

Had I known, moreover, I might have had an agenda of my own that mighthave interferred with my ability to listen, and to hear. I might have felt driven toconfirm my knowled1e, 6y asking questions that could have derailed thetestimony, and by proceeding to hear everything she had to say in light ofwhat I knew already. And whether my agenda would have been historical orpsychoanalytical, it might unwittingly have interfered with the process of thetestimony. In this respect, it might be useful, sometimes, not to know too much.

Of course, it is by no means ignorance that I espouse. The listener must bequite well informed if he is to be able to hear - to be able to pick up the cues. Yetknowledge should not hinder or obstruct the listening with foregone conclu-sions and preconceived dismissals, should not be an obstacle or a foreclosure tonew, diverging, unexpected information.

In the process of the testimony to a trauma, as in psychoanalytic practice, ineffect, you often do not want to know anything except what the patient tellsyotr, because what is important is the situati on of discouery of knowledge - itsevolution, and its very hapþening. I(nowledge in the testimony is, in otherwords, not simply a factual given that is reproduced and replicated by thetestifier, but a genuine advent, an event in its own right. In a case such as thiswitness, for example, I had to be particularly careful that what I knew wouldnot affect - would not obstruct, coerce, or overshadow - what she was there totell me. I had, in fact, to be all the more cautions because this testifying womandid not simply come to convey knowledge that was already safely, andexhaustively, in her possession. On the contrary, it was her very talk to me,the very process of her bearing witness to the trauma she had lived through, thathelped her now to come to know of the event. And it was through my listeningto her that I in turn came to understand not merely her subjective truth, but thevery historicity of the event, in an entirely new dimension.

She was testifying not simply to empirical historical facts, but to the verysecret of survival and of resistance to extermination. The historians could nothear, I thought, the way in which her silence was itself part of her testimony, anessential part of the historical truth she was precisely bearing witness to. Shesaw four chimneys blowing up in Auschwitz: she saw, in other words, theunimaginable taking place right in front of her own eyes. And she came to testifyto the unbelievability, precisely, of what she had eyewitnessed - this burstingopen of the very frame of Auschwitz. The historians' testifying to the fact thatonly one chimney was blown up in Auschwitz, as well as to the fact of thebetrayal of the Polish underground, does not break the frame. The womau'stestimony, on the other hand, is breaking the frame of the concentration campby and through her very testimony: she is breaking out of Auschwitz even by her

.BEARING WIrNess oR THE VIcIssITUDES oF LISTENING,

DoRt LAUB

very talking. She had come, indeed, to testify, not to the empirical number of thechimneys, but to resistance, to the affirmation of survival, to the breakage of theframe of death; in the same way, she had come to testify not to betrayal, nor toher actual removal of the belongings of the dead, but to her vital memory ofhelping people, to her effective rescuing of lives. This was her way of being, ofsurviving, of resisting. It is not merely her speech, but the very boundaries ofsilence which surround it, which attest, today as well as in the past, to thisassertion of resistance.

There is thus a subtle dialectic between what the survivor did not know andwhat she knew; between what I as interviewer did not know and what I knew;between what the historians knew and what they did not know. Because thetestifier did not know the number of the chimneys that blew up; because she didnot know of the betrayal of the Polish underground and of the violent anddesperate defeat of the rebellion of the Auschwitz inmates, the historians saidthat she knew nothing. I thought that she knew more, since she knew about thebreakage of the frame, that her very testimony was now reenacting.

QUESTIONS OF RELIGION, ETHICS,PART VI

AND JUSTICE