It was as if I had never left. When I recently returned to Germany, where I had lived during the mid-1980s and the late 1990s, all anybody could talk about, it seemed, was anti-Semitism and the breaking of taboos. Terrorism, the Middle East, Kashmir, even the World Cup couldn't compete. Germany was once again agonizing over what a friend in Berlin calls "the dragon of German guilt"--a dragon that reared its head repeatedly during my earlier stints in that country. And in case anyone had any doubt about its identity, the weekly Der Spiegel pictured Hitler's face emerging from the clouds. playing with fire, its cover line proclaimed, followed by the question: "How much of the past can the present endure?"
In Germany, the answer is: a lot. But more than half a century after the end of World War II, there's an inevitable testing of the limits of what's permissible and what's not. It's a messy, emotional process, but the very different outcomes of two cases that dominated headlines during the past several weeks were rational and fair.
Even a cursory look at each demonstrates why justice was done. Jurgen Mollemann, the deputy chairman of the small Free Democratic Party, had invoked the old reprehensible argument that anti-Semitism is the fault of Jews--in particular, Israel's Prime Minister Ariel Sharon for his military tactics and Michel Friedman, a leader of the Jewish community in Germany and TV talk-show host, for his "intolerant, spiteful" style. He had also tried to welcome Jamal Karsli, a Syrian-born politician who talked about "Zionist" control of the media and Israel's "Nazi methods," into his party's ranks. What possessed Mollemann to veer into such dangerous territory? He hoped to appeal to right-wing voters before the September elections. Instead, his party responded to the chorus of denunciations that followed by forcing Mollemann to apologize and by rebuffing Karsli's bid for membership. His colleagues realized they had to act decisively to limit the damage.
In the other messy controversy, Martin Walser, a leading novelist, fought off charges that his newest book is anti-Semitic. His "Death of a Critic" is an unsparing parody of a character modeled on Marcel Reich-Ranicki, a Holocaust survivor and Germany's most powerful postwar literary critic, whose judgments often demolished writers' reputations. The narrator-writer fantasizes about killing the Jewish critic, which prompted the outrage of much of the German media. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung refused to serialize the novel, claiming it was "full of anti-Semitic cliches." But other writers, even those who disagree with Walser's nationalist leanings, rejected this zealous political correctness. A rival publisher, a Social Democrat, told me after reading the manuscript: "There's not one anti-Semitic sentence in the book. It's total hysteria." Suhrkamp, Walser's respected publishing house, came to the same conclusion and confirmed that the book will be published as scheduled next week. The controversy probably guarantees that it will be an instant best seller.
Walser has stirred controversy before. In 1998 he complained about "the ritualized way" his country's politicians spoke about the Holocaust. "This chapter of history can never be closed; it'd be crazy to think so," he argued. "But you cannot prescribe how Germans should deal with this country's shame." In other words, it's better to have honest discussion rather than facile declarations.
That's easier said than done. As in the Mollemann dispute, there's still a very strong case for drawing clear lines. Ask almost any middle-aged German and he'll agree with what Chancellor Gerhard Schroder said recently: "There are some taboos that aren't meant to be broken." Germany has kept that sense of special responsibility alive among the younger generation as well. Since it opened in September, the Jewish Museum in Berlin has had more than 500,000 visitors--a record in a city full of dazzling museums. As I wandered through it, I was struck by the number of school groups and by their behavior. High-school kids usually treat outings as opportunities to clown around, but I saw little evidence of that. As one 11th grader told me: "This is something different."
That doesn't mean young Germans don't chafe at the taboos. Only 26, Carsten Schneider is the youngest member of the Bundestag, a Social Democrat from Erfurt. I had met him when he was first elected a couple of years ago, and I caught up with him again in the Reichstag on my latest visit. He pointed out that he's part of the third generation since the war, but that he still feels acutely conscious of what his grandfather's generation did and recognizes the obligations this imposes. There's a natural urge to speak more freely, especially among his peers. "Most people would say that after 50 years there shouldn't be any more taboos," he said. "But when I think about it, I believe it'll take another 50 years before the taboos will disappear." He acknowledges the continuing difficulties of striking the right balance between free expression and moral sensitivities. That speaks well of him and most of his countrymen.
