THE HUMANIZATION OF 20TH CENTURY EUROPE’S PERPETRATORS  
How Humanizing Our History’s Perpetrators Can Better Our Future 
by  
Hali Hutchens 
May 2022 
Director of Thesis: Su-Ching Huang, Ph.D. 
Major Department: English 
 This thesis examines the need for the humanization of 20th-century Europe’s perpetrators, 
the Nazis, through literature. The purpose of this project is to make clear why the standpoint that 
Nazis were once ordinary citizens is not detrimental but rather helpful in our understanding of 
the Holocaust. I focus on literary works Der Vorleser (The Reader), The Boy in the Striped 
Pyjamas, and The Dutch Wife, as they support my argument that the humanization of 
perpetrators can be educational. Within these chapters, I discuss the psychological explanations 
of how and why a moral person dehumanizes him/herself in order to take part in mass genocide, 
the relationships between the Nazis and their complicit-by-extension loved ones, and how such 
ideologies affect future generations. Essentially, I propose that novels which humanize fictional 
Nazis are useful in our strife to create a future society in which extraordinary evil, such as seen 
during World War II, is a thing of the past.   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Humanization of 20th Century Europe’s Perpetrators  
How Humanizing Our History’s Perpetrators Can Better Our Future 
 
A Thesis  
Presented To The Faculty of the Department of English 
East Carolina University 
 
 
In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree 
Master of Arts in English 
 
 
by 
Hali Hutchens  
May 2022 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
© Hali Hutchens, 2022 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE HUMANIZATION OF 20TH CENTURY EUROPE’S PERPETRATORS  
How Humanizing Our History’s Perpetrators Can Better Our Future 
by  
Hali Hutchens 
 
APPROVED BY: 
DIRECTOR OF  
THESIS:                     ________ 
 Su-Ching Huang, Ph.D. 
COMMITTEE MEMBER:          __ 
        Seodial Frank Deena, Ph.D. 
COMMITTEE MEMBER:          __ 
    Reginald Wade Watson, Ph.D. 
CHAIR OF THE DEPARTMENT  
OF ENGLISH:        ______________________ 
     Marianne Montgomery, Ph.D. 
DEAN OF THE  
GRADUATE SCHOOL:       ______________________ 
Paul J. Gemperline, Ph.D. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DEDICATION 
This thesis is dedicated to my husband for being an endlessly faithful supporter of my ambitions. 
This thesis is also dedicated to all of those who have survived the worst the world has to offer.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  
 First and foremost, I would like to extend the most heartfelt thanks to Dr. Su-Ching 
Huang for her unfailingly supportive assistance during this long and arduous process. I would 
also like to thank Dr. Reginald Watson and Dr. Frank Seodial Deena not only for agreeing to be 
committee members but for the unique knowledge offered by each throughout my time at East 
Carolina University.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
INTRODUCTION ………………………………………………………………………….1 
CHAPTER ONE 
Der Vorleser (The Reader): 
The Humanization of a Former SS Guard Through the Eyes of a Lover …………...5 
CHAPTER TWO 
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas: 
The Humanization of a Nazi Family as Seen Through the Eyes of a Child ………..20 
CHAPTER THREE 
The Dutch Wife: 
The Humanization of a Concentration Camp Official As Seen Through Multiple 
Perspectives …………………………………………………………………………46 
CONCLUSION ……………………………………………………………………………..81 
WORKS CITED …………………………………………………………………………….84 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 The Nazis are seen as Europe’s great enemy, the cause of mass destruction, the monsters 
we must speak of in hushed tones. Yet, what would happen if we looked at these formidable 
antagonists as nothing more than human beings? Would it take away from all the ruin and misery 
they caused? Would it somehow make the victims less important? The answer is no. So, that 
leaves us with the question: why should we go beyond our perception of these men and women 
as Europe’s monsters of the 20th century? Well, as James Waller argues in his book Becoming 
Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing (2002), it is “equally 
appropriate to believe that there may be just as much to learn by ripping off the masks that 
disguise perpetrators of extraordinary evil as monsters” (17-18). Within this thesis, I utilize 
novels that have humanized these perpetrators to support my argument that looking beyond our 
one-dimensional, jaded perception will allow us the possibility of creating a better future in 
which there is less, or even no, extraordinary evil.  
 In his study of the novel The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Michael Gray suggests, “if 
moral education discusses the Holocaust, which no doubt it could, it must ensure that it avoids 
generalisations or simplifications, which undermine the complexities of the past” (124). The 
black-and-white portrayal of Nazis does nothing to help us comprehend how such a great number 
of people were complicit in, and even active participants in, the annihilation of millions of 
people. If we are to ever have a realistic hope of creating a society in which mass genocide is not 
in existence, then we must objectively view those who have been responsible for such 
happenings in the past. The fact of the matter is, Germany was not a nation of madmen out for 
blood, but a nation of normal people who found it within themselves to do the unthinkable.  
 
 
 This thesis examines the ways in which ideology, corrupt bureaucracy, influential 
propaganda, post-war devastation, shame, fear and self-preservation all play a role in 
transforming once docile and ordinary human beings into mere cogs within a dictator’s 
destructive machine. Additionally, I will examine the relationships between the Nazis and loved 
ones, as this illuminates how even those who did not have a hand in the murders allowed 
themselves to be complicit, even when they themselves did not agree with Nazism. I will also 
investigate how people can numb their emotions in order to carry out unthinkable acts, for it is 
through the deadening of emotions that a feeling human may transform into a dehumanized tool. 
Finally, and maybe most importantly, explore how Nazism has affected future generations, as we 
need to study this in order to see how such immoral ideologies can impact our future. In 
summation, argue that we need to accept that the humanization of these villains is neither a form 
of white-washing nor excusing, but rather a necessity in securing a safer and more humane 
future.  
 Chapter one discusses Bernhard Schlink’s Der Vorleser (The Reader, 1995), a novel 
about a love affair between a young man and a former Nazi. This novel, as the critic Jeffrey Roth 
contends, “seeks to uncover and assess guilt rather than to hide or attenuate it” (163). Chapter 
one begins by delving into the way in which Schlink uses his character to illuminate how shame 
is one probable reason for someone metamorphosizing from an ordinary person into an instigator 
of torture. I address the numbness and indifference that is necessary for the survival of both 
victims and perpetrators, as it helps the audience to comprehend the dehumanization that is 
needed to commit and survive such horrors. Furthermore, I analyze the love affair, which I 
propose is meant to be an illustration of humanity’s duality, as well as a tool to assist the 
audience in understanding the intricacies of both loving and condemning a former perpetrator. 
2 
 
Lastly, I argue that the transformation of Hanna from a Nazi back into a recalcitrant member of 
society is essential in that it portrays the ever-evolving complexities of the human psyche. In her 
study of The Reader, Katherina Hall asserts that the novel’s “humanisation of the perpetrator 
enables it to raise genuinely difficult questions about the Nazi past, the most disturbing of which 
is how an ‘ordinary’ individual, capable of loving and being loved, could participate in the 
Holocaust” (“The Author, The Novel, The Reader” 457). My overall argument within this 
chapter is much the same, as I assert that we need the humanization of characters such as Hanna 
so that we may understand how an entire nation of seemingly normal people are able to 
participate in mass genocide. Such education on the subject will allow future generations to 
terminate the extraordinary evil before it has a chance to get its grip on the masses.  
 Chapter two focuses on John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (2006), a fable of a 
young Nazi child living just beyond the bounds of history’s most gruesome killing camp. Like 
Gray, I assert that this novel “does do an effective job in humanising the perpetrators and 
showing that despite the scale and barbarism of their crimes, they were, by and large, typical 
human beings conducting an untypical phenomenon” (126). To further explore and support this 
notion, I delve into the relationships between SS Nazi officials and their loved ones. 
Additionally, I examine the ways in which the conditions following the first World War, 
propaganda, fear, and bureaucracy could change a beloved, typical member of society into a 
follower of an ideology as corrupt as Nazism. Then, I assert that the direct karma faced by the 
narrator’s father is meant to further demonstrate the three-dimensionality of someone history has 
deemed a one-dimensional monster. From there, I analyze how the next generation is affected by 
the Nazi influence that pervades their reality. Finally, I argue that the innocence that Bruno’s 
narration offers is beneficial in that it allows a jaded audience to take a new perspective. In 
3 
 
summation, this chapter, much like the others, is meant to convey the message that humanizing 
the perpetrators is necessary in our attempt to evolve.  
 Chapter three examines Ellen Keith’s The Dutch Wife (2018), a historical fiction book 
told from the perspectives of Karl a Nazi official, Marijke a concentration camp prostitute, and 
Luciano an enemy of the corrupt Argentinian government during the time of the Dirty War. 
Within Karl’s narrative, I suggest that Keith is humanizing this character to portray the duality of 
history’s villains, as well as to illustrate how ideology, bureaucracy, and human nature all played 
a role in the transformation of the average citizen into a cog within Hitler’s killing machine. As 
for Marijke’s character, I propose that her narrative further demonstrates the duality of humanity, 
and also how one may become complicit by extension. Thirdly, I assert that Luciano’s narrative 
highlights the ways in which evilness will continue should we refuse to study it objectively, and 
it also, illuminates the hope there is for the morality within humanity. Last of all, I delve into the 
ways in which each narrative demonstrates the allure of self-preservation and a numbing of 
emotions for survival, which can be used to explain not only how such atrocities can happen but 
also how people survive them. In conclusion, this final chapter, as in the first two chapters, 
considers the ways in which the humanization of our history’s perpetrators can be beneficial. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
4 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
Der Vorleser (The Reader): 
The Humanization of a Former SS Guard Through the Eyes of a Lover 
Bernhard Schlink’s Der Vorleser, which translated into English means The Reader, has  
been the focus of much critique and analysis for scholars worldwide due to its humanization of a 
fictional Nazi official. This novel, set within post-war Germany, centers around a young man 
named Michael, who has a brief affair with an older woman, Hanna, whom he later discovers to 
be an illiterate former member of the Nazi SS. In the words of scholar Jane Alison, the book was 
praised because “Schlink had replaced the black-and-white Nazi monster with a fatale monstrum, 
the more shaded and humanized Hanna Schmitz” (163). Within this chapter, I will elaborate on 
why it is essential to our growth as a species to accept and indulge in novels such as this, which 
step away from the easy, black-and-white portrayal of a Nazi being purely evil, and instead delve 
into the realistic world in which Nazis are average, everyday people. By doing so, we are 
allowing ourselves not only to understand how such a great mass of people could permit  
something as unfathomable as the Holocaust to take place but also to have a better idea of what it 
would look like should it start to happen again.  
Throughout the book, readers see Michael’s interpretation of Hanna’s characteristics alter 
from that of bewilderment to an assumed understanding. Many of Hanna’s outward mannerisms 
are, at first, portrayed as that of a former Nazi. Even though the reader is ignorant of Hanna’s 
past for the first half of the book, one who is familiar with the stereotypical depiction of a Nazi, 
can easily identify her characteristics as such. Within the second half of the book, once Michael 
has made his realization of Hanna’s struggle with illiteracy, his interpretation of Hanna begins to 
change, as he now relates all of her peculiarities to her desperation to hide her handicap. In 
 
 
Katherina Hall’s research, she paraphrases the words of fellow academic William Collins 
Donahue, who like many other scholars, believes that in this instance “Hanna shifts from the 
position of perpetrator to victim and becomes the centre of reader sympathies as a result” (“Text 
Crimes in the Shadow of the Holocaust” 200). However, I assert that this is not meant to promote 
the feeling of empathy for the wrongdoer but to “raise genuinely difficult questions about the 
Nazi past, the most disturbing of which is how an ‘ordinary’ individual, capable of loving and 
being loved, could participate in the Holocaust” (“Text Crimes in the Shadow of the Holocaust” 
Hall 257).  
 To dive into this argument, we shall take a closer look at the ways in which Hanna is 
depicted as your typical, run-of-the-mill Nazi. As has been established over the decades, the 
conventional Nazi is seen as cold, calculated, orderly, and above all, assured of his/her 
superiority. Through Michael’s eyes, we see Hanna as someone who is obsessed with hygiene, 
order, control, and has a distinct lacking in sentimentality. For instance, Michael says of Hanna, 
“She was scrupulously clean, she showered every morning” (Schlink 32). Hanna even engaged 
Michael in her routine of cleanliness, as he says, “I liked to soap her, and she taught me not to do 
it bashfully, but with assurance and possessive thoroughness” (Schlink 32). Jane Alison made 
note of scholars Stuart Parkes and J.J. Long, who both “regard Hanna’s cleanliness as 
‘obsessive’ and ‘in keeping with the cliched view of the fascist personality’” (qtd. in Alison 167-
168). Schlink was creating an image here. Within this same passage, we see her proclivity 
towards possessiveness and control, as Michael also says, “she took possession of me as a matter 
of course. . . . she told me where to touch her and how . . . I was only there because she took 
pleasure in and on me” (Schlink 33). Hanna made Michael all too aware of his place within her 
life.  
6 
 
Aside from these depictions of hygiene obsession and need for control, Michael’s 
description of the relationship leaves the reader with the notion that Hanna is abusive and cold-
hearted in nature more often than not. During their fights, Hanna often does whatever she must in 
order to assert dominance and keep the upper hand in all matters of the heart, making sure to 
never allow herself to be seen as vulnerable. Their first significant fight over the streetcar 
incident resulted in Hanna showing a fissure in her façade as the unfeeling superior when she 
said with just a little too much emotion, “‘You think it looks like you upset me? You don’t have 
the power to upset me’” (Schlink 48). Michael noted that from this point on “Whenever she 
turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me” (Schlink 
49). In this way, she was able to stay in control and assume a nature of the unsentimental 
member within the relationship. However, during their second fight, the pattern shifted as things 
escalated to the physical realm. Hanna, filled with a fear that was unbeknownst to Michael, beat 
him with her belt and fists before collapsing and trembling against him (Schlink 55). Through all 
of this, readers are left with the impression of a former Nazi allowing her past ways to show 
through in her current relationship. As it was so eloquently put by Omer Bartov in his essay 
“Germany as Victim,” Hanna is “tall, blond, physically strong and disdainful of sentimentality,” 
which can be translated into she was an ideal German during the reign of Nazism (30). 
As Michael moves into the next stage of his narration, he describes his first sighting of 
Hanna at the trial after years of separation, in which he says he “recognized the body, the head 
with the hair gathered in an unfamiliar knot, the neck, the broad back, and the strong arms. She 
held herself very straight. . . . She wore a gray dress with short sleeves” (Schlink 95). 
Automatically, we see a person, rigid in form and style, once again reminiscent of a member of 
the Nazi regime. Yet, as the story progresses, and Michael makes the connection between her 
7 
 
handicap and her mannerisms, both Michael and the reader begin to rethink former assumptions 
of Hanna’s character. Suddenly, the audience is asking themselves, was she really so distant and 
calculated because she was a Nazi, or was she using those traits as her shield? Schlink needed the 
reader to first be blinded by the infamous image of an evil Nazi straight out of a World War II 
survivor’s nightmare so that he could then use this armor of Hanna’s to make the reader question 
the impenetrability of the Nazi façade.  
As Michael makes the connection between Hanna’s fear of others learning of her 
inability to read with her Nazi-esque mannerisms, the reader starts to see, through Hanna, how 
the common Nazi can be humanized into your average person rather than simply immortalized as 
an inhuman monster straight from a fairytale. For example, Hanna’s obsession with his 
schoolwork took less of a militant tone and turned into Hanna’s desperate need for Michael to 
not turn out like her. Suddenly, Hanna’s eruption at Michael dismissing his schoolwork as 
unimportant, during which she said, “‘Idiotic–you don’t know what idiotic is. . . . you can come. 
Provided you work first’” became the admonition of an elder who knows what it is to miss out 
on something as essential as learning (Schlink 36). Not to mention that past fights and dismissals 
began to make sense as they each revolved around a note or letter of some sort which Hanna 
could not read. In that instant, even as Michael was learning of Hanna’s disgraceful past deeds, 
she was becoming more understandable before his very eyes.  
Michael’s words continue to humanize Hanna throughout the book as he relates her 
misdeeds to her desperate need to cover up her condition. During the trial, Hanna is accused of 
using the “weak and delicate” girls to “read aloud to her” (Schlink 116). Michael swings back 
and forth between explaining her having chosen girls sentenced to die as her favorites “because 
she wanted to make their last month bearable” and accusing her of choosing those girls because 
8 
 
she could “silence them in case they had noticed something” (Schlink 117; 132). Michael finds 
himself landing on the idea that “Hanna had not decided in favor of crime… She did not 
calculate and she did not maneuver” (Schlink 133). Just as when Hanna allows herself to be the 
scapegoat in regard to the burning of the Jewish women within the church, he concludes that she 
does this as a way to preserve her image of a literate German. Michael came to see that “she was 
guilty, but not as guilty as it appeared” (Schlink 137). It seems that Hanna continues to use her 
Nazi persona to hide her true flaws and fears, as during the verdict reading, Michael says, “I 
don’t know if Hanna knew how she looked, or maybe she wanted to look like that. . . . as if she 
were in uniform” (Schlink 162). It is at this point in the novel that   
The reader is strongly encouraged to accept illiteracy as an explanation for 
Hanna’s involvement in the Holocaust, less because this is the theory that Michael 
as narrator puts forward, but because to do so makes interpretive sense in relation 
to the rest of the novel. (“The Author, The Novel, The Reader” 463) 
I argue, like Jeffrey Roth, that “Hanna is not a sympathetic character and was not intended to be 
one. . . . if love blinds Michael to her faults, it does not blind us, the readers” (171-172). We are 
able to take Hanna’s humanization in stride with an objective mindset because unlike Michael 
we are not hopelessly in love with the character.  
 While I believe the topic of illiteracy to be the supporting theme of the larger issue rather 
than Schlink’s attempt to give Hanna an excuse for her actions, there are those who have made 
substantial arguments against Schlink’s use of illiteracy. One critic, Frederick Raphael, 
interviewed historian Michael Burleigh, who stated that “‘Every recruit [to the SS] had to fill in a 
form,’” which led Raphael to the conclusion that it would have been impossible for Hanna to be 
an illiterate SS guard (2009 para 20). Cynthia Ozick, also shocked by Schlink’s portrayal of 
9 
 
illiteracy, noted that “Germany before World War II was known to have the most educated 
population in Europe, with the highest standard of literacy” (26). Bill Niven, on the other hand, 
contests that “Schlink's concern is not with Hanna's illiteracy in itself, but with her fear of 
stigmatization. . . . That shame is the key to Hanna” (382-383). To further this argument, we can 
look at Bartov, who writes, “The reason she both becomes an SS guard and keeps moving from 
place to place in postwar Germany, is her desperate effort to hide that shameful disability” (30). 
The arguments made by Niven and Bartov support my assertion that illiteracy is simply a 
supporting element of the story. The real point of the story is how an average person came to be 
one of the world’s most feared villains, which as Niven and Bartov pointed out, was due to a 
level of shame.  
 I proclaim that by humanizing Hanna, a former SS Nazi, Schlink is addressing the issue 
of the formidable German Nazi actually being, in more cases than is acknowledged, an ordinary 
person. In Donahue’s analysis, he writes that  
Schlink's stated purpose in writing Der Vorleser has been to humanize the 
monster, and one can hardly deny him success in this. Criminals are no doubt 
often very compromised human beings, whose free will has been seriously 
circumscribed by disadvantaged childhoods, a condition that Hanna is clearly 
meant to symbolize. (296) 
While some scholars, like Alison, feel that Schlink’s portrayal of Hanna “comes at the expense 
of the actual victim” (174), I argue that humanizing such an enemy does nothing to take away 
from those who suffered but rather allows us to see potential reasons for why someone would 
inflict such suffering. The fact of the matter is that many of the Nazis were your run-of-the-mill 
people, who were drawn into a life of Nazism for various reasons, including the chance to escape 
10 
 
from their own misery. In the words of Ronnie Landau, writer for the Jewish Chronicle, learning 
about the Holocaust “can civilise and humanise our students and . . . has the power to sensitise 
them to the dangers of indifference, intolerance, racism and the dehumanisation of others” (20). 
By humanizing the Nazis, we are not white-washing the German past nor showing empathy for 
those who destroyed so many lives but are merely attempting to understand how seemingly 
normal people could become active participants in one of the world’s greatest atrocities.  
 In keeping with the theme of understanding why and how a person could be a part of 
something as appalling as the Holocaust, Schlink invites us to look at the allure of numbing 
one’s emotions. Bartov contests that “Schlink's novel is a tale of emotional numbness and sexual 
passion. This emotional numbness becomes the main trademark of the trial” (31). Within his 
narrative, Michael discusses the numbness felt by both victim and perpetrator, and the ways in 
which this numbness is necessary for survival. During the trial, Michael describes the heightened 
emotions of those who come and go in comparison to his own numbed feelings as he has been 
there every day. Michael even goes so far as to compare his numbness to that of the Holocaust 
victims. To discuss the numbness of the victims, Michael says, “All survivor literature talks 
about this numbness, in which life’s functions are reduced to a minimum, behavior becomes 
selfish and indifferent to others, and gassing and burning are everyday occurrences” (Schlink 
103). He continues on to discuss this same numbness within the perpetrators, “In the rare 
accounts by perpetrators . . . reduced to their few functions and exhibiting a mental paralysis and 
indifference, a dullness that makes them seem drugged or drunk” (Schlink 103). It is in this 
numbness that people find themselves able to both survive and commit such horrendous crimes 
against nature.  
11 
 
 Michael’s encounter with the erratic driver is another phenomenal example of his coming 
to terms with the reality of how and why a person becomes a killer. This man almost mocks 
Michael’s attempt to understand the senseless murders that took place. In his speech, he says to 
Michael, “‘there was no war, and no reason for hatred. But executioners don’t hate the people 
they execute, and they execute them all the same’” (Schlink 151). Surprisingly, he shoots down 
the possibility that these murders are executed because of an obeyance of orders. He continues 
on to say,  
An executioner is not under orders. He’s doing his work, he doesn’t hate the 
people . . . he’s not taking revenge . . . he’s not killing them because they’re in his 
way or threatening him or attacking him. They’re a matter of such indifference to 
him that he can kill them as easily as not. (Schlink 151) 
While this may seem a devastating answer in that it is almost incomprehensible in its 
unfeelingness, it is an essential answer. That numbness and indifference was the key between 
being a benevolent family member who comes home for supper every evening and an 
executioner who kills by the dozens every day. Destroying the lives of others became the new 
version of someone “just doing their job.” Hannah Arendt, within her book On Violence, writes 
that “It is no doubt possible to create conditions under which men are dehumanized. . . but that 
does not mean they become animal-like; and under such conditions, not rage and violence, but 
their conspicuous absence is the clearest sign of dehumanization” (63). Ultimately, in 
humanizing the perpetrators, Schlink allows us to see how they had to dehumanize themselves in 
order to carry out such acts.  
 While humanizing a former Nazi, Schlink also uses this novel to bring to light the 
struggles of the parent/child dynamic between the war generation and post-war generation. As an 
12 
 
explanation for the post-war generation, scholars Xiaomin Chen and Xiaohong Zhang wrote, “In 
1968, a movement was launched by the post-War generation against former Nazis’ holding 
powerful positions, against their parents’ complicity in the Nazi crimes, and the subsequent 
conspiracy of silence” (288). As Tania Crasnianski further explains in her nonfiction book, 
Children of Nazis, “students of 1968, were the first generation of Germans who had not 
experienced the war, and they had no qualms about digging up that era. The old habit of placing 
blame on Hitler alone no longer satisfied them” (194). Michael, being from the latter generation 
but in love with a member from the former generation, was able to look at the situation from 
both sides. It is Michael’s generation that first opened the curtain behind which the generation of 
the war hid their past selves and former misdeeds. We needed this curtain to be opened in order 
to shed light on what really happened, but we also needed a character like Michael to guide us 
along because if we focused only on the words of the ’68 generation, we would simply condemn 
without attempting to understand. Michael struggled as we all do today, which we can see when 
he says,  
I wanted simultaneously to understand Hanna’s crime and to condemn it. But it 
was too terrible for that. When I tried to understand it, I had the feeling I was 
failing to condemn it as it must be condemned. When I condemned it as it must be 
condemned, there was no room for understanding. . . . I wanted to pose myself 
both tasks – understanding and condemnation. But it was impossible to do both. 
(157) 
The struggle to relate the person whom one loves to the person who commits such abominable 
acts is an insurmountable challenge that many do not wish to acknowledge because any failure to 
outright condemn said person is seen as complicity. Through Michael, we see what it is to battle 
13 
 
the feelings of love while still striving to uncover and understand the past. We need to 
acknowledge and strive to understand positions such as his because it is through those who both 
love and hate the former Nazis that we get a peek into the dual personalities most Nazis 
possessed. 
 Michael’s story is unique in that his parents were neither completely complicit nor 
entirely innocent. For the argument that Michael’s father cannot be condemned as a complicit 
German, we can look at Michael’s own words: “I had no one to point at. Certainly not my 
parents, because I had nothing to accuse them of” (Schlink 170). Some scholars, such as Roth 
took this to mean that “that his own family was blameless during World War II” (167). Others, 
however, looked at the situation with more scrutiny. In Arthur Scherr’s analysis, he states  
We never learn how he felt about the Nazi regime and the Holocaust, except that 
he was fired from his job as a university lecturer for planning a lecture about the 
Jewish philosopher Spinoza, which he likely did because of his philosophical 
importance rather than because he wished to champion the Jews or publicly 
oppose Nazism. (245) 
Chen and Zhang concluded that “Even if he didn’t participate in the crime, he was certainly 
involved in the Holocaust” (290). Michael’s words summarize it best when he says, “We all 
condemned our parents to shame, even if the only charge we could bring was that after 1945 they 
had tolerated the perpetrators in their midst” (Schlink 92). So, despite his parents having had 
little part in the Holocaust itself, Michael, for a time during his life, wanted to condemn them. 
Scherr notes of Michael’s father that “Michael respects his intelligence, dedication to his work, 
and sober judgement. Still, this does not prevent him from wanting to blame him” (246). If the 
1968 generation were able to blame the former generation, they would not feel like they, too, 
14 
 
were complicit by association. Roth explains this in his summation that “For the second 
generation, coming to terms with Germany's Nazi past means coming to terms with their parents. 
Even if the parents had not committed atrocities, the children condemn them self-righteously for 
not ridding post-war Germany of those who did” (167). Michael simultaneously wanted to blame 
his parents, and yet knew, that the blame he was placing on their heads was too great for their 
actual crimes. Michael says it most articulately in his statement that “Pointing at the guilty 
parties did not free us from shame, but at least it overcame the suffering we went through on 
account of it” (Schlink 170). 
 Although Michael was unable to entirely place responsibility on the heads of his parents 
as a way of working through his German heritage, he did find himself going through this process 
via his relationship with Hanna. Carmelle M. Stephens, within his scholarly essay on Boyne’s 
novel, eloquently phrased it as “Hanna effectively shatters the protective barrier of Michael’s 
spotless family history and places him within the German inter-generational narrative of shame 
and moral contamination” (198). He was essentially drawn to the offender by desire rather than 
being tied by blood (Stephens 198).  Hanna was needed for Michael to be able to work through 
his own generational guilt. Roth states that “Without Hanna, Michael would never confront these 
issues, for his own parents were blameless” (172). Of course, since Michael chose Hanna, the 
guilt and confliction he felt about his relationship with her in relation to her past crimes was 
magnified. Stephens iterates this point when she states that “the turbulent relationship between 
Michael and Hanna is intended to dramatize the struggle of later generations of Germans in 
attempting to ‘master’ their nation’s genocidal history” (184). At the beginning of part two, 
Michael works through this inner conflict, as he says, “But the finger I pointed at her turned back 
to me. I had loved her. Not only had I loved her, I had chosen her” (Schlink 170). Critics such as 
15 
 
Scherr take this to mean that “Unlike Michael's apathetic father, Michael. . . has actually become 
a Nazi sympathizer of a sort” (255). In a way, I would agree that Schlink is portraying for the 
reader how one becomes complicit by association. However, I believe that his relationship with 
Hanna shows the true complexities that come with being a part of this greater thing known as 
humanity. It is rarely black and white, but often, messy with strings connecting us to both the 
good and evil in life. To paint it as anything so simplistic as Scherr did does an injustice to our 
intricacies as a species.  
 Schlink wrapped up the book in much of the same manner as he wrote the beginning and 
middle. His ending made the reader feel conflicted, just as we often feel conflicted within our 
own lives when it comes to such complex issues, which I believe to be the point. When Hanna 
learned to read, Michael was filled with both joy and sorrow. His joy was due to her having 
“advanced from dependence to independence, a step towards liberation,” and his sorrow for her 
“delayed and failed life” (Schlink 188). Schlink uses Hanna’s newfound literacy to have her 
come to terms with what she has done. The guard talking with Michael post-suicide recalled 
Hanna having requested “books on women in camps, both prisoners and guard” and that “As 
soon as Frau Schmitz learned to read, she began to read about the concentration camps” (Schlink 
205). Chen and Zhang summarize this by saying, “Being illiterate, Hanna simply perceives her 
brutal deeds as exercises of duty. . . . Literacy both shapes her self-awareness and traumatizes 
her. Literacy transforms remembrance into the unbearable heaviness of being” (295). I believe 
that this part of the story is meant to help readers recognize the fluidity of a person’s mental, 
emotional, and psychological being as it is displayed here by an ordinary person turned murderer 
turned repentant citizen. By seeing Hanna’s full circle of transformations, we gain insight into 
how a country full of average people comes to find the will to commit such an atrocity, and then 
16 
 
within the aftermath, find both the shame and guilt that tears them between hiding their past and 
making up for it.  
However, it was this same skill that allowed Hanna to fully grasp her former complicity 
within the Holocaust, which also led to her suicide. Eva Hoffman, who wrote on the use of 
illiteracy within this novel, summarized it by saying “Hanna killed herself partly as a result of 
her late-won literacy, because she could not bear to know what she had done” (34). There are 
those who, like Hall, believe this suicide “provides a romanticised resolution to the perpetrator 
narrative, with readers invited to see echoes in her life of a religious journey from sin to 
atonement to spiritual redemption” (“The Author, The Novel, The Reader” 264). I argue that 
Hanna’s character development, and subsequent suicide, is not meant to instill feelings of 
sympathy for the perpetrator but rather to highlight the fact that humans, along with life, can 
never be defined within the strict confines of labels such as black-and-white, villain and hero, or 
good and evil. If we are ever to even begin to make sense of how an entire nation could do 
something on such a grandiose scale as the Holocaust, we must understand this.  
Schlink’s last pages are focused on Hanna’s search for absolution. Of course, this 
angered critics everywhere as they argued of Schlink’s audacity to write of absolution for such a 
character. Hanna’s former victim, the daughter who survived, wondered the same thing upon 
being approached by Michael, when she asks “‘And grant Frau Schmitz her absolution?’” 
(Schlink 212). Michael mentally acknowledged that “Hanna was indeed asking a great deal,” but 
also felt that “[h]er years of imprisonment were not merely to be the required atonement: Hanna 
wanted to give them her own meaning, and she wanted this giving of meaning to be recognized” 
(Schlink 212). He felt that she knew what she had done, and that she “dealt with it intensively 
during her last years in prison” (Schlink 212-213). It can be seen as either preposterous or fitting 
17 
 
that Hanna’s money was donated to the Jewish League Against Literacy, but the shocking aspect 
is that it was done so in her name. Again, I would like to point out that as the reader, we are not 
Michael, and therefore, have the ability to separate ourselves from his feelings in order to look at 
the situation objectively. By doing so, we are able to recognize that Hanna’s journey to  
acknowledging and taking responsibility for injustices she committed is a portrayal of 
humanity’s ebb and flow.  
 In summation, to understand is to accept that the human species is neither black nor 
white. To understand is to know that anyone can be capable of anything, and it is our 
responsibility after such a monumental crime, to attempt to comprehend how just anyone can be 
drawn into that life. Research by Scherr shows that by Schlink “depicting Michael's father as a 
professor . . . and placing him and the illiterate Hanna in the same scale, even the most 
exemplary individuals may be no more than 'ordinary men’” (261). Schlink humanized a former 
monster so that we may see why a person chooses the life of murdering. He also illuminated the 
powers of shutting down one’s emotions in order to both survive and commit the crimes we can 
barely even imagine. He even portrayed the complexities of loving someone, whether by relation 
or choice, who has done the unthinkable. As I previously stated, it is our duty to accept that by 
humanizing someone such as a Nazi, we are neither accepting nor sympathizing with them, but 
allowing ourselves the chance to look past the wall we placed between ourselves when being 
short-sighted, so as to understand and even prevent such atrocities from repeating themselves. 
An awareness of how and why an entire country of ordinary people finds themselves taking part 
in mass murder, whether by complicity or direct action, can help future generations stop the 
process before it has a chance to advance. As Karl Jaspers, author of The Origin and Goal of 
History, once said, it is “possible for this to happen, and it remains possible for it to happen again 
18 
 
at any minute. Only in knowledge can it be prevented” (149). In our discussion of this 
monumental period of history, we should seek to study the past with the intent to comprehend 
rather than condemn so that we may evolve past such ignorant hatred.   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
19 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas 
The Humanization of a Nazi Family as Seen Through the Eyes of a Child 
 The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, penned by John Boyne, is a juvenile historical fiction 
fable turned movie that has been critiqued for its unique portrayal of the Holocaust through the 
eyes of a Nazi official’s child. Boyne’s novel, set within Auschwitz concentration camp during 
World War II, features a young, naive boy, Bruno, whose father is the commandant of 
Auschwitz and whose only friend is a prisoner within Auschwitz. Michael Gray states that 
“Since its publication in 2006 and subsequent film adaptation two years later, The Boy in the 
Striped Pyjamas has become an influential and important representation of the Holocaust” (109). 
Other critics, such as Debbie Pinfold, disagree, as she states that “The Boy in the Striped 
Pyjamas not only reflects outdated understandings of the Third Reich, but also risks presenting 
the perpetrators themselves as victims” (254). Like Gray, I find that this book is an important 
representation because it gives us another perspective that is so rarely seen, yet critical to our 
understanding of this period of history. I will use this chapter to expand upon the notion that by 
humanizing the Nazis, as this book does, we are allowing ourselves possible understandings into 
the relationship between SS members of the concentration camps and their families, brief insight 
into the people the Nazis were before they became monsters in the name of the Fatherland, and 
the effects of such an upbringing on future generations. My argument is that these attempts to 
understand and gain insight allow for the study of the Holocaust to broaden so that we may see 
this brief period of history from all angles, therefore ensuring that future generations are not as 
susceptible to such misguided fanaticism, racism, and dehumanization.  
 
 
 
This book is told from the perspective of an adolescent boy with an innocent, and often 
immature, mindset. As can be expected from such a narration, the antagonists are seen not just as 
being on the wrong side of the protagonist but as something akin to monsters. Within this young 
German boy’s tale, the demonization falls onto the heads of Nazis whom Bruno, perhaps 
unrightfully, compares to his father whom he holds in such high esteem. Looking at the situation 
from the perspective of naïve Bruno, readers see the Nazis, aside from his father, as Other. One 
thought process would be that this allows for the possibility of young readers seeing the 
Commandant as more guiltless than his compatriots, as that is how Bruno sees it. However, I 
would argue, that with the proper education about the Holocaust the reader would be able to look 
beyond Bruno’s naivety to see that this one-sided depiction offers understandings into the 
relationship dynamic between SS officials of the concentration camps and their families.  
 To support this argument, I would like to take a look at the different characteristics seen 
between the party members Bruno described as being the clichéd Nazi beasts and that of his 
father, whom he holds in the greatest esteem, as most young boys do. The most notable Nazi 
within Bruno’s tale is Lieutenant Kurt Kotler, who is regaled as a disturbed young soldier 
seemingly out to disrupt every aspect of Bruno’s life. Ceylan Ozcan, within his critique of 
Boyne’s book, accurately describes this character as “a stereotype of the heartless, evil Nazi, the 
sort typically used in demonizing Nazis” (188). Upon first meeting Kurt, Bruno describes his 
hair as “an almost unnatural shade of yellow,” which portrays him as a fanatical German 
desperate to appear as the “perfect Aryan” (Boyne 18). This is an image that continues in later 
encounters, during which Bruno says that he wore “a uniform that appeared to be ironed while he 
was wearing it” with “black boots [that] always sparkled with polish . . . yellow-blond hair . . . 
held perfectly in place” (Boyne 71). Boyne later writes that “There was an atmosphere around 
21 
 
him that made Bruno feel very cold” (71). Bruno’s initial descriptions of this character set the 
scene for future interactions in which Kurt is fully portrayed as the monstrous stereotypical Nazi.  
Boyne has ensured that the readers have been on alert in regard to this character from the 
start, and it begins to make sense as Bruno interacts with him more and more. The pivotal 
moments are when Kurt brutally assaults Pavel and Shmuel, both of whom Bruno sees as 
blameless and friendly as opposed to Kurt’s evil nature. Following Kurt’s vile treatment of Pavel 
at dinner, Boyne writes, “while Bruno realized that Father was generally a very kind and 
thoughtful man, it hardly seemed fair or right that no one had stopped Lieutenant Kotler” (149). 
In this instance, we see how Bruno struggles to correlate the man he so admires with someone 
who would passively allow a demon such as Kurt to act so viciously against another human 
being. Debbie Pinfold reflects that “by focusing on the ‘wrong’ victim and extending his 
victimhood to his perpetrator parents” the audience may be moved, which she then states may be 
“because (s)he is allowed to identify passively with the child victim rather than explore the 
meaning of the Holocaust as a responsible adult” (262). While this may prove to be true, I think 
this perspective is essential in illustrating for readers the struggle a child of a Nazi official would 
have with associating his/her beloved parent with the horrendous acts said parent commits.  
 Of course, Kurt’s misdeeds are not restricted to that of the Jewish prisoners but are 
depicted throughout many other instances within Bruno’s tale. Early on in the book, Bruno 
recounts stumbling upon Kurt inappropriately flirting with his sister, during which time, Kurt 
attempts to exude his manly superiority by referring to Bruno as “little man.” Kurt’s apparent 
effort to insert himself into the minds and hearts of Bruno’s family is also shown in relation to 
his mother, who “laughed at his jokes more than she laughed at Father’s” (Boyne 162). If one 
were to take this, as well as other instances of secrecy and flirtation between Bruno’s mother and 
22 
 
Kurt, to mean that they are engaging in an affair, it would further support the notion that Bruno’s 
father is being endorsed as an innocent bystander in comparison with the evilness of other Nazis. 
 From Bruno’s perspective, Kurt will forever be the sadistic Nazi who upon hearing a dog 
bark, “marched right over to the dog and shot it” (Boyne 162). He is the perfect representation of 
a Nazi, as he strides “around in his black boots as if there was no one in the whole world of any 
more importance than him” (Boyne 95). In summation of this disconcerting young soldier’s 
misdeeds: he flirts with Bruno’s sister, blatantly belittles Bruno, beats and dehumanizes Jewish 
prisoners, and even, as an older reader can easily deduce, seems to be carrying on an affair with 
Bruno’s mother. Kurt is the spot-on image of a reckless German soldier desperately trying to 
hide his family’s opposition to the Nazi rule through overcompensating with his cruelty. At no 
point, do we see Bruno recount his own father acting in such a manner, despite the fact that he, 
too, is a Nazi, and arguably, one responsible for even more evil than Kurt.  
 During one of Kurt’s final moments within Bruno’s tale, we begin to see Kurt’s human 
side just as we see Father’s Nazi undercurrent brush the surface. While having dinner with 
Bruno’s family, Kurt accidentally reveals his own father’s opposition to the Nazi regime. 
Bruno’s father begins to question, one could even say harass, Kurt about his father. Kurt does as 
one would expect a Nazi soldier of his pedigree to do and begins to grovel. The reader almost 
feels sorry for Kurt at this moment, especially if the reader is aware of what this conversation 
means for his future. As for Bruno, he found this to be exciting due to his pure hatred of the vile 
Lieutenant, but he was also “frightened by the atmosphere,” which goes a long way in showing 
the fear of such an encounter, even from a bystander with little knowledge of its true 
significance. Following this conversation, Kurt proceeds to brutally injure Pavel as a way of 
taking out his own emotions on another while simultaneously showing his commitment to the 
23 
 
Nazi mindset. This is when we see Bruno question his parent’s lack of interference, as was 
referenced above. I would argue that at this point, readers can sense how strongly Bruno must be 
fighting internally to remain naive and ignorant of his father’s role in the evil he notices around 
him. Much of Germany’s youth must have been having this same internal struggle as they 
witnessed those they love doing things they could not understand. 
 Further exploration of the novel finds that Kurt is not the only character who is meant to 
possess characteristics that are in direct opposition of Bruno’s own Nazi father. There are other  
characters who do this as well, such as more subordinates of his father’s, Bruno’s tutor, and even 
“the Fury” (the Fuhrer). The soldiers that worked under Bruno’s father, much like Kurt, were the 
picturesque Nazis. These men dressed the part, groveled at the feet of those who were deemed 
superior in rank and/or authority, and showed little to no regard for lives they considered to be 
unworthy. Upon seeing these soldiers surrounding his father, Bruno’s narrative states that 
He didn’t like the look of the other men quite as much. They certainly weren’t as 
handsome as Father. Nor were their uniforms as freshly pressed. Nor were their 
voices so booming or their boots so polished. They . . . seemed to be fighting with 
each other for Father’s attention. (Boyne 42) 
When noticing them within the bounds of Auschwitz, a considerably different setting than his 
own home, he noted that they “wore uniforms of varying quality and decoration and caps and 
helmets with bright red-and-black armbands and carried guns and always looked terribly stern” 
(Boyne 100). The notion that he should be wary of these men is further instilled when Maria says 
to him, “‘I’d steer clear of the soldiers’” (Boyne 19). Whether observing their inferiority to his 
father or their intimidating nature inside the bounds of the concentration camp, Bruno never feels 
like these men are anything like his father. Bruno’s sentiments are highlighted during his 
24 
 
discussion with Shmuel, during which he says, “‘I’m going to be a soldier. . . . Like Father. . . . I 
don’t mean one like Lieutenant Kotler. . . . I mean one like Father. One of the good soldiers’” 
(Boyne 139-140). When Shmuel argued that there were “no good soldiers,” Bruno felt that 
“Father was Father . . . didn’t think it was right for someone to say something bad about him” 
(Boyne 140). In Bruno’s mind, he simply could not connect such ominous creatures to his 
beloved father. This highlights one of the important aspects of this book as it is portraying for 
readers the idea that Germans could see their own family members as “good soldiers,” while still 
acknowledging the others as “bad soldiers.” If so many people throughout the country were 
turning a blind eye to the actions and transformations of those they love, it would help explain 
their complicity.  
 As one would expect, the Nazis Bruno encountered were not limited to his father and 
other soldiers. The tutor hired by Father for both Bruno and Gretel proved to be a significant 
Nazi within Bruno’s life. Not only did his character serve to illuminate the difference in Bruno’s 
mind between the Nazis that surrounded him and his own Nazi family, but he served to further 
instill Nazi propaganda into the mind of his impressionable older sister. As Ozcan notes, “The 
tutor’s teachings exemplify the rationale the Nazis used to justify their actions and the anti-
Semitic discourse of Nazism which demonized the Jews, making them the enemy” (188). While 
Herr Liszt was noted for not being as abusive as some of Bruno’s former instructors, it is written 
that “Herr Liszt was a mystery to Bruno. . . . something in his eyes made Bruno feel there was an 
anger inside him just waiting to get out” (Boyne 96-97). Herr Liszt is able to fill the role of an 
academic Nazi who strives to indoctrinate the minds of others with the Nazi way of thinking. 
Leonard Doob makes the conclusion that “propaganda is supposed to affect personality in order 
to control human behavior” (qtd. in Moska?a 108). If one were a child eager to appear intelligent 
25 
 
or earn the praises of his/her mentor, as Gretel was, it would explain how propaganda was able to 
work from this angle. One with superior intelligence is more easily trusted as being correct. 
Knowing the effect that propaganda can have, especially that of which was peddled out by those 
considered to be of higher intellect, is essential not only to our understanding of an entire 
nation’s complicity but in our awareness of its appeal for we are forever susceptible to that which 
we do not comprehend.  
 In keeping with the notion of Bruno’s father’s importance, Boyne has Hitler make an 
appearance in Bruno’s short tale. One of the most notable aspects of Hitler’s role within Bruno’s 
life is that Bruno can never learn how to properly pronounce his true title but instead refers to 
him as “the Fury.” Gerd Bayer, in his scholarly essay “World War II and The Ethics of Trauma,” 
suggests that “By referring to Hitler, the ‘Führer’, with the near-homophonous word ‘fury’, the 
novel uses Bruno’s intuitive reaction to his environment as a means of addressing directly the 
actual significance of Hitler, the concentration camps, and the Holocaust” (165). I believe this to 
be an accurate analysis of Boyne’s intention with this particular word play. To further support 
this idea, one need only take a closer look at Bruno’s direct and indirect interactions with the 
man.  
 During the first part of the story, Hitler’s role within Bruno’s tale is that of his father’s 
superior who both “had big things in mind” for Father and was responsible for their undesirable 
departure from Berlin (Boyne 4). At this point, we see that Bruno’s Father, though unlike Hitler 
in nature, is a follower of a his. It is while preparing to leave their home, that Bruno’s mother 
slips and says, “‘Some people and their determination to get ahead’” (Boyne 40). At this 
moment, we can begin to ascertain that Hitler’s charm has not quite won over everyone. Bruno 
himself begins to show distaste for the Fuhrer upon meeting him and Eva. While taking in “the 
26 
 
Fury” in all his glory, Bruno makes the observation that “The Fury was far shorter than Father 
and not, Bruno supposed, quite as strong” (Boyne 121). For this particular Nazi, Bruno does not 
just compare him to his father but to his companion, Eva, as well. Following his comparison 
between “the Fury” and his father, Bruno notes that “The woman standing beside him, however, 
was quite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life” (Boyne 121). These 
comparisons continue as “the Fury” shows contempt for Bruno’s interest in learning French, to 
which Eva politely states, “‘I can speak French too’” (Boyne 122). Hitler persists in making a 
bad impression on Bruno, as Boyne writes, “the Fury, who was the rudest guest Bruno had ever 
witnessed, turned round and walked directly into the dining room and promptly sat down at the 
head of the table – in Father’s seat” (Boyne 122). Finally, the last judgment comes when Hitler 
and his companion make their departure, as Bruno notes that “the Fury did not open the door for 
his companion but instead climbed in and started reading a newspaper, while she said goodbye 
once again to Mother and thanked her for the lovely dinner. . . . What a horrible man” (Boyne 
124). My argument is that these negative portrayals of Hitler from the perspective of a prominent 
Nazi official’s son are meant to instill in the reader’s mind the level of innocence and moral 
sense of young Bruno, his unfailingly blind and faithful love for his father, as well as illuminate 
the fact that not all Nazis possessed the undesirable qualities seen in Hitler. Some Nazis were 
polite and mundane people who were following the lead of madmen like Hitler.   
 Throughout Bruno’s tale, we see him struggle to make sense of his father’s place in the 
disturbing world he sees around him. Even as similarities between his father and those he deems 
to be the antithesis of his father are pointed out to him, Bruno seems to have a child’s 
stubbornness about his father’s true character. For example, when Maria remarks on the quality 
of seriousness shared between the abysmal Lieutenant Kotler and Father, Bruno responds, “‘Yes, 
27 
 
but he’s Father’” (Boyne 19). Intuitive young readers will notice that Bruno’s father, despite 
being so different from other Nazis in the mind of Bruno, has Nazi-esque tendencies. When 
arguing with Father about their current place of living, Bruno’s actions reflect a level of fear that 
goes beyond that of a son who respects his father. Boyne writes, “Bruno licked his lips and 
looked away. He felt it would be a bad idea to hold Father’s eye” (Boyne 51). It is during this 
same tense discussion that Bruno mentions his curiosity about the people outside his window, to 
which his father responds, “‘Those people . . . well, they’re not people at all. . . . You have 
nothing whatsoever in common with them’” (Boyne 53). Father’s words do not make much 
sense to Bruno but because of his blind faith in his father, he just accepts what he says. I contest 
that this continual denial is not only because of his love for his father, but because, in reality, 
most Nazis were both monsters and average humans. Even though this is hard to digest, 
information such as this can make people more conscious of the fact that a regular person is 
vulnerable when faced with the kinds of challenges that arose in post-World War I Germany. 
 Early on in the book, it is made clear that Bruno “wasn’t entirely sure what job Father 
did” (Boyne 4). As scholar Pawe? Moska?a notes within his critique of the book “the knowledge 
about the function of his father as well as the actual role of the camp remains carefully concealed 
from the boy” (107). Bruno’s innocence and unawareness are what make his story so poignant 
because it allows us to see those whom we consider dark and evil in a unique light. It is stated by 
Crasnianski that “all of these Nazis thought of themselves as moral beings” (xvi). One can 
imagine that if a young child’s parent speaks and acts as someone who believes him/herself to be 
a moral being, that the child who admires and loves said parent would believe it too. By looking 
at the Nazis through the eyes of the unaware children who loved them most, we are allowing 
ourselves to see that Nazis can come in all shapes and forms. The World War II monsters many 
28 
 
of us have imagined did not look so monstrous when removed from that specific setting, which is 
one of the most galling and critical points of all. When given the right circumstances, any 
average joe could become something from our worst nightmares. Ignoring this fact does not 
make it disappear.  
 The readers of this book are privy to the point of view of both those who love and those 
who abhor Bruno’s father. The uniqueness about being aware of the viewpoint of those who love 
him and have known him for many years is that we are able to see what he used to be in their 
eyes and how he has changed to fit the Nazi persona. We are able to use these viewpoints in 
comparison to those who only know Bruno’s father as a demonic Nazi. By doing this, we are 
able to piece together the picture of who this man truly is and was outside of being either just a 
loved one or just a Nazi. In coming closer to piecing together the full picture of what it really 
means to be a Nazi, we can be more knowledgeable in answering the question: how could so 
many people take part in such a heinous crime? In exploring the background of Bruno’s father 
and men like him, we will be able to gain some insight into possible answers for this question.  
 To further investigate who Bruno’s father truly is, we need to understand who he was 
before he became the Nazi within the nightmares of Auschwitz’s prisoners. Men like Bruno’s 
father were a part of World War I, which we learn when Bruno’s mother tells the story of Herr 
Roller, a man whom Bruno considered to be mad. When speaking of Herr Roller, Mother says, 
“‘You have no idea of what the young men went through back then. Their suffering’” (Boyne 
68). This is not meant to encourage sympathy for the Germans, but rather to help us understand 
how they came to be so broken and desperate as to resort to supporting a man such as Hitler.  
 Through Maria, we learn that Father used to be the sort of man who would lend a helping 
hand in a selfless fashion for any who needed it. When Bruno is angry at his father, Maria tells 
29 
 
him the story of how he once helped her family by giving her a job, as well as paying for her 
mother’s medical bills and subsequent funeral bills. Her story ends with her saying, “‘He has a 
lot of kindness in his soul, truly he does, which makes me wonder’” (Boyne 62). When she says 
this, we must think back to how the conversation started, when Bruno asked, “‘You’re part of the 
family, aren’t you?’” and Maria responded, “‘I’m not sure whether your father would agree with 
that’” (Boyne 58). In these few short pages, we get the sense that Father used to be a respectable 
man but that he has changed to the point that even those who have known him for years are left 
to wonder about his metamorphosis into just another Nazi cog in Hitler’s plan of world 
domination.  
 One of the most telling moments within Bruno’s recollection was the argument between 
his grandmother and father. While Bruno’s grandfather and mother both placated his father, his 
grandmother was having no part of it. Young readers can get a feel for how wrongly things have 
turned when the grandmother says, “‘I wonder if all the performances I made you give as a boy 
led you to this. Dressing up like a puppet on a string’” (Boyne 90). This bold woman goes on to 
mock his treasured uniform: “‘Standing there in your uniform . . . as if it makes you special. Not 
even caring what it means really. What it stands for’” (Boyne 90-91). It is here that readers with 
little knowledge of the Holocaust or Nazis are once again made aware of something amiss. The 
argument finishes with her screaming that her son, the company with which he surrounds 
himself, and his cherished uniform make her sick (Boyne 93). From that point on, Bruno did not 
see his grandmother very much. The reader gets the sense, once again, that Father used to be 
someone else, someone good and unlikely to take up such a position. One must wonder at the 
vast transformation that had to have taken place for his own mother to no longer be able to 
tolerate his choices. I would argue that this scene goes a long way in ruining any arguments that 
30 
 
the book is showing favor towards the perpetrators, but rather, merely showing their humanity 
underneath the armor of evil. Acknowledgement of the humanity within the inhumane is 
essential in our quest to view this time of history in its entirety because without it we can never 
truly understand, therefore hurting any chance of fighting such radical hatred in the future before 
it manifests as it did during the Holocaust. Once upon a time, most of these Nazis were just your 
fellow humans. Dismissing that fact will not change it, and without it, we are opening ourselves 
up to a scary amount of possibility for repetition.  
 To get an idea of how far Bruno’s father has fallen from grace, one should look at 
remarks made by Bruno’s disgruntled mother. From the very first page, we get the sense that 
Bruno’s mother does not think much of her husband’s behavior and has higher hopes for her son, 
as Boyne writes, “his mother had always told him that he was to treat Maria respectfully and not 
just imitate the way Father spoke to her” (1). This underlying feeling of unsettlement and 
unhappiness continues upon Bruno learning of their rather abrupt departure. Mother says, “‘We 
don’t have a choice in this. . . . We don’t have as much time to prepare as I would have liked, 
thanks to some people’” to which Bruno’s narrative responds, “knowing that ‘some people’ was 
a grown-up’s word for ‘Father’” (Boyne 8-9). Moska?a takes statements such as this by Bruno’s 
mother to mean that there have been “Attempts to throw off responsibility for reality” (112). I 
would argue that these statements merely portray the position the family is in due to Father’s 
choice of career. This pattern of speaking ill of Father, and even the Fuhrer, continues as she 
later says, “‘We should never had let the Fury come to dinner. . . . Some people and their 
determination to get ahead’” (Boyne 40). In this statement, we can see that neither Hitler nor 
Bruno’s father are held in high esteem in his mother’s mind.  
31 
 
In different areas throughout the book, Bruno overhears arguments and senses tension 
between his parents. It is clear that his mother believes Auschwitz a place unfit to raise her 
children, while his father knows that they risk endangering their children if they do not uphold 
the image. In the words of Moska?a, “Fear also affects the boy's father, a declared supporter of 
only the right doctrine, on the one hand a symbol of power, on the other - obedience and loyalty” 
(112). Arguably, there were many families of Nazi officials in this same position. Even as 
children around the continent were being murdered, there were not many who were willing to 
risk the lives of their own children for the sake of another’s. In reality, people of today’s society 
who claim to know that they would be on the “right” side of history had it been them, cannot 
confidently make that assertion when they have yet to know the fear and panic that comes with 
having their loved ones’ lives threatened.   
 Unfortunately, this phenomenon of doing as one is told and keeping one’s nose down to 
avoid conflict is a central theme within the lives of Bruno’s family, especially his father. Even 
when it appears that Father is unhappy with his position or the things he is forced to do, such as 
moving his family to Auschwitz, he makes it clear that he has little choice in the matter. This 
falls in line with Hanna Arendt’s theory of bureaucracy, as she argued that it was “very common 
in Germany, that to be law-abiding means not merely to obey the laws but to act as though one 
were the legislator of the laws that one obeys. Hence the conviction that nothing less than going 
beyond the call of duty will do” (137). When speaking to Bruno about the move, he says, “‘Do 
you think I would have made such a success of my life if I hadn’t learned when to argue and 
when to keep my mouth shut and follow orders?’” (Boyne 49). Upon Bruno asking if they are 
being forced to move because Father upset “the Fury,” Father laughs and says, “‘You don’t 
understand the significance of such a position’” (Boyne 50). Maria, who acknowledges her 
32 
 
disdain for the Nazis through thinly veiled comments, such as, “‘Well, they have very serious 
jobs. . . . Or they think so anyway,’” tells Bruno something akin to what Father is always telling 
his wife and son (Boyne 19). She says to Bruno something that many Germans must have 
thought at the time: “‘We must all keep ourselves safe until this is all over. That’s what I intend 
to do anyway. What more can we do than that after all? It’s not up to us to change things’” 
(Boyne 65). Are we meant to excuse their actions or lack thereof because they wanted to protect 
themselves? Absolutely not. However, we are meant to use this kind of information to see how 
an entire country, even those who were not Nazis themselves, became culpable in the murder of 
millions of their fellow humans.  
For much of the story, Bruno’s father had become someone who forsook his loved ones 
for the sake of his own misguided beliefs. No longer was Maria someone whom Father wished to 
spare unnecessary misery but simply someone who was “overpaid” (Boyne 138). Instead of 
mending the broken fence with his estranged mother, he simply let it go until she died, leaving 
him feeling bereft. He was no longer the father who would thank another for tending to his son’s 
wounds, but the Commandant from whom such acts of kindness must be hidden simply because 
the healer was a Jew. Sadly, Father was so far gone from who those he loved once knew him as, 
that outsiders, such as Shmuel, were left to wonder “how such a man could have a son who was 
so friendly and kind” (Boyne 196). In his fight for his beloved Fatherland, he gave up much of 
his humanity.  
As seen is through Bruno’s father, the condition of the country following the first World 
War, enrapture of Hitler and his plan for their country, and the desperate need to protect one’s 
family all play a part in the transformation from human to brute. People wanted their country and 
people to thrive again, which led to the appeal of Hitler, his plan, and his scapegoat, the Jews and 
33 
 
all other “undesirables.” As time went on, even those that began to see the fault in such a plan 
found themselves acting out of a desperation to save their own families. For some, their 
complicity even began as a means to protect their own. Not all Nazis were fanatical madmen 
despite the popular notion that they were all Hitler juniors. Bruno’s father allows readers to see 
that many, even some of the highest-ranking Nazis, were beloved family members who, for 
complex reasons, had turned off their humanity. Knowing this makes us more cognizant of just 
what humanity is capable of when given the right circumstances, such as starvation, economic 
collapse, etcetera.  
 Nevertheless, by the end of the book, Boyne had brought Father back to his senses 
through one of the most unimaginable situations known to man: the loss of a son due to the faults 
of the father. As stated by Bayer, Boyne is focusing on “the question of whether people might 
rethink their attitudes once they are turned into the victims of their own crime” (164). While 
Father had begun to display feelings of regret at having kept his family in such an abominable 
place, he was still very much the Commandant of history’s greatest hell. It was not until the 
disappearance of his son that he began his transformation from inhuman demon back into a 
humanized man. As Bayer notes, “Bruno’s father will at first desperately search for his son, then 
he will slowly understand that his own machinery of destruction has killed Bruno and, finally, he 
will guiltily acquiesce in his own death” (165). When Boyne writes that Father “didn’t really 
mind what they did to him anymore,” Bayer states that it meant he had “at last come to 
acknowledge his own culpability” (216; 166). I concur with Bayer’s analysis, as my 
interpretation is that Boyne meant for readers to see Bruno’s father come to terms with his own 
part in the monstrosity that stole his and many others’ sons. By having this reckoning, Bruno’s 
father fulfilled the role of turning a one-dimensional stereotype into a three-dimensional person. 
34 
 
On the other hand, there are some scholars who find this to be Boyne’s attempt to create 
sympathy for the Germans and draw away attention from the actual victims. Gray, who is one of 
these scholars, states that it is incomprehensible that such a tale should cause the audience to 
“sympathise with one of the key perpetrators of the Nazi regime and to feel upset over a German 
death rather than a Jewish death. It seems inconceivable that a book which is set in the Holocaust 
turns the murderers into the victims” (125). However, I contest that Boyne’s book is notable not 
for the sympathy it draws for the Germans but rather the unique way it brings justice and 
accountability to the perpetrator through a sort of direct karma. This, in turn, goes a long way in 
humanizing a notable Nazi, showing that not all Nazis were madmen like Hitler. To support this 
claim, we should look back to the same scholar, Gray, who states that “It is important for 
adolescents to get away from the mentality that all the perpetrators were psychologically 
deranged” (127). Gray even goes on to acquiesce that the work of art “does do an effective job in 
humanising the perpetrators and showing that despite the scale and barbarism of their crimes, 
they were, by and large, typical human beings conducting an untypical phenomenon” (126). We 
must not make the assumption that simply because these perpetrators were committing the 
inhumane that they were inhumane themselves.  
 Sadly, some children of Nazis, such as Gretel, found themselves more morally affected 
and open to suggestion than others, such as Bruno. While throughout the book, Bruno maintains 
his innocence and overall moral compass, Gretel, whom Bruno refers to as the “Hopeless Case,” 
finds herself swayed by those of influence within her daily life. Both Bruno and Gretel are 
subjected to Nazi teachings and propaganda. Moska?a proposes that “The indoctrination of 
Bruno and his sister, based on symbolism and using lies, half-truths and manipulation, is to shape 
the views and character of children in the spirit of Nazi ideology, in which the teacher Herr Liszt, 
35 
 
hired by the father, plays a special role” (109). This is true for Gretel but does not fully fit Bruno 
as he was never fully indoctrinated. Gretel’s age and comprehension renders her more 
susceptible to a significant influence. On the other hand, Bruno is at a critical age where he is on 
the cusp of losing his innocence and obliviousness but has not yet reached that point. Boyne has 
given the reader the two different types of Nazi children, those who fight for the same beliefs as 
their parents and those that remain blissfully unaware.  
 The “Hopeless Case,” an apt name for the girl who is formally known as Gretel, goes 
through some rather large changes throughout Bruno’s tale. At the beginning, Boyne writes of 
the bickering discord one would expect from a blossoming young teenager and her little brother. 
For instance, from Bruno’s perspective, we read that “She had some very unpleasant friends . . . 
who seemed to think that it was clever to make fun of him. . . . seemed to enjoy nothing more 
than torturing him” (Boyne 22). While one could read into this as her having a proclivity towards 
mean-spirited acts from the get-go, I believe that Boyne is only trying to establish the typical 
brother-sister dynamic. It is just a few pages later, however, that we see her penchant for 
upholding her father in an unrealistic light, as Bruno says that it was she “who always spoke of 
Father as if he could never do any wrong and never got angry” (Boyne 25). Though we know 
that both children adore their father, Boyne is marking the difference between an innocent child 
who believes in his father (Bruno) and one who adores her father to the point of believing as he 
believes and assuming he can do no wrong (Gretel). To understand Gretel, one should look to the 
words of Crasnianski, who states that “The closer to home something is, the harder it is to judge 
it objectively, as if recognizing the crimes of a father could irremediably sully the bonds of filial 
love” (196). In other words, children of Nazis who were close to their parents, such as Gretel, 
were often blinded by their love. 
36 
 
 Gretel’s character began to take on its own form during her conversation with Bruno 
during which they discussed the peculiarities of their new home. When faced with the 
strangeness that was Auschwitz, Boyne writes that Gretel “couldn’t find any words to express 
her surprise, and so she did the only sensible thing she could think of and closed it again” (32). 
As they further analyzed the state of the unfamiliar children outside of Bruno’s window, Gretel 
remarked that they were “‘Not the type of children I want to play with. . . . They look filthy’” 
(Boyne 37). This can be construed as a more literal expression of a Nazi-esque point of view as 
Nazis were commonly known for viewing the Jews as a filthy Other. Bruno, on the other hand, 
tried to explain their state of appearance by saying “‘maybe they don’t have any baths?’” (Boyne 
37). In the end, Gretel shivered and turned away to head back into her room, stating that  “‘The 
view is decidedly nicer from there,’” which is a sentiment expressed by many Germans during 
this time period (Boyne 38). Gretel’s reaction represents much of Germany in that she chose self-
preservation and the survival of her mental state rather than branching out into the uncomfortable 
dangers posed by “the other side of the fence” so to speak. 
 As time went on, Gretel became more and more of a representative of the stereotypical 
Nazi child. When Bruno confessed to having an “imaginary friend,” Gretel responded by telling 
him to not let Father find out because “‘It’s the first sign of madness’” (Boyne 159). Madness is 
another characteristic that the Nazi regime marked as an unacceptable form of Other. Gretel’s 
awareness of the fact that Father would not approve of something such as this brings to light her 
own knowledge and acceptance of Nazi ideals. Unfortunately, Gretel continued this acceptance, 
and soon to be promotion and adoration, of the Nazi regime. Within the latter half of the novel, 
Bruno notices that his sister “didn’t like the dolls anymore. . . . In their place she had hung up 
maps of Europe that Father had given her, and every day she put little pins into them and moved 
37 
 
the pins around constantly after consulting the daily newspaper” (Boyne 180). Moska?a notes 
that “The effects of the propaganda ideology of Herr Liszt [which] can be seen in Bruno’s 
sister’s room” (109-110). To further support this notion, we can look at Bruno, who states that  
“Herr Liszt was particularly pleased with her for doing this” (Boyne 188). Gretel has found her 
niche within the family, one that brings her closer to feeling as an adult, while simultaneously 
achieving the approval of those she deems worthy. Upon this alteration, her transformation from 
the innocence of childhood to the dangers of a teenager supporter of Nazism is complete.  
 Gretel’s Nazi ideals are further expressed when she explains to Bruno the notion of what 
it means to be a Jew. She explains that Jews are not to be mixed with non-Jews but are meant to 
be with their own kind, which is the purpose of Auschwitz. Although it is clear that she is not 
fully aware of what exactly it is about Jews that makes them so different from her own family, 
she is quite aware of their inferiority, as she responds to Bruno’s inquiry about their own 
Jewishness by stating, “‘you shouldn’t even say something like that’” (Boyne 182). Even though 
she cannot tell him what they are if not Jews, she knows that they are “opposite” (Boyne 183). 
Bruno, assuming that his family is the Other, asks, “‘Don’t the Jews like the Opposite then,’” to 
which Gretel responds, “‘No, it’s us who don’t like them’” (Boyne 183). Gretel feels her own 
superiority and the pressure to condemn those labeled as “less than.” Nazi propaganda has been 
used on Gretel to, as Moska?a phrases it, “build a sense of belonging and unity, but also the 
depersonalization and dehumanization of people on the other side of the fence” (111).  
However, despite all transformations, Gretel, like her father, suffered the loss of Bruno at 
the end of the book. Boyne writes that Gretel “spent a lot of time alone in her room crying, not 
because she had thrown her dolls away and not because she had left all her maps behind at Out-
With, but because she missed Bruno” (Boyne 215). By writing that she is not distraught over the 
38 
 
loss of her dolls or maps, Boyne is making is clear that Gretel has not made the connection 
between Nazism and her brother’s ill-fated death but is simply mourning his loss. While this can 
be construed as trying to separate the Nazis from their role in the death of Bruno and millions of 
other children, my argument is that it is meant to portray Gretel’s own stilted knowledge of what 
it means to be a Nazi, a problem that affected many of the Nazi youth.  
Bruno, on the other hand, sustained his youthful naivete despite his surroundings and 
teachings. Throughout Bruno’s short time at Auschwitz, he is exposed to a myriad of new ideas, 
people, and complex situations that he does not know how to handle. For one, his father and tutor 
engage him in Nazi propaganda, which he never fully grasps. Father, when explaining why they 
must accept their new home, says that Bruno must assume that he, as the father, knows best by 
using his relationship with his own father as an example. Father says, “‘I was just a child and 
didn’t know what was for the best’” (Boyne 49). In this statement, we can see the Nazi ideal that 
those who are considered the Nazi elite know what is best. Bruno’s father also tells him that 
“‘This is my work, important work. Important to our country. Important to the Fury. You’ll 
understand that some day’” (Boyne 48). He expects his son to blindly accept that Hitler knows 
what he should do, and that the work he does, however morally corrupt, is in the best interest of 
their country. In his words, “‘We are correcting history here’” (Boyne 144). However, despite 
everything that is said around him and to him, Bruno remains within his bubble. When Herr Liszt 
says that studying history is important because it has to do with “‘Your family’s heritage. The 
Fatherland. . . . About the great wrongs that have been done to you,’” Bruno has the naïve mental 
response of “He wasn’t entirely sure that Father had any land” (Boyne 98). Nationalism, which is 
what is being experienced by Bruno’s father, sister, tutor, and many other Germans at this time, 
is a form of ideology. Louis Althusser, in his essay Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses, 
39 
 
delves into two different theses about the functioning and structure of ideology. In the thesis that 
I believe applies here, Althusser notes that ideology “represents the imaginary relationship of 
individuals to their real conditions of existence” (693). This imaginary relationship is due to 
material alienation and oppressive individuals’ “domination and exploitation of the ‘people’ on a 
falsified representation of the world which they have imagined in order to enslave other minds 
by dominating their imaginations” (694). In other words, the Nazi elite were using their own 
fabricated depiction of the world to capture the minds of those that were oppressed, which were 
the struggling German people. However, Althusser goes on to explain that such exploited classes 
might find a way to resist the interpellation of  in the Ideological State Apparatuses by using the 
contradictions within the Ideological State Apparatuses or by seizing opposing positions in the 
Ideological State Apparatuses during struggle. Even though ideologies can enslave the mind, 
there are ways to overcome them, which gives hope for the future. One might say that Bruno 
represented the possibility of overcoming the dominating class as his mind was still pure despite 
the propaganda.  
Bruno is continually confused and at a loss. Pinfold takes this to mean that 
“Responsibility for the Holocaust is thus assigned primarily to the ‘obvious’ perpetrators, the 
Nazi elite, while the audience is allowed to align itself with Bruno’s naiveté, ignorance” (268). 
Contrary to popular opinion, this does not take away from the reality of what the Holocaust 
meant but allows the readers to “face the unspeakable as if encountered for the first time” (Bayer 
164). Readers need this innocence that Bruno provides to fully appreciate the story that is being 
told. Without said innocence, many readers would find themselves unable to take that step back 
required when looking at the situation objectively or from another standpoint. Experiencing the 
Holocaust, as Bruno does, brings it to life in a whole new and unnerving manner, which is 
40 
 
something we need to do any time we discuss something this infamous in order to see it all 
beyond our already jaded point of view.  
Bruno’s mother, as opposed to his Father and Herr Liszt, spends her time teaching him to 
be a moral human being. As mentioned before, she taught him how to speak respectfully to their 
maid. Bruno also notes, when noticing the children of Auschwitz, that he was “not wishing to 
judge them before he met them but going by appearances, which Mother had told him time and 
time again not to do” (Boyne 27). Although, it can be said that his mother is also a poor 
influence in the way that she promotes the common notion throughout Germany during this time 
to ignore what is happening, as she tells him, “‘War is not a fit subject for conversation’” (Boyne 
69). Bruno is surrounded by people who are either raising him to be a future Nazi or trying in 
vain to teach him how to be a decent human being while simultaneously asking him to ignore the 
darkness that surrounds him. If those you trust and love to raise you into who you are meant to 
be are sending mixed signals that mostly point toward the direction of darkness, it makes perfect 
sense that you would eventually head toward the darkness. While this was not the end result for 
Bruno, it was for young Gretel. In many ways, this is what happened to much of Germany’s 
youth during this time.  
Throughout Boyne’s novel, we are reading of an unimaginable place through the eyes of 
someone who is outwardly oblivious, yet subconsciously aware of an underlying tone of 
ominousness. Bruno is the boy who wants to tell the people crowding onto one train that his has 
plenty of room but does not because “something told him that if it didn’t make Mother angry, it 
would probably make Gretel furious” (Boyne 41). He is the curious bystander of an atrocious 
place that seems like “another city entirely” (Boyne 100). He contemplates “What exactly was 
the difference. . . who decided which people wore the striped pyjamas and which people wore 
41 
 
the uniforms” (Boyne 100). He is the morally confused child that is able to feel guilt for not 
defending his only friend yet is unable to explain to himself why he failed to do so in the first 
place. He is the sweet buddy that brings food to share with his friend, but eats it for himself 
along the way, not knowing what that food would have meant to one such as Shmuel. Bruno is 
the naïve boy who feels increasing frustration over the simple fact that he “had to wear trousers 
and shirts and ties and shoes that were too tight for him when Shmuel and his friends got to wear 
striped pyjamas all day long” (Boyne 151-152). Through this character, readers are able to 
experience the confusion of being exposed to something too monstrous to ever comprehend 
completely.  
It is this naivete that has been the discussion of various scholars since the release of both 
the book and movie. There are those, such as Gray, who feel that “His exposure to constant state 
antisemitism in his schooling would undoubtedly have shaped his world view and prevented the 
innocence and naivety which Boyne creates in the character of Bruno” (122). While Pinfold also 
feels frustration over the “implausibility of the nine-year-old son of a high-ranking Nazi officer 
not knowing who the ‘Fury’ is and apparently never having heard the word ‘Jew,’” she also 
makes note of the fact that his ignorance “is key to Boyne’s presentation of childhood 
‘innocence’ and ostensibly allows an equally ignorant child reader to discover the ‘[emotional] 
truth’ of the Holocaust along with Bruno” (258). Pinfold’s latter declaration coincides with that 
of Bayer and myself, in that I believe we needed that innocence to open up the possibility for 
humanizing someone that world has demonized. Blindly demonizing the wrongful party does 
nothing but cut our understanding in half.  
Furthermore, Bruno’s world was fabricated for him so that he could be unaware. Even as 
he was being indoctrinated with Nazi ideals, he was being shielded from his own reality. 
42 
 
Scholars Jessica Gildersleeve & Beata Batorowicz believe that this was “not about parents who 
present a false reality to their children, but parents who insist on a false reality for the nation-
state” (36). Germans fiercely relied on this false reality in order to uphold their ideals and 
assume the moral higher ground when, in fact, they were participating in the twentieth century’s 
greatest horror. Moska?a, who takes note of Bruno’s limited knowledge of both his father’s 
position and a lacking in information overall, states that  
The procedure of creating an alternative reality, typical of Nazi propaganda, is 
intended to provide the most idyllic image of the surrounding world and at the 
same time to curb its dangerous - in the eyes of the creators of the system - 
curiosity about the world. Thus, the Nazi system limits the boy's cognitive 
abilities. (107) 
This leaves us to wonder, was it really so unrealistic that Bruno be only as aware as he was? 
Within Crasnianski’s book, Children of the Nazis, there were many children of former Nazi 
elites, often around the same age as Bruno at the time of the war, who claimed to have little to no 
idea of the goings on within their own worlds. So, while the naïve narrative allows us to step 
away from our preconceived notions of the Nazis, it also allows us a certain awareness of the 
viewpoint of a prominent Nazi official’s young child. Bruno’s narrative puts readers in the 
position of only seeing the world as the Nazi ideal wants it to be portrayed. A glimpse into this 
world helps us to see how they lived with what they were doing and what was going on around 
them.  
 Additionally, Bruno’s innocent yet perceptive viewpoint allows us to see behind the veil 
to the place where someone who dehumanizes himself and others struggles to cope with his own 
humanity when he finds himself once again with those he loves. The humanity that these people 
43 
 
of inhumane actions somehow still possess is the key to prevention because if one is humane, it 
seems quite possible to stop him/her from being drawn into committing the inhumane. This is 
something to consider when coming to terms with the fact that even one’s friendly next-door 
neighbor could transform into a supporter of fanatical and outlandish ideals, especially should 
those ideals serve his/her need for self-preservation. The point here is that it can be anyone, and 
even though the blood-curdling uniform may seem to demand it, we cannot stereotype evil. In 
the words of Hannah Arendt, many of the Nazis were “neither perverted, nor sadistic . . . they 
were, and still are, terribly and terrifyingly normal” (276). Even the humane can do the 
inhumane, which is what the humanization of the Nazis is meant to teach us.  
 In conclusion, Boyne’s novel, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, should be seen as an 
eyeopener rather than an unrealistic portrayal of Nazi-sympathizing and German white-washing. 
Through the eyes of Bruno, readers get to learn what it meant to be a child of a Nazi, to love that 
Nazi, and to know that Nazi as someone other than a monster. We are also able to see the 
Holocaust through the eyes of one who is innocent yet born on the wrong side of history. Pinfold 
believes that  “The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas not only reflects outdated understandings of the 
Third Reich, but also risks presenting the perpetrators themselves as victims” (254). I, however, 
would argue that neither of her statements are true. Instead, we should look at Gerd Bayer, who 
states that the author “implies that his book should be read as an allegory. By inviting his readers 
not to rely on the actual truth-value of his text, he implicitly shifts the burden to the significance 
of his aesthetic representation of the Holocaust” (164). Later generations need to learn about the 
Holocaust from all points of view because, as Gray notes of Geoffrey Short’s analysis, Holocaust 
education can “promote antiracism, show students that their attitudes are culturally determined 
and to highlight the perils of turning a blind eye to evil” (123). Many people often assume that a 
44 
 
Nazi is a demonic madman, and that if we were faced with such a situation, we would be able to 
be on the “right” side of the fight. In reality, it is the height of hubris for us to assume our role in 
such a situation. Yet, we need books such as this to make us aware of what that evil can look like 
when it is being conducted by the ones we love most. Boyne creates a world in which we can 
escape our preconceived notions and experience another side of something we could never 
understand. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
45 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
The Dutch Wife: 
The Humanization of a Concentration Camp Official As Seen Through Multiple 
Perspectives  
 The Dutch Wife, written by Ellen Keith, a historical fiction novel set within both a World 
War II concentration camp and Dirty War Argentina, tells the story of a resistor turned prostitute 
and her affair with an SS official, as well as the story of a homosexual young man considered to 
be a political menace within tumultuous Argentina. While critical and scholarly reviews for this 
book are lacking as it was published fairly recently, in 2018, there is one review within 
Winnipeg’s Herizons that eloquently sums up the importance of this novel. Herizons’ critic, 
Mary Ann Moore, writes that  
While it is common to categorize such perpetrators of violent and despicable acts 
as ‘monsters,’ and to view them as ‘other,’ Keith shows us that it is human beings 
who torture other human beings. This is what is sobering and enlightening about 
The Dutch Wife. Keith uncomfortably writes in the human elements of a man who 
does monstrous things. (35) 
This chapter will follow up on the idea that we need books, such as this, to rid ourselves of the 
idea that it is not our fellow humans, but monsters that commit the crimes. I will explore how the 
humanization and inner thoughts of SS officer Karl Müller illuminate the struggles of common 
men as they are pressured into participating in the brutality they do not naturally condone, how 
the relationship between victim and perpetrator affects both parties, and how a Nazi officer’s 
past impacts his homosexual son during political warfare. 
 
 
 
Within Keith’s book, three different narratives are represented. One of these narratives is 
that of SS officer, Karl Müller, who has just become the Schutzhaftlagerführer (second-in-
command) of Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Karl’s narrative is noteworthy because it shows 
the inner thoughts of a humanized Nazi who develops a relationship with a camp prisoner. From 
the start, readers are aware of the fact that Karl is not what one would expect of a high-ranking 
SS officer. For one, he is a Nazi by obligation rather than choice as he is the son of a true Nazi 
believer. For another, he is initially squeamish about all things brutal and unseemly without any  
remarkable Nazi-esque prejudices against any particular group. Throughout the novel, Karl’s 
character evolves into someone who not only carries out the ideals of the typical Nazi, but 
occasionally, believes in these ideals himself. My argument is that by showing the inner 
struggles of this character, Keith is allowing readers to put themselves in the shoes of a once 
decent man as he both fights and gives in to his transformation into something resembling a 
stereotypical depiction of a Nazi. By doing so, readers are faced with the fact that, as James 
Waller, author of “Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing,” 
puts it, “Perpetrators of extraordinary evil are extraordinary only by what they have done, not by 
who they are” (18). What turned almost an entire nation into monsters was not their souls, as 
their souls would look much like that of anyone else, but what they did despite having a soul.  
 Karl’s transformation begins early within the story as he goes from an innocent and 
stable-minded man to just another Nazi drunk on the idea that he is a dominant force within 
some greater design. As he first enters the camp and takes it all in, there is the sense that he does 
not belong and is quite naïve. When told about the suicides committed by throwing one’s body 
into the electrical fence, he begins to ask why. Keith writes that Karl naively, “tried to reconcile 
this gruesome image with the cheerful, robust-looking men from the road sign on the way into 
47 
 
the camp” (22). Until this point, he had little idea of what was really going on within the gates of 
Nazi concentration camps as he had bought into the propaganda that all was fine and dandy 
within these murderous camps. Unfortunately, it does not take much for Karl to start to feel the 
captivating effect of being a Nazi in power. It is during this same initial tour of the camp that 
Karl “felt what it was like to be a man of power. He envisioned himself a great Bavarian lord of 
centuries past, surveying the construction of a grand estate. He had the sense that he was part of 
something important, witnessing the rise of a great empire” (Keith 23). Waller writes “We must 
recognize that some atrocities are performed because of the positive outcomes . . . they promise 
for the perpetrators’ self-interest. Extraordinary evil certainly may be brought into being when 
people do not examine the ramifications of choices made on the basis of rational self-interest” 
(191). Readers need to see what it is about the Nazi ideology that captures the average mind, 
such as the feeling that one is powerful and a part of something greater than him/herself, to 
understand how it can affect so many.  
 This duality of Karl’s character is something we see again and again throughout the story 
from both Karl’s and Marijke’s perspectives. Karl struggles to contain who he is naturally with 
who Nazism is turning him into. One of his first orders as Schutzhaftlagerführer is to paint the 
walls of the execution room, because he simply cannot stand the blood-stained walls, despite 
being told that it is pointless. The part of Karl that did not condone the actions of the Nazi 
ideology in its barbarity could not cope with the job to which he had resigned himself. He found 
himself unable to eat because “Each time he reached for a piece of bread . . . he thought of those 
dangling bodies” (Keith 97). To reassure himself, he “fingered the skull insignia on his hat and 
reminded himself that he believed” (97). We must look at the inner turmoil of Karl’s, not to 
excuse him, but to understand how any of us can live with and even partake in evil. The 
48 
 
journalist Ron Rosenbaum once said, there is a “perpetrator within [all of] us” (qtd. in Khapaeva 
89). Never is this more clear than when a perpetrator is humanized.  
 Karl’s psychological battle makes all the more clear that not all Nazis, even those of 
higher ranks, fit the cliched “madman” persona. Before Karl meets Marijke, he blocks out the 
horrors of his day by drinking and gambling with those he deems beneath him. To support this 
idea, we can look at the research discussed by Waller: 
evidence of perpetrators’ lack of overt psychopathology is found in reports of 
their early reactions to the human suffering caused by their extraordinary evil. A 
wide range of perpetrator accounts reveal that initial involvement in killing often 
led to nightmares, anxiety attacks, debilitating guilt, depression, gastrointestinal 
problems, temporary impotence, hallucinations, substance abuse, numerous 
bodily complaints, and many other signs of stress reactions. (69) 
Essentially, Karl is engaging in a psychological practice known as “doubling.” Doubling is a 
term which means to divide oneself into two functioning wholes, so that one of the half-selves 
can act as the whole self. This proves to be an insufficient psychological barrier as he still 
desperately seeks comfort elsewhere. Waller finds that “doubling is not sufficient to stand as the 
only, or even the central, psychological mechanism of even short-term adaptation” (118). He also 
notes that “Over time . . . fundamental internal alterations in the psychological framework of the 
perpetrators will increasingly diminish the need to compartmentalize. Harming victims can 
become ‘normal’ behavior” (Waller 120). Through the portrayal of Karl’s mental battle, Keith is 
illustrating the psychological metamorphosis that had to take place for a person to become a full-
fledged Nazi.  
49 
 
Karl continues in his battle to merge the ideology for which he is fighting with the 
morality of his ever-present conscience during his encounter with the prison vandal. Though Karl 
knows what is expected of him, he rationalizes doing the opposite, which is giving the young boy 
another chance rather than making an example of him. To keep his sanity, when not with 
Marijke, such as after his dismissal of the young vandal, he fantasizes about being home where 
“the artists [were] as valued as the art, and where the only orders he had to follow were his own” 
(Keith 113). Yet, he can never escape the pressure of his duty as a Nazi leader. When he is no 
longer able to escape his order to exact punishment, he thought of his father “the highly praised 
officer” and how the “Third Reich had risen on the backs of powerful, decisive men – not 
cowards” (Keith 114; 113). Karl, unable to make himself disobey the order anymore, is a perfect 
example of what Nazi ideology represents: the need to please one’s superiors. “Nazi ideology 
certainly capitalized on this legacy of strong authority orientation. For example, the first of 
twelve commandments listed in a primer used to indoctrinate Nazi youth was: ‘The leader is 
always right’” (Waller 182). In this moment, when Karl orders his men to follow through on the 
command to beat and punish the innocent, we see a man both too moral to inflict the pain 
himself and yet too cowardly to rebel against what is expected.  
One way that the Nazi ideology gained more believers was by portraying the hatred that 
it was filled with as something that was socially acceptable and even necessary for Germany’s 
revival. As time goes on and Karl is forced to become more invested in his role within the camp, 
readers see him try harder to make himself fully buy into the Nazi ideology. For example, when 
made to watch the film that depicts Jews as parasites, he twists the notion around in his brain to 
fit into how he sees the world. There is a bit of foreshadowing as he ponders the fact that 
“German officials in Argentina were doing a particularly good job of drumming up Nazi 
50 
 
support” (Keith 142). By Karl’s narrative speaking of the fact that most countries, America 
included, were turning away Jewish people, not only is the character finding an excuse for his 
country’s behavior, but the blatant antisemitism (and therefore evil) we are all capable of is 
brought to light. He goes on to say what many Germans of this time were believing: “wasn’t it 
only natural for them to protect the very foundation of the Reich. . . . to save their race from 
turmoil and decay?” (Keith 142). Karl continues this path of rationalization as he recalls World 
War I, after which, “they had treated Germans like the only aggressors. . . . robbed them of good 
men and then left them to starve” (Keith 143). Readers even see Karl buying into the propaganda 
that “the Fuhrer had done everything he could to prevent another clash of nations” (Keith 143). 
To further convince himself, he maintains that “The Fuhrer needed all of them to play their part . 
. . in restoring the Nordic spirit to its former glory” (Keith 143). In just these two pages, Keith 
illuminates the way in which many ordinary people allowed themselves to be fooled not only by 
the grotesque propaganda that gave them a scapegoat, but by the appeal that they were needed in 
the fight for their people, their country, their future. Let us look at Waller, once again, who 
eloquently states  
. . . the perception of extraordinary evil is made personally and socially acceptable 
by portraying it as serving socially worthy for moral purposes. Perpetrators may 
believe this rationalization to such an extent that their evil is not only morally 
justifiable but becomes an outright moral imperative. Perpetrators can then justify 
their evil as essential to their own self-defense – to protect the cherished values of 
their community, fight ruthless oppressors, preserve peace and stability, save 
humanity from subjugation, or honor their national commitments. (186) 
51 
 
The power of something being socially acceptable cannot be overlooked, nor should the fact that 
as soon as an influential person/group declares something to be socially acceptable, the many 
will easily fall in line.  
 The most monumental moment of Karl’s inevitable transformation is when he forced 
himself to not only accept the death and inhumane treatment that surrounded him, but to watch 
and eventually make the calls for death and inhumanity himself. It is through the power of words 
that he is able to make this transformation. One notable aspect of this instance (and ones to 
follow) is it focuses on homosexuals, who both his superiors and his father wish him to abhor. At 
first, Karl is about to let them off the hook, at which point the prisoners show relief, something 
that makes Karl “bristle” because he felt it meant that “They took him for spineless” (Keith 147). 
The loss of this perceived power results in his next action, as Keith writes, “The fear returned to 
their eyes, driving him on. They were nothing but weaklings, pansies. Degenerates against 
society, against science” (147). Karl later reminded himself of Himmler’s idea that the Jews were 
pests but “the pink triangles were eating away at the German race from the inside out” (Keith 
189). As Harry Ooosterhuis points out in his essay “Medicine, Male Bonding and Homosexuality 
in Nazi Germany,”  
Nazis justified their regulations on the basis of population policies. They were 
apprehensive at the appearance and spread of homosexuality because it would 
result in larger numbers of Germans no longer procreating. . . . sexuality above all 
served propagation, population expansion, biological health and the purity of the 
so-called ‘Aryan’ race. (187) 
So, by rationalizing their inferiority with science and relying on his power, Karl starts to 
transform in the eyes of the reader. From there, a more brutal guard says, “‘Homosexuality is 
52 
 
polluting the Reich, impeding the Aryan race,’” which if anything, just spurs on Karl’s 
realization that he must allow these prisoners to be punished. For the first time, Karl makes 
himself watch the brutality, repeating to himself “Dirty fags. Those damn, filthy fags” (Keith 
147). When the beating was done, Karl does the most inhumane thing yet, and orders them to 
their deaths. It is in this instance that we see how Karl must use what has been taught about 
homosexuals as a mantra in his head so that he may do what is expected of him, something that 
goes against his nature. Why do we need to see this? In the words of Waller, “Activities can take 
on very different appearances depending on what they are called. Perpetrators facilitate moral 
disengagement by using euphemistic language to make their extraordinary evil respectable and, 
in part, to reduce their personal responsibility for it” (188). Within these few paragraphs, Keith is 
depicting the strength of words.  
 A notable aspect about reading the thoughts of an average man turned Nazi is that the 
audience is able to see how that person assuages his guilt with a mixture of self-assurance and 
avoidance, something that ultimately costs him his humanity and sanity. When passing the 
balcony where Hitler himself made speeches “promising to make Germany great again,” Karl 
could only think of the bars of the balcony and “the ragged faces of dying men behind them” 
(Keith 170). While he was having his moment of doubt, he thought of his beloved Marijke, who 
could both be someone to ease his mind and to remind him, “of the danger in thinking with your 
heart instead of your head” (Keith 171). Although, it seems that Karl would love to be able to get 
out of his head, which is seen when Keith writes, “Karl chewed slowly and drank plenty, 
avoiding thoughts of the man he’d seen throw himself into the electric fence” (171). We are not 
meant to see Karl’s battle between guilt and self-assurance that he was doing the right thing as 
53 
 
exculpatory but as our own awareness that extraordinary evil does not come naturally and not 
without a price.  
  Amos Elon, in his introduction to Hannah Arendt’s book, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A 
Report on the Banality of Evil, states “Evil comes from a failure to think. It defies thought for as 
soon as thought tries to engage itself with evil and examine the premises and principles from 
which is originates, it is frustrated because it finds nothing there. That is the banality of evil” 
(xiv). Karl is the perfect example of this as his former self and current relationship make it 
impossible for him to fully turn off his thoughts, which is why, even as his transformation 
continues, he can never hide from the reality of the situation that surrounds him. By this, I mean 
to say that Karl cannot fully complete the transformation because he cannot stop his conscience 
from trying to make sense of it all. One moment he is condemning Marijke’s husband to a life of 
sterility due to an uncontrollable jealousy and misguided perception of ownership, and in the 
next, he is favorably comparing himself to the brutish guards he believes himself to be superior 
to. It should be noted that these same brutal guards had been having their own struggles with 
their actions as can be seen in the way that they too drank, gambled, and did what they could to 
survive their surroundings. On this roller coaster morality ride, he has moments of clarity in 
which he admits their coming defeat and the realization that there would be no sympathy from 
the Americans once “they grasped what they were doing at Buchenwald” followed by moments 
of typical Nazi-esque denial in which he feels he must “stay strong, stay dedicated. . . . It was his 
duty, to his family, to his people. The Wehrmacht had insurmountable power. . . . Hitler would 
lead the Reich to a magnificent victory (Keith 187-188). Unfortunately for Karl, no matter what 
he tells himself, he is haunted by the death and inhumanity that pervade the camp. As Keith so 
perceptively writes, “It took a man with an iron stomach to handle a camp like Auschwitz” (211). 
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It seems to me that Karl’s issue is that he continues to think when he must stop all thought 
should he wish to fulfill his role as a “Bavarian lord.” 
 Perpetrators often find solace in the notion that what they are doing is for the greater 
good. As defeat becomes more imminent and Karl’s mind becomes more unhinged, he relies on 
this idea more and more. Following the bombing that took place at the camp, Karl is irrational in 
his thinking. He expects others, even victims, to feel as he does after the bombing of the camp. 
For instance, when he is passing joyful prisoners, he thinks “Had they no respect for even their 
own dead” (Keith 219). This pattern of thinking is continued as he reaches Marijke, only to find 
her in high spirits herself. He lectures her on the great losses suffered by the German people 
when he says, “‘Men with families were killed, even some of their children. . . . Innocent, good 
German children’” (Keith 221). If the reader has not yet noticed, it becomes increasingly clear at 
this moment that Karl’s state of mind is up for question. Not to say that he is a madman but that 
his inner battle of balancing of evil and morality has started to take a toll. He even begins to see 
his beloved Marijke as a “pathetic lapdog” whom he has spoiled too much. Thinking back to the 
Nazi-adored Goebbels, he tells himself that “Some people were born to lead. Others were weak 
and couldn’t see past the end of their noses. They’d drag down society if they were given free 
rein. That was why Germany needed the camps” (Keith 221-222). Karl was trying with all his 
might to make sense of the nonsensical, which is explained by Waller’s assessment that “People 
do not ordinarily engage in extraordinary evil until they have justified to themselves the morality 
of their actions” (186). When faced with his own culpability, Karl begins to think like a true 
Nazi, one indoctrinated with the lie that what they are doing is saving their country from less-
than-human brutes.  
55 
 
 Ideologies that are as strong in power and as intense in their ideals as Nazism can change 
the mindset of even the meekest of men. When an ideology’s hatred is paired with paranoia, it 
can spell disaster, which is something Hitler fed off of as he created scapegoats for the 
downtrodden Germans. For example, as Karl’s sanity continues to unravel, he begins to suspect 
the prisoners of sabotage at every turn. It is this paranoia that pushes Karl to his next step, the 
cruelest action of all. Karl initiates and takes pleasure in giving the order for three homosexual 
men to be beaten. “With each kick, each cry of pain, Karl felt his nerves settling, felt himself 
growing stronger. They weren’t defeated, not yet. They wouldn’t let their enemies win” (Keith 
248). When called out by Marijke for his inhumanity, he retaliates by calling her a “‘Self-
righteous whore,’” telling himself that he “couldn’t waste the night defending himself to some 
prisoner, some irrational woman. It was beyond her capacity to examine reality like a man, like a 
responsible citizen of a powerful nation” (Keith 249-250). When thinking about Karl’s idea that 
Germany is a powerful nation, we can look to Waller’s theory that “There seems to be something 
about the nature of the collective . . . that brings out our worst tendencies” (29). I think Karl is 
the perfect example of what being a part of an organized and corrupt group can do to a person’s 
state of mind. To support this theory, let us look at research by Gustave Le Bon, which contends 
that “By the mere fact that he forms part of an organized crowd, a man descends several rungs in 
the ladder of civilization. Isolated, he may be a cultivated individual: in a crowd, he is a 
barbarian – that is, a creature acting by instinct” (12). Nazis who may have once been average, 
and even moral, men allowed an organized and destructive ideology to reduce them to their base 
instincts, which is what Keith portrays for us through Karl’s character.  
Something that I find essential in the humanization of Karl’s character is his moments of 
moral clarity. Waller believes that “it is not the nature of the collective that limits our possibility 
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for cooperative, caring, nonviolent relations; it is the nature of the individuals that make up the 
collective” (36). If we are to assume that this is correct, we can use Karl’s underlying morality to 
support the idea that the nature of individuals can be used for good rather than evil if people 
would only make themselves more aware of their own capabilities, both negative and positive. 
For instance, even as Karl tries to rationalize the imprisonment of so many people, he thinks of 
Marijke, who “didn’t deserve to be torn from her home” (Keith 253). This gives hope that one 
can step outside of the influence of even the most intoxicating ideology. To further support this 
notion, let us look at Karl’s next thought process: “[h]e began to doubt his understanding of the 
Reich. Were the Allies right to hate him? Was he supporting a nation, a dream for the resurgence 
of the German people, or supporting one man’s belief?” (Keith 254). He settles on the notion that 
Marijke was right all along, and “surely that didn’t create enough reason to despise them, to take 
their lives” (Keith 255). In humanizing Karl, Keith does not wipe him or Germany free of guilt, 
but rather shows humanity’s possibilities to resist the interpellation of such ideologies as Nazism.  
One of Karl’s most humane moments comes when he realizes that “he couldn’t ignore the weight 
of the lives in his hands. . . . that they were sending these men, so close to freedom to certain 
death. . . . he asked himself whom they were taking these men away from. . . . he started to 
understand how much blood was on his hands” (290; 310). Karl’s realization is not meant to 
inspire thoughts of redemption for those responsible for massacres. Nevertheless, we are meant 
to study Karl, and other Nazis like him, because, as Tinnike Everart says within her thesis, “The 
perpetrator’s voice cannot be excluded from the equation. On the contrary, understanding evil 
begins with recognizing the perpetrator in a shared human sphere” (45). We cannot simply 
ignore the humanity in the evil just as we cannot ignore the evil in the humanity.  
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 In continuing with the destruction of one-dimensional prejudices, Keith depicts a Nazi in 
love with his victim. One of the most humane and relatable aspects of Karl’s character is his 
adoration for the lovely Marijke. While it is apparent that he loves the idea of her more than the 
actual woman, as he seems incapable of truly separating his Nazi side from his moral side, his 
fascination and (mostly) humane treatment of her make him more relatable to the audience. This 
portrayal of doomed romance between victim and perpetrator is not meant to endear the reader 
towards Karl, but rather to highlight the fact that even the monstrous can be overtaken by their 
heart’s desire. The unfortunate truth of the matter is that “a purely evil person is just as much an 
artificial construct as a person who is purely good” (Waller 18). While this ruins our childhood 
ideals of being able to categorically separate good from evil, it does make us more aware of our 
own possible demise.  
The relationship between Karl and Marijke is significant because it is a merging of the 
victim and perpetrator. Marijke proved to be the fiery distraction Karl needed from the daily 
horrors to which he subjected others. Karl’s  narrative also makes it clear that he sees a 
distinction between how he reacts to her foul mouth and how another Nazi official would, which 
once again shows Karl’s idea that he is somehow different from the rest. In this way, he is able to 
keep up the illusion that he is somehow more dignified than others of his kind. While this may 
seem unfortunate at first glance, I theorize that it is actually important in keeping his morality in 
mind. In continuing with this theory, we can look at the way Karl relished the fact that Marijke 
“was the first prisoner at camp who treated him like a regular person instead of someone to fear” 
(Keith 104). By treating him like a normal person, Marijke was keeping his humanity alive. 
Their relationship portrayed for the reader how easily the line between evil and good can be 
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blurred, as well as emphasizing the need to remind each other of the humanity that we sometimes 
bury within ourselves. 
As their relationship progressed, Marijke would become more of a crutch for Karl, 
serving both as his distraction and his moral compass, something he simultaneously admired and 
abhorred. What often seems to escape Karl’s mind is that she is not there (initially at least) out of 
love for him, nor is his presence, gifts, etc. some kind of favor to her, but rather she is there as a 
prisoner. Even though she was seen as a prostitute, a more realistic term would be sexual slave. 
As academic researcher Katarzyna Person phrases it “What was referred to at the time as 
prostitution would now be defined as sexual slavery or a form of sexual violence” (107). This 
begs the question, was it his moral side that fell for her or his Nazi side? I would argue that their 
relationship is just another way for Keith to highlight both the good and evil in Karl.  
It seems to me that even though Marijke’s character serves the purpose of keeping Karl 
from completely transforming into an inhumane monster, as well as, demonstrating how there is 
good and bad within even the best and worst of us, there is another purpose to their relationship. 
Waller writes of a shadow self, which is used to describe “the negative emotions and behaviors 
that lie concealed just beneath our surface, masked by our more proper selves” (113). Karl tries 
to hide this shadow self from Marijke, showing her only his proper self so as to win her over, yet 
it does not always work out quite this way. Unfortunately, the influence of the Nazi ideology 
does, at time, overtake Karl’s actions and manner of thinking. When Marijke comes across Karl 
ordering the ruthless attack against the group of homosexual prisoners, his mask has been shed 
for them both. Karl, filled with anger and venom, tells himself that “work was work and she 
failed to grasp that,” which is a common phrase used by Nazis unwilling to take on the 
responsibility for the evil they have inflicted (Keith 249). So, with this in mind, I assert that 
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Keith is using the love affair between Marijke and Karl as a means to show how he is avoiding 
facing that in which he is partaking. He is drowning himself in her and the idea that he is still the 
moral person of before despite his actions to the contrary.  
 Like the other books discussed within this thesis, Keith’s novel has a parental theme 
represented throughout the book, which is essential in Karl’s narrative as it gives background 
information that explains how someone unsure of Nazi ideals becomes a high-ranking official 
within the Nazi regime. Through Karl’s narrative, the reader experiences the thoughts of one 
who has struggled but never quite measured up to his father’s expectations, at least, not until he 
becomes the Nazi his dad envisions. Karl does everything from breaking off his engagement to 
becoming the second-in-command at a concentration camp in his efforts to please his father. Karl 
had his suspicions that the only reason he had gotten the job was because of his father, and “If it 
hadn’t been for his age and declining health, his father might have fought for such a position 
himself. As a fellow veteran, Wilhelm Müller spoke of the Führer like a comrade, a man who 
understood him” (Keith 61). The elder Müller was a damaged war veteran, much like Karl 
himself turned out to be years later. Growing up, Karl’s mother would try to assure him that the 
love was there just that “the war had damaged him in ways they couldn’t see,” and Karl would 
find himself “wondering what he’d done wrong, forging plans for ways to please his father” 
(Keith 61-62). His father continued to teach him ideals that became the pillar of the Nazi regime. 
For instance, he once said, “‘Being weak or sickly is not a condition . . . but rather a sign of 
indolence and a lack of character’” (Keith 62). Significantly, the Müller family was “among the 
first to place their trust” in Hitler (62). Families like Karl’s had seen their country crumbling 
before them, and  
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The National Socialists vowed to. . . . take back what had been swindled by the 
Jews, the Treaty of Versailles. They would pull Germans from the sinkhole of 
humiliating defeat and economic weakness. The Reich would be great again, 
powerful among nations. A fresh start for everyone. (63) 
Keith goes on to say that with all these hopes, Karl also hoped that should the National Socialists 
prevail, “his father might also soften, return to how he’d been before the war, capable of warmth 
and affection” (63). Keith makes it possible for the reader to see how one, such as Karl, could be 
swept away in the promises offered by Hitler and his followers. Though Karl had lost his father’s 
respect when quitting the Olympics, he found a way to regain his father’s confidence by joining 
the SS. Even as Karl “found himself grappling with the party’s views on race and the Final 
Solution” he continued on, because “his father had left him with such a feeling of pride and 
responsibility that he pushed the doubts away” (Keith 64). He even got a letter from his father 
that said to “expect great things from this man [Hitler]. . . . He’s the answer Germany has been 
searching for” (Keith 140). One can imagine how impactful the words of the man Karl most 
respected and wanted to please could be for him. Essayist Christopher R. Browning once wrote 
that “Explaining is not excusing; understanding is not forgiving. . . . Not trying to understand the 
perpetrators in human terms would make impossible not only this study but any history of 
Holocaust perpetrators that sought to go beyond one-dimensional caricature” (99). Trying to 
understand the influences that led a seemingly mild-mannered human being down the path of 
murder and destruction is not wrong, but rather crucial for our comprehension of our own race’s 
capabilities. 
In further examination of why the parental relationship is important within Karl’s 
narrative, we must look at how it inspired the hatred within him. Karl was not one to 
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discriminate, as we learned from his past friendship with the young Jewish boy. It was his father 
who first taught him how to hate, and in particular, to hate homosexuals. The significance in 
Karl’s father teaching him to hate this group is that it played a part in how he mentally reassured 
himself when engaging in barbaric actions against homosexuals within the camp. During Karl’s 
childhood, Mr. Müller insisted that Karl report a fellow friend who was homosexual, to which 
Karl argued that he could not betray a friend. To squash these protests, his father replied, 
“‘Children have friends; men have comrades. Don’t let some womanish emotions distract you 
from your duty’” (Keith 144). It was at that moment, that Karl lost the part of him that was moral 
and innocent enough to fight back against such an injustice. In humanizing Karl and giving the 
reader this background information, Keith is doing nothing wrong because “to offer a 
psychological explanation for the atrocities committed by perpetrators is not to forgive, justify, 
or condone their behaviors” (Waller 275). Rather, she is giving context to a situation 
incomprehensible to many.  
 In Marijke, the reader finds a character whose misguided affection for a Nazi exemplify 
the duality in humanity. Marijke is a married victim of Nazi Germany faced with the issue of 
loving both her husband and the man whom she is meant to hate. Within this character, the 
reader is able to experience what it is to care for both the guiltless and the guilty by 
acknowledging the good in the guilty. Marijke’s character can see both parts of Karl. We, as the 
audience, need characters like this when studying or learning about the psychology of evil and 
those who commit it because it awakens us to the fact that evil is banal and in every one of us. 
Waller, when reminiscing over Hannah Arendt’s analysis of Eichmann writes that “The banality 
of Eichmann’s evil leaves us with the real possibility that the potential for committing 
extraordinary evil exists in each of us” (102). While it would be easy to see the Nazis as an 
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unlovable evil that is separate from ourselves, that does nothing but cut us off from the 
possibility of truly seeing our own potential for evilness.  
If Nazis were as inherently inhuman, as stereotypes would have us believe, it would not 
make sense for them to also be loved ones. Marijke’s infatuation with Karl is used to show the 
reader how the Nazis were simply men and women who were just as easily loved as they were 
hated. For example, early on in the book, Marijke says, “‘The heart of a Nazi must be no bigger 
than a toad’s’” (Keith 44). Yet, it is in Karl’s heart that she finds a dose of humanity to cling onto 
in her fight to survive her circumstances. Through Karl, she finds herself feeling the conflictions 
of one who can see that humanity is rarely so easily categorized into the roles of good or evil. 
Marijke compared Karl to the other prisoners, and in this, readers get an even stronger sense of 
the humanity that rolled off Karl, as she says, “None of the other men had shown any concern for 
me . . . I didn’t know what to make of this” (Keith 87). Though Karl was still a Nazi, and 
Marijke “had trouble relaxing in his arms,” it is worth noting that she thought of the “gentleness 
in his touch” and his talk of music, which left her with “the inapt notion of a refined man” (Keith 
89-90). Marijke’s narrative goes a long way in breaking the one-dimensional mold as she could 
not help but to comment that “‘He wasn’t what you would expect’” (Keith 91). Could one who is 
purely evil, as many would expect of a Nazi, be considered “refined” by one whom he enslaves? 
Despite the obvious dysfunction of their relationship, I would argue that Marijke would not have 
been able to find humanity within Karl had he truly been the one-dimensional depiction of a 
Nazi.  
 Duality within a perpetrator can affect others’ perceptions of them. Marijke finds herself 
thinking that “Perhaps the life of a Nazi was also lonely” (Keith 129). My evaluation is that this 
is not meant to instill feelings of sympathy for the Nazi in question, but to show how a close 
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relationship with a Nazi who has the duality found in many of those who commit evil can affect 
the victimized. She even notes that his “flinty stare and rigid movements” would eventually 
“soften, the warmth returning to his eyes. The gentleness that followed felt like it belonged to a 
different man, someone he’d buried within” (Keith 129-130). It is important to note that even as 
she found herself acknowledging these very humane traits, she still, at this point in the story, felt 
that “no one who could tear apart a family or kill the innocent deserved to be treated as an 
ordinary man” (Keith 130). Through these unique perceptions of a Nazi, the audience is forced to 
notice how a person can both believe themselves to be moral and yet commit the unthinkable. 
Through Marijke, Keith is able to portray how such duality can affect the minds of others, 
particularly, those who find themselves caring for the perpetrators.  
 In reading of Marijke’s feelings for the one who is responsible for such evil, the audience 
is being exposed not only to the duality of Karl, but the duality of Marijke. In this realization, it 
all comes full circle that both good and evil are in us all. The fact that she knows she is capable 
of becoming something less than who she idealized herself to be shows the capability in all of 
the human race of turning to less-than-moral impulses. She continues to struggle with this idea 
that she feels something for someone she knows is a part of the world’s evil, as Marijke says, “If 
I admitted to having some sort of feelings for Karl, would that mean I accepted what he had done 
as part of the SS? I wished there was a way to separate one version of him from the other” (Keith 
206). I find this to be one of the most telling lines in the book as it portrays for the reader the real 
possibility of loving even those who commit evil, and by extension, becoming a complicit part of 
it, which was the case for much of Germany at this time.  
 Marijke, like many Germans of this time, found herself complicit in horrors of which she 
had no part simply by allowing herself to feel something for one who condoned and even 
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committed such acts. One of these abhorrent acts was the mistreatment of homosexuals. While it 
is known, as scholar Beverley Chalmers notes, that the brothels were meant to serve “as 
treatment for homosexuality among male prisoners,” there were also beatings and other medical 
procedures that took place when said brothels failed to “cure” homosexual men (186). Marijke 
witnessed such cruelty taking place at the hands of the Nazi she thought might be different. 
When she confronted Karl, he gave every excuse in the book that one would expect of a Nazi 
trying to justify his actions 
We have to control the spread of that disease before it takes over the nation. . . . 
We’re fixing them, my dear. It’s the best thing for them, for everyone. . . . I don’t 
do it myself, Marijke. I’m not a killer. . . . I do what’s best for my people. . . 
Germany is my country. I’m not ashamed of that. . . . I have no choice. (244-245) 
Marijke responds by saying, “‘A nation of executioners. . . . Are you afraid of the truth? Are you 
scared to admit that you’re like all the others?. . . . you pretend you’re better than them, but 
you’re just as cold and bloodthirsty’” (Keith 245). In the words of Marijke, “I realized the grave 
risk I took in treating him like any other lover” (Keith 245). Keith does a phenomenal job of both 
humanizing this Nazi and showing how he rationalizes his unforgivable actions. By having 
Marijke have such an intense inner struggle about her feelings towards Karl, Keith is portraying 
for the reader the complexity of human emotion and one of the ways so many people allowed 
themselves, in a way, to be complicit.  
 Hannah Arendt, in her explanation for how ideologies such as Nazism are able to prevail, 
argued that “the essence of totalitarian government, and perhaps the nature of every bureaucracy, 
is to make functionaries and mere cogs in the administrative machinery out of men, and thus to 
dehumanize them” (289). Marijke and Karl both rely on this notion as an excuse for why Karl 
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acted as he did, while still living with the hope that he truly was humane underneath it all. 
Marijke says to Sophia that “‘Karl is different. He barely believes in the Reich. . . . he wasn’t 
beating them himself. What if he was just following orders? He would be in just as much trouble 
if he tried to defy the Kommandant’” (Keith 273). Yet she knew that “Nobody but a fool would 
look at Mr. Hyde and see only Dr. Jekyll” (Keith 273). I think it is critical that we pay attention 
to the wording here as Marijke uses the word “only” to insinuate that one should acknowledge 
both sides of the person. While bureaucracy can be used as one of many explanations for how an 
average Joe can rationalize doing the unfathomable, it does not mean that we should look past 
the fact that the person finds it within him/herself to do such things. I propose that it is both the 
influence of bureaucracy and the nature of humanity to be both evil and virtuous that allow for 
such atrocities to take place. Keeping that in mind, we need to humanize men like Karl and 
relationships between the innocent and guilty so as to make ourselves aware of not only the 
pitfalls of bureaucracy but the dangers of our own humanity. 
 Marijke’s internal dialogue following her separation from Karl is essential because it 
highlights the roller coaster that is humanity. On the one hand, she fears for his future as a former 
soldier on the wrong side of history. This should not encourage a forgiveness, per say, but the 
acknowledgment that one who does the abhorrent can still be a person that another feels empathy 
for, no matter how irrational. Our acknowledgment of this can bring us that much closer to 
moving past our black-and-white outlook, which hinders us from ever truly comprehending this 
time in history. On the other hand, she is left with “the nagging worry that, in some small way, I 
was also complicit, for who could possibly feel any affection toward a Nazi” (331). We should 
note the moments of clarity Marijke has as it gives hope for humanity’s future. Her internal 
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battle with morality shows that we, as humans, can have both the light and dark in us and let the 
light prevail.  
Readers are meant to feel with Marijke the struggle of coming away from the world in 
which Marijke was in love with not only another man, but a man who was the enemy. She is 
fighting to come to terms with the fact that even as she feels free to again hate those that did this 
to them, she still misses Karl. In Marijke’s struggle, the audience is shown what it means to love 
someone who is the perfect representative of both the moral and immoral that comprises 
humanity, but also how a relationship between a victim and perpetrator can affect the victim 
even after all is said and done.  
 The fact that Marijke’s story is not full of innocence and victimizing also adds to the 
theme of duality in humanity. Though she is still fighting internally to forget both the memory of 
and her feelings for Karl, Marijke also finds herself fighting to hide and forget the way in which 
she survived. The victimized often had to do things that were outside of their moral norm just to 
survive, and in this, we see the darker side of those considered to be on the “right” side of 
history. In order to humanize the Nazi of this tale, Keith also had to humanize the victim.  
The feeling of shame and desperate need to hide how she survived pervades her mind. Marijke is 
all too aware that her scars are not going to show through in the ways of other camp survivors. 
Nomi Levenkorn found within her research that “Survivors' feeling of shame and their sense of 
guilt that they survived, especially if they survived through the use of their sexuality, created a 
veil of silence on the topic that lasted for many years before being breached” (27). Through 
Marijke’s shame, readers are able to understand how she had to dehumanize herself in order to 
survive. Keith’s humanization of a Nazi combined with her portrayal of how the victims had to 
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dehumanize themselves in order to survive further supports my argument that every human is 
capable of the unimaginable when given the right circumstances.  
To make it all too clear where she would stand in society if others knew of her betrayal, 
Marijke witnesses the suffering of a Moffenhoer, one who is labeled as a “Traitor. Dirty, filthy, 
moffen whore” (Keith 373). Ann Mah, in her study of what happened to female collaborators 
post-war, notes that Moffenhoer accused of “‘horizontal collaboration’ — sleeping with the 
enemy — . . . were targeted by vigilantes and publicly humiliated . . . heads were shaved, they 
were stripped half-naked, smeared with tar, paraded through towns and taunted, stoned, kicked, 
beaten, spat upon and sometimes even killed” (2018). One can only imagine the fear that lived 
within Marijke, not only for feeling something for one who was a part of the destruction of so 
many, but knowing what others thought of someone who could feel anything other than hate for 
such a person. Yet this begs the question, could she have ever felt anything but hatred towards 
him had he not been more than just a monster? The answer is in the realization that humans 
rarely ever singularly fit into the categories of good/evil or innocent/guilty. Marijke’s character 
and her conflicted feelings towards Karl highlight this point. Waller asserts that  
We would rather maintain that extraordinary individuals, very much unlike you 
and me, commit extraordinary evil. We can then distance us from them and rest in 
the reassurance that extraordinary evil cannot be duplicated in ‘ordinary’ groups 
or cultures or in individuals with seemingly ‘normal’ human capacities. (102) 
Yet, if this were the case, not only would such evil not be produced in such massive numbers, 
but these people would be unlovable. The fact that Marijke could have had any semblance of 
feeling for Karl, whether it was influenced by a sort of Stockholm Syndrome or not (which is a 
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debatable analysis), shows that humanity is not so one-dimensional as the labels of good and evil 
would have us assume.  
To further support the exploration of the Nazi psyche, we can look to Luciano, a  
character that serves the purpose of portraying for the audience the ripple effect Nazi ideology 
can have on the subsequent generations and sympathizing nations. Luciano’s story takes place in 
Argentina during the time of the Dirty War. Like Germany, the country of “Argentina . . . had 
been wounded so many times, its gashes so deep, that time could no longer guarantee recovery” 
(322). As a result, Argentina was “no longer a country of people but a fighting, snapping, 
growling pack of beasts” (Keith 301). Erin Blakemore, journalist for History.com, writes the 
Argentinian government would whisk “away political dissidents and people it suspected of being 
aligned with leftist, socialist or social justice causes and incarcerating, torturing and murdering 
them,” resulting in the deaths of an estimated thirty thousand people (2019). Luciano was one of 
these unfortunate people. Following World War II, Argentina was the country to which Karl fled 
because it was a hiding ground for former Nazis, as the country itself was sympathetic towards 
their ideology. By the time of his son, Luciano’s, adult years, the country had become a corrupt 
dictatorship itself, much like Nazi Germany. In seeing how Argentina followed in the footsteps 
of Germany through the eyes of a Nazi offspring, we are able to see what can happen should we 
continue to refuse to study past mistakes. Waller perceptively acknowledges the face that “the 
persistence of inhumanity in human affairs in incontrovertible,” yet he argues that we must 
accept our limits as a species if we ever hope to “structure a society in which the exercise of 
human evil is lessened” (278). I believe, as Waller does, that  
It is important to understand the conditions under which we can be transformed 
into killing machines. . . . If we can understand more accurately how ordinary 
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people come to commit extraordinary evil, there is at least a faint glimmer of hope 
that we all may, ultimately, be delivered from extraordinary evil. (278-279) 
While it is clear that we have little hope of ever becoming a truly peaceful world, we can hope 
to, at the very least, rid our society of the extraordinary evil that allows such brutalities to 
happen.  
Keith clearly features the connection between 1970s’ Argentina and Nazi Germany. The 
Argentinian government’s tactics remind the reader of that of Hitler’s Germany from the 
beginning of Luciano’s story, when he is forcibly taken away in the night with no idea of where 
he is going. During his time of imprisonment, Luciano, much like the captives within Nazi 
concentration camps, is tortured for his audacity of speaking out against the government. Like 
Marijke, Luciano finds himself offering up his services as a collaborator just to ensure his own 
survival. In this action, Keith is once again drawing attention to the fact that extreme 
circumstances can easily influence even the most noble minded.  
 In the many ways that Keith shows how the two points of time in history are similar, she 
is illuminating for the reader what can happen again and again should we not study our past with 
complete objectivity. The Argentinian government, like the German government, covered up 
their mistakes and continued their legacy as best as they could. For example, women who gave 
birth within the Argentinian prison were not allowed to keep their babies. In order to not “miss 
out on an opportunity to flaunt their omnipotence,” babies were either killed or adopted out to 
families the government deemed worthy so that the “child would grow up swaddled in secrets 
and lies” (Keith 153; 299). Another example is the power of the language used, such as referring 
to their murders as “transfers,” and covering up their misdeeds so that they could continue. This 
is quite similar to Marijke’s notion that the Nazis would never “allow us to survive as witnesses 
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to their crimes” (Keith 242). Following the war, the Nazi medical staff “collected their tools, 
broke test tubes filled with fluids and shredded stacks of paper” (Keith 327). Luciano, who holds 
out hope that they will spread the word once they are free, is brought back to earth by a fellow 
inmate, who says, “‘They won’t ever believe what we’ve gone through. The military will do 
everything they can to make these places vanish’” (Keith 195). Finally, there is the similarity in 
sexual abuse and homophobia. Most everything that the unfortunate souls with Buchenwald 
concentration camp suffered at the hands of men like Karl is thereby suffered by his son. The 
pattern of hatred and destruction under a dictatorship will most certainly prevail should we allow 
for an ignorance of how these fascist systems are able to take hold.  
 Karl, like Bruno’s father in The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, suffered the same fate as 
many of the fathers whom he himself was responsible for destroying when his son, Luciano, was 
taken away to be tortured and murdered under a corrupt system. It is through Luciano’s 
suffering, though, that Keith demonstrates that even Nazis can produce people who will fight 
back against evil because Nazis themselves are not inherently evil but have simply done evil 
things. Luciano’s morality is used by Keith to point out the discrepancies in his father’s own 
methods of survival. In one of Luciano’s imagined letters to his father, he says,  
You think it’s best to stay quiet, stick with the flock, even if the flock is headed in 
the wrong direction. You’re wrong. We have to fight. We have to do something, 
we have to do anything we can, to show them they won’t succeed. . . . That we 
won’t let them win. (Keith 300-301) 
In these few words, readers are not only given yet another psychological explanation for why 
someone falls in line when the line is committing mass murder, but it also shows that even the 
meek can fight against such unethical ideology. In the epigraph of the book, Keith quotes 
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Hannah Arendt, who states that, “It is far easier to act under conditions of tyranny than to think.” 
In order to do the unthinkable, one must stop thinking. Luciano is forcing himself to think 
whereas perpetrators like Karl, simply did as told more often than not. If an offspring of someone 
who was once an active participant in mass genocide can find it within him/herself to resist the 
pull of influential ideologies, corrupt bureaucracies, and human weakness, then there should be 
hope that through persistent examination, society can eliminate extraordinary evil. 
While Luciano has never been told about Karl’s past, he suspects. His father, much like 
his father’s father before him, acts with the strict and orderly, homophobic, cold nature of a Nazi.  
He once writes to him “how do you manage to keep track of all your lies? How is it possible to 
lead a double life for so long without going mad?” (Keith 297). As discussed earlier, Karl, and 
men like him, engaged in a psychological process called “doubling” in order to achieve this 
double life. Just as it did not hold up then, it has not held up later in life, as Luciano can see 
behind the mask. Luciano says that “you’re a complicated man, Father. All iron, like a knight 
whose armor has rusted around him. But I know there’s more to you than that (Keith 197). There 
is more to every villain and every hero. 
His father, though flawed as both a man and father, cannot help the humanity that seeps 
through just as he cannot help his past that does the same. Keith further humanized Karl through 
Luciano by describing Orion, the owl, that Karl painstakingly made for his son. This act shows 
his remembrance and regret over the painter and his son so many years past, which is significant 
because only the humanity within Karl would be left with such a strong connection to this 
memory. There is also the theme of music, which is something that brought together Marijke and 
Karl. Luciano speaks of the difference in music’s influence over his mood versus that of his 
father’s when he says, 
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The music is tormenting me. . . . all I can think of is what they’re trying to cover 
up… Papa, somehow the music also reminds me of you. . . . No matter how much 
of an asshole mood you’re in . . . once the LP starts crackling, everything changes. 
. . . It’s like you become someone else.” (Keith 153-154) 
The irony is that the one thing that humanizes his father (because it brought him closer to the 
victim he cared for) is the one thing that threatens to dehumanize his son.  
Yet even though the most corrupted minds have humanity within, sometimes, a person 
lets the fear and hatred overtake the humanity fighting to survive within. For example, when 
reminiscing on the visit from Jewish neighbors which did not go well, Luciano writes, “Maybe 
you felt terrible for what your people did, but that comes to those too cowardly to take a stand. 
Don’t forget, you also failed me when they came to take me away” (Keith 225). It is apparent 
that those who fall into line with one corrupted regime are all the more likely to do so again.  
 Like humanizing a Nazi, Keith humanized an Argentinian perpetrator. Hawk, one of 
Luciano’s captors, made the mistake of letting his humanity show through when he got the 
prisoners some more edible food with his own money. This, of course, was punished, which 
promotes Waller’s idea that a culture of cruelty “envelops perpetrators in a social context that 
encourages and rewards extraordinary evil” (229). When living in a society that promotes evil 
and punishes virtuosity, it becomes abnormal to portray a sense of right and wrong. However, the 
fact that even the wrongdoers can do right, in spite of the consequences, is worth recognizing. In 
the humanization of those whom society has assumed possess an all-consuming evil core, we are 
acknowledging, as researcher of Nazi doctors, Robert Jay Lifton, did, that “Participation in mass 
murder need not require emotions as extreme or demonic as would seem appropriate for such a 
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malignant project. Or to put the matter another way, ordinary people can commit demonic acts” 
(5). Let us keep this in mind when judging history’s so-called monsters.  
Each of these characters share the similarity of numbness mixed with self-preservation. It 
is essential that we analyze how this numbness and self-preservation affected their actions as it 
will help us understand how and why they were able to survive. Karl’s narrative, in particular, 
truly highlighted the allure of and desperate need for self-preservation. One example is when 
Karl took Marijke to see the flight of the birds yet was caught by his superior. He acted as if he 
did not know her and reverted back to his Nazi persona. Another, even more crucial example, is 
his actions during the bombing. At first, he set out to check on Marijke, yet opted for his own 
survival over the assurance of hers. He not only chose himself over Marijke but over those of his 
fellow soldiers. He ignored the cries for help because “All he could think of was getting 
underground,” and yet later, Karl felt “ashamed of how he’d ignored those cries” (Keith 214; 
216). We can also look at when he saved her from being raped by the antagonist, 
Bruno/Hoffman, the supposed brute to Karl’s gentleman. Although he did ensure that she had a 
better doctor than the one whom he knew to be more monstrous than most, he still feared for 
what others would think. In his actions, the audience can see the power of both self-preservation 
and the need to fit into society’s ideals. For the final example, let us recall the way in which Karl 
chose self-preservation when fleeing the camp rather than staying and facing the music, so to 
speak. Karl’s narrative of his relationship with Marijke is filled with the ups and downs of 
morality, and yet, that is the point. Within this depiction of their relationship, Keith allowed the 
reader to see what it means to fight with the inner selfishness and evil that threaten to overtake 
our ability to be loving and decent. Some may wonder why we need to analyze Karl’s self-
preservation as such selfishness seems to be in line with Nazi behavior, but it is this self-
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preservation that got him through the war and even convinced him to make certain choices. For 
instance, he chose self-preservation by choosing to engage in the brutal acts committed within 
the camp rather than stand out as a disobedient subordinate. Although striving to comprehend the 
reasoning behind the unreasonable can seem unfathomable, “We must continually remind 
ourselves that a psychological explanation of extraordinary human evil is not exculpatory” 
(Waller 16). While there were many different factors that led him to that dark point, the need to 
preserve his own status and welfare was one of them. By accepting this, it makes it easier to 
comprehend how he could have made such choices while still being a three-dimensional 
character with both good and bad within him. Understanding the power of these things is 
essential in understanding the psychology behind what it takes to transform into a perpetrator. 
While understanding the appeal of self-preservation is important, it can also be said that 
the comprehension of the role that emotional numbness plays is also essential. Without that 
numbness, Karl would not have been able to carry on mentally. It is quite remarkable how Karl 
is able to recognize his own transformation, as his narrative reads, “he grew conscious of how 
detached he’d become. He no longer flinched at men collapsing in from of him. . . . The corpses 
that littered the grounds seemed little more than a nuisance . . . the countless rows of prisoners 
mere numbers. Economic input, the currency of the Reich” (145). In seeing how Karl 
dehumanized himself, we are able to see how he was able to dehumanize others. Current and 
future generations need to educate themselves on the inner workings of the Nazi mind because 
“being aware of our own capacity for extraordinary evil – and the dispositional, situation, and 
social influences that foster it – is the best safeguard we can have against future genocide” 
(Waller 217). So, in studying Karl’s process of becoming a part of the collective inhumanity of 
his time, we can be better prepared to stop such an occurrence from taking place again.  
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As for Marijke, she chose self-preservation when she voluntarily became a prostitute 
within the concentration camp, knowing that it was her one chance at survival. She did this 
because, as authors Esther Dror and Ruth Linn note, in “extreme conditions people will do 
everything . . . without thinking of a future point in time when they will have to deal with the 
consequences (266). Marijke was just one of many women forced to make, as Lawrence Langer 
in his examination of the Holocaust, termed it, the “choiceless choice” (74). Another way she 
chose self-preservation was by disengaging from the prisoners who surrounded her. She says, 
“How they wanted to feel loved. I barricaded myself from them, providing the necessary comfort 
and nothing more” (Keith 200). In this sense, she is numbing herself to the suffering of those 
around her but had she not, she would not have survived. This is something that must be 
considered when reading on to Marijke’s stay in the clinic. She was one of the privileged even 
then as she was “one of few with a heavy blanket” (Keith 303). Yet it was this same blanket that 
smothered her “with its heat” (Keith 303). I think the symbolism here is that self-preservation 
comes at a cost. Yet, Keith forces the audience to realize that even the victims choose self-
preservation. In this sense, it is all too easy to see how the dual sides of humanity can overlap. 
This further supports my argument that the nature of humanity is that we all have both good and 
bad within us, and by acknowledging this through the objective humanization of both our 
history’s victims and perpetrators, we can begin to create a society that has little to no 
extraordinary evil. 
 Readers see through Marijke the pull of giving into the numbness that threatens to take 
over one’s soul and the fight to feel something despite it all. Marijke knew that if she gave in too 
much to the numbness that was so appealing, she would lose herself, as is illustrated when she 
says that she is “determined not to be worn down, not to transform into one of the skeletons that 
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moved through the camp like the living dead” (Keith 11). She could see how “others looked 
ahead, their eyes vacant, unseeing. Those were the Muselmänner, the walking dead” (Keith 159). 
Yet, even as she tried to keep the numbness at bay, Marijke and those around her suffered the 
crippling effects of their work as time went on. Author of “Sexual Exploitation of Women in 
Nazi Concentration Camp Brothels,” Robert Sommer, says it most adequately when he writes 
that in response to typical camp apathy “feelings were deadened” (56). I propose that what the 
audience is meant to gain from this is the insight into what it took to survive such a place, both 
for the perpetrators and the victims. In seeing the similarities, we are not comparing and 
contrasting victims and perpetrators, but rather, seeing how human survival can often mean the 
dehumanization of both oneself and others. 
In continuation of our pursuit to understand the temptation of self-preservation above 
morality, we should look at Luciano, whose response to his dire circumstances is mixture 
between that of his father’s and Marijke. He, too, chooses self-preservation by agreeing to work 
for the ones who have captured him and so many others in the hope that it might help him 
survive. Like both Marijke and Karl, he struggles with the morality of his choice. Keith writes 
that “Luciano tried to cut through the brambles of guilt, tried to convince himself that translating 
propaganda wouldn’t cause any pain, that a few English sentences couldn’t kill anyone, not 
directly” (121). Luciano’s reassurances given to himself are much too similar to that of his 
father, other Nazis, and Nazi sympathizers who tried to convince themselves that they were not 
responsible for any of the repercussions of their actions. However, Luciano, like Marijke, found 
a way to fight back through his work. Luciano knew that self-preservation would cost him too 
much. He writes to his father that “You probably think I’m scared shitless. You’re right. . . but 
more than anything, terrified I’ll live out the rest of my life in shame. Shame that in trying to 
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save myself, I somehow played a role in someone else’s suffering” (Keith 323). Geoffrey Short 
perceptively states that  
Students familiar with the Holocaust can hardly fail to realise the perils of turning 
a blind eye to evil. Conversely, when they learn about the exploits of rescuers, 
they will find it hard not to appreciate the value of assisting those in need. Most 
importantly, perhaps, they realise the good that ordinary people, much like 
themselves, can do even under the most trying of circumstances. (285) 
The fact that Luciano fights despite the fear and knowledge of what it will mean for him should 
give hope that even though the duality of humanity threatens to crumble even the most moral of 
us under severe conditions, we can prevail.  
 Luciano’s numbness, like that of many who live in times of chaos and misery, is his 
attempt to survive all that surrounds him. He knew that should he not be able to “hold on to his 
own thoughts, he would go crazy” (Keith 123). I propose that while his numbness is necessary in 
that it helped him to ensure the sanity he needed to survive, it was only with the addition of some 
feeling and awareness that allowed his conscience to override his initial instincts towards self-
preservation above all else. In the end, it seems as though Luciano turned off his feelings in a 
way that allowed him to no longer be afraid, as it is written that “All he wanted was for the pain 
to end, whatever that took. . . . He was strangely unafraid. . . . he separated himself, his mind a 
haze” (Keith 355-356; 358). Luciano was able to die in peace not only because he was able to 
turn on the numbness full throttle, but because he knew that he had done what was right. In 
humanizing Karl, Keith showed the reader what it means to give in to the desire to survive 
despite what it does to one’s soul, but through Luciano, she showed what it means to fight 
against those instincts. Karl chose the path of least resistance because he was afraid and allowed 
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himself to be swayed, but Luciano, decided against giving in to the madness despite his 
overwhelming fear. In summation, we needed the humanization of both characters in order to see 
the possibilities for humanity.  
 Essentially, The Dutch Wife is a brilliantly written novel that humanizes one of history’s 
most dangerous perpetrators in order to depict the cruel and instinctual nature that lies dormant 
within us all and will continue to pervade the world should we not face our past. Yet, even as 
Keith humanizes the seemingly inhuman, there is nothing in her writing that suggests to the 
reader feelings of relativity or sympathy towards said perpetrator. To quote Moore, “Keith's 
writing is exquisitely spare, as if to leave readers space for their own emotions” (35). Within this 
book, Karl Müller, a high-ranking SS officer of Nazi Germany is shown as a quite normal and 
even docile man who becomes something much more sinister, all the while trying to hold onto 
his fleeting humanity. Marijke, a voluntary prostitute within the camp brothel, is a victim whose 
own conflicted feelings for her perpetrator bring to light how one becomes complicit in 
something as horrendous as mass genocide. Luciano, Karl’s son and a victim of the corrupt 
Argentinian government, which is quite the repetition of Nazi Germany, is used to depict for the 
reader the positive and negative outcomes of surviving Nazis and sympathizing nations. These 
narratives are vital because they help educate the audience about the importance of fully looking 
at the three-dimensionality of our world’s perpetrators in order to successfully move on. Marijke 
once said, “‘Don’t waste time trying to rationalize their thinking. They don’t deserve it’” (Keith 
43). Yet, I believe this to be a flawed notion as we need to under the psychological influences 
that brought the most average of men and women to the depths of inhumanity. Waller notes that 
“some argue that rather than studying extraordinary human evil, we should simply recognize it 
for what it is and condemn it. . . . [because] an attempt to explain extraordinary human evil 
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carries with it an inordinate risk of contamination” (15; 17). However, he deconstructs this 
argument by saying that  
We must not let ‘evil’ be a throwaway category for the things we are afraid to 
understand. . . . our refusal to attempt to understand human evil is a willful failure 
to know our own hearts, and, if anything, only facilitates the continuation of 
extraordinary evil in human affairs. (Waller 18) 
Should we give in to the enticing one-dimensional ideal that Nazis are purely evil, we will miss 
out on the opportunity of understanding our own possibility of becoming dehumanized given the 
right circumstances, which in turn will result in history continually repeating itself. While there 
is little hope for a serene world, there should be hope for a world in which we do not engage in 
mass genocide. For this reason, “generalizations must be avoided” and an understanding must be 
fearlessly sought (Crasniankski 198). To conclude, we should all be aware enough of our own 
flawed morality to be objective enough in the study of history’s most paramount of perpetrators.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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CONCLUSION 
 In chapter one, I focus on the possibility that personal shame, numbness, and complicity 
through love are probable reasons for a person’s transformation into a villain and a country’s 
acceptance of a collective evil. I also assert that the same person who allowed him/herself to 
transform can alter yet again as humanity is never stagnant. Within chapter two, I examine the 
perspectives of those who love and abhor a concentration camp commandant in order to 
understand how a once beloved man becomes someone capable of mass genocide. I propose that 
the calamitous circumstances experienced by men like Bruno’s father following the Great War 
along with corrupt bureaucracies, nationalist propaganda and ideologies, and self-preservation all 
contribute to the metamorphosis seen not only in the commandant but in the easily influenced as 
well, such as his daughter. Finally, in chapter three, I use the three differing perspectives of an 
SS official, a concentration camp prostitute, and the son of said Nazi to explore the influence of 
Nazi ideologies on those they target, those victimized, and those of the future. I assert that 
humanity’s duality, the interpellation of the Nazi ideology, bureaucracy, the need to please one’s 
parents, misguided hope for a declining nation, self-preservation, and numbness all allows for a 
country filled with ordinary people to become a country filled with murderers. Complicity 
through loving the perpetrators, as seen in chapter one, is also used to explain how those who 
were not directly responsible allowed such atrocities to happen. Yet, despite all of these 
destructive influences that are shown to negatively shape the past and future, the narrative of the 
Nazi’s son, who fights such wrongs within his own time period, is used to demonstrate the hope 
that there is for humanity should we choose to persevere.  
 In our modern world, we are currently experiencing the effects of an incomplete study of 
our past mistakes. As I write this thesis, Russia, ruled by an unreasonable and murderous man 
 
 
who gives only half-truths on his best day, is attacking another nation. An article written by 
David Mack, on April 5th of 2022, alerts the world of Russia’s grievous misdeeds within Bucha, 
Ukraine. Mack writes of civilians who have been  
shot inside their homes or crushed by tanks as they sit in their cars. People 
tortured and summarily executed, their hands sometimes tied behind their backs. 
Throats slashed and limbs cut off. Women raped and killed in front of their 
children. (2022) 
These are unthinkable actions that are happening today. Americans, the so-called “heroes” of 
World War II, are still whitewashing their own history of slavery, segregation, and the genocide 
of the nation’s original inhabitants. Even as much of the country strives to progress, there are 
those who fight to keep critical race theory out of the nation’s educational system. Asian men 
and women are being murdered out of misguided hate following the outbreak of this century’s 
pandemic. I point these issues out not to discourage hope for our future but to encourage the 
education and examination of history’s past perpetrators so that we may discontinue such 
senseless evil. 
 As flawed human beings, there is often the fear that by recognizing ourselves in those we 
have deemed inhumane, we are declaring our own blatant inhumanity. Yet, it is through our 
ignoring of such similarities between ourselves and the monstrous that we are ensuring the 
continuation of such atrocities. There is something to be said for the objectivity that allows us to 
step outside of our preconceived notions long enough to educate ourselves. In the words of 
Waller, “Education has substantial humanizing effects, and, when applied, can be an effective 
antidote to our collective inhumanity” (217). We need to allow for the objectivity when 
exploring difficult aspects of the past that ensures our complete education so that we may then do 
82 
 
what the Nazis did not, and permit ourselves to be further humanized, therefore guaranteeing a 
better future. In other words, we must allow for the humanization of the dehumanized so that we 
may comprehend how the most ordinary of human beings become the monstrous humans of our 
collective history. 
If given more time, I would further research the impact corrupt ideologies and 
bureaucracies can have on the average psyche when paired with detrimental circumstances. Also, 
I would propose ways in which we may overcome such influences when the signs of their 
infiltration have been noted. I would even like to study which of us are more perceptible to such 
a metamorphosis as seen during World War II. In summation, I propose that research such as this 
is critical to our development as a hopeful and humane species.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
83 
 
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