Should they use force to round up the Jews, risking a violent confrontation with the Danish population, or should they try to find a more subtle way to achieve their goal? They chose the latter option, informing the Jews of the impending roundup and allowing them to escape. This decision was likely influenced by the Danish resistance to German occupation and the fear of provoking further resistance if they used force against the Jews.
The Danish response to the Holocaust is a testament to the power of solidarity and resistance in the face of oppression. It shows that even in the darkest times, individuals and communities can come together to protect the most vulnerable among them. By standing up for their Jewish neighbors, the Danes demonstrated that a shared commitment to democracy and human rights can overcome even the most brutal attempts at division and destruction.
Denmark, however, offers a different story. The Danes, through their unity and defiance, were able to protect their Jewish population in a way that few other occupied countries were able to do. Their sense of justice, their refusal to collaborate, and their willingness to help their fellow citizens in need all played a role in their success. The Danes showed that even in the darkest times, humanity and decency can prevail.
It is a story that reminds us of the power of resistance, of standing up against tyranny, and of the strength of community in the face of adversity. The Danish example serves as a beacon of hope and inspiration, showing us that even in the most dire circumstances, it is possible to make a difference, to protect the vulnerable, and to uphold the values of humanity.
As we reflect on the actions of the Danes during World War II, we are reminded of our own capacity for good, for compassion, and for courage. Their story challenges us to consider what we would do in their place, and to strive to emulate their example in our own lives. The legacy of the Danish resistance lives on as a testament to the enduring power of human decency and solidarity in the face of evil.
Regenerate But without a sounding board the strategy did not work. It could be countered by simple means – even by a country that was defenseless and occupied – by the persistent national rejection of the assumption that there was a “Jewish problem.”
This strikes me as only half-right. Anti-Semitism was indeed not “a primordial force” that the Nazis simply tapped into wherever they conquered. Jews met different fates in each country the Nazis occupied – or at least the rates of destruction and escape varied. But it does not follow that what the Danes did other peoples could have also done. The Germans faced resistance of varying degrees of ferocity in every country that they occupied in Europe. Where they possessed the military and police power to do so, they crushed that resistance with unbridled cruelty. Where, as in Denmark, they attempted a strategy of indirect rule, they had to live with the consequences: a populace that could not be terrorized into doing their bidding, and could therefore be counted on to react when fellow citizens were arrested and carried away.
One uncomfortable possibility that Lidegaard does not explore is that the Nazis sought a strategy of indirect rule precisely because they saw the Danes as fellow Aryans, potential allies in an Aryan Europe. This would explain why the Nazis were so comfortable in Copenhagen and so shaken by Danish resistance. The Poles they could dismiss as Untermenschen, and the French as ancient enemies; but to be resisted by supposed Aryans was perversely disarming. Why else would a ferocious bureaucrat such as Eichmann melt before Danish objections to the arrest of Jews married to Danes? One paradoxical possibility is that the Nazis bowed to Danish protests because their delusional racial anthropology led them to view the Danes as members of their own family. To their eternal credit, the Danes exploited this imagined family resemblance to defy an act of infamy.
Once Jews could appeal only to the common humanity of persecutors and bystanders alike, it was too late.
Countrymen is a story about a little country that did the right thing for complicated reasons, and got away with it for equally complicated reasons. It is a story that reinforces an old truth: solidarity and decency depend on a dense tissue of connection among people, on long-formed habits of the heart, on resilient cultures of common citizenship, and on leaders who marshal these virtues by their example. In Denmark, this dense tissue bound human beings together and indirect rule made it impossible for the Germans to rip it apart. Elsewhere in Europe, by contrast, it was destroyed in stages, first by ghettoizing and isolating the Jewish people and then by insulating bystanders from the full horror of Nazi intentions. Once Jews had been stripped of citizenship, property, rights, and social existence – once they could appeal only to the common humanity of persecutors and bystanders alike – it was too late.
There is a sobering message in Lidegaard’s tale for the human rights era that came after these abominations. If a people come to rely for their protection on human rights alone, on the mutual recognition of common humanity, they are already in serious danger. The Danish story seems to tell us that it is not the universal human chain that binds peoples together in extremity, but more local and granular ties: the particular consciousness of time, place, and heritage that led a Danish villager to stand up to the Gestapo and say no, it will not happen here, not in our village. This extraordinary story of one small country has resonance beyond its Danish context. Countrymen should be read by anyone seeking to understand what precise set of shared social and political understandings can make possible, in times of terrible darkness, acts of civil courage and uncommon decency.
Reprinted with permission from The New Republic.