The Sunflower By Simon Wiesenthal Analysis

In The Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal documents his experiences in a Nazi Death Camp. Sent (along with other prisoners) to clean medical waste in a hospital converted for the express usage of injured German Soldiers. On the way, "Our column suddenly came to a halt at a crossroads. I could see nothing that might be holding us up but I noticed on the left of the street there was a military cemetery . . . and on each grave there was planted a sunflower . . . I stared spellbound . . . Suddenly I envied the dead soldiers. Each had a sunflower to connect him with the living world, and butterflies to visit his grave. For me there would be no sunflower. I would be buried in a mass grave, where corpses would be piled on top of me. No sunflower would ever bring light into my darkness, and
no butterflies would dance above my dreadful tomb."
Simon's work group arrived at the hospital. As they worked, a nurse came up to Simon and asked, "Are you a Jew?" When he answered "Yes," she took him into the hospital building, to the bedside of Karl Seidl, a 21-year old dying Nazi soldier. Karl wanted to tell Simon his story, or more accurately, a Jew his story. He began, "I know that at this moment thousands of men are dying. Death is everywhere. It is neither infrequent nor extraordinary. I am resigned to dying soon, but before that I want to talk about an experience which is torturing me. Otherwise I cannot die in peace . . . I must tell you of this horrible deed - tell you because . . . you are a Jew."
Karl talked about his childhood and described himself as a happy child. His father was a Social Democrat and his mother brought Karl up as a Catholic. Karl joined the Hitler Youth and later volunteered for the SS. Karl’s father responded by cutting all contact with his son.
Karl went on to tell Simon about his assignment in Russia, and about coming, one day, to a village.
"In a large square we got out and looked around us. On the other side of the square there was a group of people under close guard . . . The word went through our group like wildfire: ‘They're Jews' . . . An order was given and we marched toward the huddled mass of Jews. There were a hundred and fifty of them or perhaps two hundred, including many children who stared at us with anxious eyes. A few were quietly crying. There were infants in their mother's' arms, but hardly any young men; mostly women and graybeards . . . A truck arrived with cans of petrol which we unloaded and took into a house . . . Then we began to drive the Jews into the house . . . Then another truck came up full of more Jews and they too were crammed into the house with the others. Then the door was locked and a machine gun was posted opposite . . . When we were told that everything was ready, we went back a few yards, and then received the command to remove safety pins from hand grenades and throw them through the windows of the house . . . Behind the windows of the second floor, I saw a man with a small child in his arms. His clothes were alight. By his side stood a woman, doubtless the mother of the child. With his free hand the man covered the child's eyes . . . then he jumped into the street. Seconds later the mother followed. Then from the other windows fell burning bodies . . . We shot . . . Oh God! I don't know how many tried to jump out of the windows but that one family I shall never forget - least of all the child."
Karl's division then moved on to Crimea. One day, in the middle of a fight, Karl recalled, that "in that moment I saw the burning family, the father with the child and behind them the mother - and they came to meet me. ‘No, I cannot shoot at them a second time.' The thought flashed through my mind . . . And then a shell exploded by my side. I lost consciousness . . . It was a miracle that I was still alive - even now I am as good as dead . . . So I lie here waiting for death. The pains in my body are terrible, but worse still is my conscience . . . I cannot die . . . without coming clean . . . In the last hours of my life you are with me. I do not know who you are. I only know that you are a Jew and that is enough . . . In the long nights while I have been waiting for death, time and time again I have longed to talk about it to a Jew and beg forgiveness from him. Only I didn't know whether there were any Jews left . . . I know that what I am asking is almost too much for you, but without your answer I cannot die in peace."
Simon left the room without so much as a word. When his group returned to the hospital the next day, the same nurse came to Simon and told him that Karl died the night before. Over the next years of the war, through all his suffering, Simon thought of Karl and wondered if he made the right choice.
"Ought I to have forgiven him? Was my silence at the bedside of the dying Nazi right or wrong? This is a profound moral question . . . The crux of the matter is, of course, the question of forgiveness. Forgetting is something that time alone takes care of, but forgiveness is an act of volition . . ."
The fact that a Jew saw a dying German soldier is pretty shocking. Authoritarian personalities (or at least the illusion of one), was a must have for the every member of the SS, SA, HJ or Wehrmacht. To allowed a Jew to see a dying SS soldier contradicts the desire for absolute obedience and submission necessary to keep the Jews under control. To see a weak soldier is similar to seeing the army for what it is, imperfect and human. Simon didn’t pretend to forgive Karl Seidl for his actions, as it wasn’t even his place to express forgiveness. Karl never harmed Simon, so Simon had nothing to forgive. The people who Karl should have truly sought forgiveness from were already dead. Simon had no way of truly giving Karl the pardon he desired, as he never personally felt the affects of his decisions.
Besides the obvious facet of disagreeing with the Nazi business Karl got up to when he was an active SS soldier? Karl’s unspoken expectation of forgiveness is as close as I get to disapproving. Not that I expected anything less. That is not a jab at Karl’s character, but a reference to Simon’s current situation. Simon is a prisoner, and it should be expected for the prisoner to follow the warden’s demands, or in this case, desires. Karl subconsciously assumed that since he was dying, Simon would be more quick to forgive his past transgressions. Not that I can blame him, anyone would hope to be forgiven on their deathbeds.
In the context of Christianity, forgiveness is expected.
“… if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins” (Mark 12:25 NIV). God is expected to forgive his creations, and humans, in their constant struggle to emulate God, follow his teachings. And just as God’s mercy is described as prevailing over his wrath, so in Islam, human to human forgiveness is associated with the control of one’s anger. In fact, one of the characteristics of the Islamic Believer is that “…when they are angry they forgive.” (al-Shura 42:37) Muslims are encouraged to reflect on their own imperfections, and God’s forgiveness for our mistakes, as a reason to offer forgiveness in turn to their fellow humans. Forgiveness among humans is given a high societal value for its ability to heal wounds and promote reconciliation. A similar ideology is expressed in Buddhism, as reflected by the teachings in the Dhammapada. “He abused me, he struck me, he overcame me, he robbed me’ — in those who harbor such thoughts hatred will never cease. ‘He abused me, he struck me, he overcame me, he robbed me’ — in those who do not harbor such thoughts hatred will cease.” Dhammapada
1.3-4.